Page 37

Quaid

A slan took us to Benedict and Bess Davis’s house while I did what I could to fix my hair in the vanity mirror. It was hopeless without water or gel. “You could have said something.”

“It was painfully cute watching you leave the house looking like that. I couldn’t.”

“It’s unprofessional. I didn’t shave, and look at these clothes. What was I thinking? No one will take me seriously like this.”

“You’re fine.”

“Az, I look like a biker with this shirt on.”

My irritating husband snorted. “You don’t.

I assure you. You look like a California college student who stayed in his boyfriend’s dorm room last night, was fucked to within an inch of his life, and decided to borrow his clothes in the morning instead of going home to change before class because he had a test and was running short on time. ”

“Great. That’s exactly what I was going for.”

“Look at the bright side. We didn’t get kinky last night, so you don’t smell like my cum.”

“That’s all right. Tease away. We have a baby coming today, so you realize last night was the last night we could have had carefree, uninterrupted sex, and we didn’t.”

Aslan’s hand landed on my thigh and slipped to my groin, massaging my soft cock and making it twitch. “You will not be deprived, hot stuff. Stop acting like a baby will make us celibate.”

“Behave.” I swatted his hand, unable to contain a smile. “It’s bad enough that I look like a hungover teenager. I don’t need a hard-on as well.”

“I wouldn’t leave you like that. I’d find an alley or quiet side street and take care of you.”

“How romantic.”

Aslan chuckled but kept his hands to himself. Public indecency aside, if the clock wasn’t ticking and a boy wasn’t missing, I might have taken him up on it, but as it stood, we were on borrowed time.

The grandparents’ house was located near Woodbine Gardens.

Aslan parked on the street, and we studied the single-story brick facade for a long time before approaching the house together.

A man mowed his lawn a few houses down. Three girls, about ten years old, jumped rope on a driveway across the street.

Paint fumes wafted from an open garage door where a woman touched up a cabinet.

I thumbed the credentials clipped to my belt.

At least I’d had enough sense to grab them and holster my weapon that morning—although I barely remembered doing it.

I didn’t know how Aslan sometimes went to work dressed in jeans and T-shirts.

I was crawling out of my skin with discomfort as I stared at my running shoes.

Benedict answered when we rang the bell. The bright morning and shadowy hallway where he stood made him hard to see, but his firm glare and bulbous nose painted a picture of an irritated man .

Diane Walsh wasn’t the only person harassing Edwards for answers and complaining about the department’s incompetence.

Apparently, Benedict had called numerous times, wanting to know what was being done about his missing grandson and raging about the bloody detectives not allowing him and his wife to be at Nixon and Imogen’s house during the crisis.

Edwards told me to ignore it and do my job.

Benedict peered from behind the screen door, not seeming keen about admitting us into the house. He cradled a hand to his chest, and I noticed the appendage was wrapped in a dish towel.

“What do you need?”

“We have a few questions.” I motioned inside the house. “May we come in?”

Benedict’s nostrils flared, but his indecision lasted long enough that Aslan added, “We can either talk inside or out here on the front lawn where your neighbors might overhear us, Mr. Davis. Up to you. It’s a lovely day.

” Being an ass, he waved at a dog walker, ensuring they saw his weapon-laden belt and badge, marking him as police.

“What else is there to talk about?” Benedict asked.

“We’ve already spoken. You should be searching for my grandson.

Bess is inconsolable, and you’ve kicked us out of my son’s house for no reason.

The boy is probably with his whore of a mother.

Mark my words. She cooked this up. That’s why she took off.

I know it.” He winced, adjusting the towel on his hand.

Aslan seemed to notice it for the first time and frowned.

“Mr. Davis,” I said. “May we please come in?”

Conveying reluctance and irritation, Benedict held the door wide so we could enter. Aslan made a point of staring at the limb cradled to Benedict’s chest as he entered. The light-colored towel was stained with blood .

“I was fixing the garbage disposal and got it caught,” Benedict snapped. “Stop staring at me like I’m guilty of murder. Jesus Christ. Fucking no-good cops.”

He motioned us into a formal living room off the entrance hallway, the type I doubted saw a lot of traffic and was likely off-limits to sticky-fingered grandchildren. “I’ll be right back.”

Without needing to converse, Aslan and I made eye contact.

