“Thanks for taking me home, Stef,” she whispered.
He caressed her back with his hands. “You’re welcome.”
She sat curled in his lap, silent and thoughtless.
1738 hours
“-criminals instead of honest, tax-paying citizens, goddamit!”
Browning heard Nancy Henderson’s shrill voice the moment he opened the front door. Tower and Billings followed him into the house. Willow and a rookie he didn’t know stood in the living room like statues, ignoring Nancy. He noticed that she was drinking another beer and had taken over Fred’s place in the chair. Fred sat sullenly on the couch.
Nancy noticed him. “Did you get your little search warrant, Mister Big Shot?”
Browning tossed a copy onto her lap. “That’s your copy,” he said and held up the original for her to see. “This is signed by Judge Webster.”
Nancy ignored the packet of papers on her lap and leaned forward to look at Browning’s original.
“Right here,” Browning pointed at the judge’s signature.
Nancy Henderson snarled at him and spat at the document. The spittle landed on the paperwork before Browning could pull it aside.
“Fuck you and that judge,” she said and spat again, this time on the floor at Browning’s feet.
Browning gave her a quizzical look. “You know you just spit on your own floor, right?
Nancy smiled sarcastically and raised the can of beer to her lips.
Browning turned to Willow. “When that can is through, she gets no more while we’re here.”
“That’s the same can as before,” Willow told him.
“You think I’m an alcoholic!” yelled Nancy. “A kidnapper and an alcoholic? Oh, I am going to sue the shit out of you. All of you!”
“Keep them in their seats,” Browning instructed Willow. Then he waved to Tower, who took a photograph of the room.
“You can’t take pictures in my house without permission,” screeched Nancy. “That’s a violation of my rights!”
Browning pointed to the videotape on top of the television.
Tower photographed the tape. “This is going to get old really soon,” he muttered.
Tower picked up the tape and handed it to Detective Ted Billings, who put it in a brown paper evidence bag.
“Going to?” the overweight Billings wheezed. “I’d say that particular exit is already in our rear-view mirror.”
Browning said nothing and continued his search.
1910 hours
Lieutenant Crawford shifted the lit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. He blew large puffs of acrid blue smoke out in Browning’s direction.
“Basically, you’ve got nothing,” he said.
Browning shrugged. “We’ve got the tape. We’ve got pictures.”
Crawford scowled. “Nothing.”
Browning didn’t answer. Crawford was right. It wasn’t much.
“Tell me about the attic again,” Crawford ordered, blowing out another puff of blue smoke.
“It looks mostly unused. There’s boxes and crap everywhere and the place is dusty. The dust is mostly settled, except in the entryway and a spot about fifteen feet from the door in the center of the room.”
“What’s it look like?”
“I can show you.”
Crawford shook his head. “Just tell me.”
“Well, it looks like there was a box or a chest or something there not too long ago. And it looks like one or both of them made a few trips to it recently.”
“How recently?”
“Hard to say. Probably within a week.”
“What else?”
“There were some broken items up there, too.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of broken items?”
“A lamp and an old china doll.”
“What do you make of that?”
Browning shrugged. “With this woman, who knows? But both items were broken recently.”
“Anything else?”
“Not in the attic.”
“Any outbuildings?” Crawford asked through another blue cloud.
“There’s a detached garage. There’s some junk, but room enough for their car.”
“And you did an AVR on both of them?”
Browning nodded. “No vans registered to either one.”
Crawford took a deep breath and sighed. “Sounds like you crapped out here.”
“As far as evidence goes, yeah.”
“Pull the others and let’s go,” Crawford said.
Browning returned to the living room and motioned to the two detectives and two uniforms there. “We’re finished,” he said to them.
“Didn’t find what you were looking for, Mr. Big Shot?” Nancy said sarcastically.
“Thanks for your cooperation,” Browning intoned calmly.
Nancy got out of her chair and followed the five men as they filed outside. “That’ll teach you to harass innocent people!” she shouted at them. “Wait until my attorney gets a hold of you!”
None of the men answered. As Browning closed the small gate at the end of the walkway, he heard Nancy Henderson burst into tears.
“Find my little grandbaby,” she sobbed. “Please?”
Browning didn’t answer.
Willow and the rookie uniform drove away, probably already snagged by Dispatch for the next call. Tower and Crawford lingered at Browning’s car.
“What do you think?” Crawford asked him.
“I think they’re wrong,” Browning said.
Crawford turned to Tower. The younger detective nodded in agreement. “She’s crazy, like Kopriva said, but I think she’s crazy like a fox. And he’s a creepy fucker.”
Crawford puffed quietly on his cigar, thinking. Then he asked Browning, “No signs of a kid in the house?”
“Except for the rented videotape, no.”
“No blood, nothing?”
“No.”
“And they don’t own a van.”
“No van.”
Crawford drew deep on his cigar and let out the smoke in a long sigh. “I think we’re done here, detective.”
“For now,” Browning said. “But I don’t think this is going to end well.”
“They never do,” Crawford said. He turned and strode back to his car.
Browning watched him go, then turned and met Tower’s eyes. He saw his own thoughts reflected back at him.
“Just once,” he said, more to himself than to Tower. “Just once, I’d like one to end well.”
2101 hours
Lieutenant Robert Saylor stepped up to the podium in front of Graveyard Shift. The buzz of conversation faded.
“Listen up,” he said. “There’s been a change of plans on the missing girl situation. Apparently, the witness was mistaken or lied about the description of the suspect.”
There was a rustle as several officers drew out their pocket notebooks.
“We’re definitely still looking for a blue van. No description on the driver. The suspect that grabbed the kid is a white male, slim to medium build, about six feet tall. That’s it on the description.”
There was a hushed surprise from the graveyard officers.
“So they still want us to stop blue vans, El-Tee?” Thomas Chisolm asked.
Saylor nodded. “Yes. But we’re looking for a white male suspect now.”
“In other words,” James Kahn said sarcastically, “back to normal.”
Saylor gave Kahn a hard look. “In other words, that’s the suspect description.”
Kahn didn’t reply.
Saylor continued. “Most of you know about MacLeod’s situation, but for those of you who don’t, here it is. She’s on administrative leave for a day or two after this morning’s incident.”
The room became suddenly silent. Administrative leave was usually associated with two things. Most of the time, it meant that either a serious investigation, possibly criminal, was going on or an officer-involved shooting had occurred.
“MacLeod had court today. While she was walking back from the courthouse she came up on a DV situation on the Post Street Bridge. The male half grabbed the couple’s baby from the female. When MacLeod tried to stop him, he threw the baby over the bridge.”
The silence remained in the room for another beat, and then the place exploded with surprised shouts. Saylor held up his hands for quiet.