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“Thanks for coming,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do, who else to call.”
How about her father, who lives just up the road? Brian’s brother in the next town, or any one of the other fifteen detectives who stood behind her when she buried her husband? I’m not just her first resort, as far as I can tell I’m the only one. I meant my promise to Brian, but in moments like these, I sure wish she’d let the other men in her life help, too.
I drop a kiss on her cheek, which is cold and pasty. “How’s he doing?”
“Pouting. Upstairs in his room.”
I pat her shoulder and step inside, taking the stairs by twos. Timmy’s door, the last at the end of the hall, is closed, but I’m pretty sure he’s not pouting. Video game sounds are coming through the wood—a car race, by the sound of it. I rap the door with a knuckle. “Yo, Timmy. It’s me, Marcus.”
Timmy is the oldest boy, a wiry kid with his father’s cowlick and a half-decent jump shot. He was only four when his father died, a bullet to the chest at a routine traffic stop. I heard thepop, looked up and Brian was on the ground, the kid who shot him running away. He’s currently serving life in prison, but the point is, Timmy barely remembers his father. He only remembers me, stepping into his father’s shoes.
When he doesn’t answer, I open the door, lean my head inside. “I take it you know why I’m here.”
Timmy is sprawled on his bed in sweatpants and bare feet, and he looks up with a sheepish expression—in my mind, another strike against his mother. She only calls when one of her kids need disciplining, which is all the damn time. If she’s the pushover, I’m the bad guy, the strict—well, not parent, but certainly disciplinarian. I’d much prefer the role of cool godfather.
“Yeah. I know why.” Timmy’s gaze goes back to the TV, and his thumb works the joystick in his hands. On the television screen, his car, a bright green Mustang, is tearing up a dirt track.
I step inside, shut the door behind me. “You want to explain it to me then?”
He shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”
“Come on, Timmy. Either you turn the game off, or I will.”
Timmy sighs, but he hits Pause. He stares at his lap as the room falls into silence.
I sink onto the edge of his bed. “So, here’s the thing. There’s a woman missing, and for about—” I check my watch, do the math “—twenty hours now. The most crucial hours in an investigation, and the farther out we get from the time of disappearance, the less likely it is I’ll find this woman in time. I shouldn’t even be here right now, but I am because you’re important to me, too.”
He looks up, a lightning-quick glance. “You think the woman’s dead?”
I should have known he’d latch on to that part. That’s what happens when you lose a parent at such an early age. You have an unnatural preoccupation with death and dying.
But Timmy is smart, and he knows when someone is lying to him. “I’ll tell you what, buddy, it’s not looking good.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” I drape a hand over his scrawny leg, give it a jiggle. “So help me out here, will you? Tell me where you got the toys.”
Timmy tosses the joystick on the bed and reaches over, pulling a notebook from his bedside table. He flips it to a page smothered in writing—big, sloppy letters and numbers lined up in crooked columns. I scan the page, taking in the list of names and toys. A logbook.
“You’ve been trading your toys and games?”
“Yeah. But only for a little while. We were gonna trade back after we’re done playing with them, only Mom took everything and now I can’t. That’s why I kept a list, so I wouldn’t forget where all my stuff went.”
I toss the notebook to the bed, biting down on a grin. This kid may be a hellion, but he’s not a thief. In fact, he’s actually kind of brilliant. Whether he realizes it or not, this kid just created a co-op. “Okay. But you do realize if you’d just told your mom all of this, you could have saved me a trip.”
Timmy frowns, folding his scrawny arms across his chest like I said something wrong.
I’m trying to figure out what when my cell buzzes, and I check the screen. A text from Rick, another detective on the force.
Hospitals, med centers, jails and morgues all clean. No sign of car, no activity on phone, either.
I type out a reply—On my way, be there in 15—and slide it back into my pocket.
“Listen, I need you to promise me two things. Timmy, look at me.” I wait for him to meet my gaze, then I stick a thumb in the air. “First, that you’ll tell your mom the truth about the toys. Explain it to her like you did me. Show her the list. Your mom’s a smart woman, and she loves you. She’ll think you’re as smart as I do for coming up with such a plan. Do you think you can do that?”
He gives me a reluctant nod.
I uncurl a finger, hold it alongside my thumb. “And second, next time you want to see me, just pick up the phone and call. It’s a hell of a lot easier for everybody involved. Way better than getting yourself in trouble just so I’ll come over.”