Bess entered, a look of surprise widening her gray eyes. “Detectives.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” I said, finding a friendly smile.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“They’re fine,” Benedict snapped, walking in behind her and guiding his wife by the arm to sit. The towel had been replaced with a wad of gauze and medical tape.

Bess lowered meekly into a cushioned seat among decorative pillows that prevented her from sitting back or getting comfortable. She eyed her husband, noticing but not commenting on the injury.

Benedict chose to stand, arms awkwardly crossed to protect the swaddled hand. “Ask your questions.”

Aslan and I didn’t sit either, keeping a level playing field. My husband held a folder and brown paper bag containing the test kit tucked against his chest.

Uncomfortable in informal attire, I struggled to find my usual confidence and shifted my weight before beginning. “We have a lot to take care of this morning, so I’ll cut to the chase. We had our IT specialist run a financial background on you last night, and—”

“You what?” Benedict’s spine stiffened, and his features contorted. “That’s against the law. ”

On cue, Aslan presented the warrant that gave us permission. “I assure you, Mr. Davis, we followed the legal channels.” He smirked in the cocky fashion Aslan had when dealing with douchebags.

Benedict glared at the signed warrant and back at me. “What does this have to do with my missing grandson?”

“That’s what we’re trying to sort out.” I glanced at Bess, who worried her hands, staring at the mouth of the hallway leading into an unknown part of the house.

“Mr. Davis,” I turned back to Benedict. “Our IT specialist discovered an exorbitant amount of money being regularly deposited into a secret account belonging to your daughter-in-law. Although we have yet to confirm our suspicions, we believe that some, if not all, of the recent payments originated from NexGen. Can you explain this?”

Benedict’s temple throbbed as the man’s face turned puce. He clenched the fist of his uninjured hand, nostrils flaring. “You had no right—”

Aslan flapped the warrant in the air again, clearing his throat.

I waited.

Benedict did not scramble to cover up the claim. He did not dash a frantic look at his wife. He simply fumed.

Bess’s face, unlike her husband’s, drained of color. She sat motionless, staring into the middle distance, almost like she wished she could disappear.

When the silence had gone on too long, I spoke again.

“Mr. Davis, you don’t seem to have a good relationship with Imogen.

In fact, not ten minutes ago, you called her a whore.

Help me understand why a man who loathes his son’s wife might pay her hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of…

years. Honestly, we couldn’t even trace how fa r back this went. ”

“This has no bearing on Crowley’s abduction,” the man shouted. “I refuse to discuss it.”

Bess startled at his raised tone.

I didn’t. “You see, from my perspective, I disagree. Crowley is eight years old. Have you been paying Imogen since his birth? Since before? What inspires a man to drain his retirement savings on a woman he doesn’t like?”

Benedict’s throat bobbed. Blood seeped through the gauze, staining the outside of the bandage crimson.

“What’s interesting,” Aslan said, cutting in, “is that we chatted with Nixon yesterday, and he knew nothing about this exchange of money.”

Bess redirected her attention to her husband. The profound worry in her eyes suggested she knew what this was about.

“Mrs. Davis,” I said, turning to the fretting wife. “What do you—”

“Leave her out of this,” Benedict snapped.

“Sweetie,” Bess said. “Your hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“He needs to see a doctor.”

“I said it’s fine, Bess. Leave it.” Benedict pressed the good hand over the bandage, covering the blood stain. His shirt was smeared red as well.

I focused on the injury. “Are you in need of medical attention, Mr. Davis? You seem to be bleeding a lot.”

“I’m fine. It’s a fresh cut. I’ll bandage it properly when you leave. Are we finished?”

“No.” I glanced at Aslan, who waited for me to guide the interview. Benedict’s stubbornness wasn’t doing him any favors. “What’s the cause of the hostility between you and Imogen?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. ”

He refused to answer, jaw tightening.

“What is the money for? Why drain your bank account and steal from your son’s business for a woman you loathe?”

Benedict stood stubbornly silent, a vein pulsing at his temple.

I sighed. “Mr. Davis, have you ever had sexual relations with your daughter-in-law.”

Bess gasped.

Benedict roared, “Get out of my house! I will not stand here and—”

“Benny, stop yelling.” Bess got to her feet, trembling, one hand pressed to her mouth. “Just tell them.”