Page 44

Quaid

T orin was nearly upon us when Aslan finally lifted his head from mine.

The irate man barreled down the hall, Allison ten steps behind, pushing an empty stroller.

The poor woman had never been able to contain Torin’s explosive personality and unfiltered mouth, but she must not have minded too much since she’d married him and seemed happy.

Her smile suggested she would not save Aslan from her enraged husband.

Torin balanced his ten-month-old daughter on his hip, a diaper bag slung over the opposite shoulder.

Somehow, through a masterful feat of parenting that must come with practice, Aslan’s best friend and partner managed to press an extra hand against his daughter’s ear so she didn’t hear her father curse Aslan out.

At least he’d become somewhat mindful of his foul language.

“Hey, Tor.” Aslan grinned sheepishly.

“Don’t you ‘Hey, Tor’ me. You’re having a baby, and I don’t get a fucking phone call? How far down your list am I, you motherfucker? ”

“Torin,” Allison said, catching up but failing to smother a smile. “Watch your language.”

“I have her ear covered. Relax. This calls for swearing. This motherfucker is an asshole.”

“She has two ears,” Allison pointed out, relieving him of the diaper bag and placing it in the empty stroller.

“Yeah, and the other one is pressed to my chest.”

Allison simply stared at her oblivious husband like he was short a few brain cells, and sometimes, I thought her assessment wasn’t too far off.

Unable to contain a snort, I earned a look of death. “Don’t you start, lover boy. I’m mad at you too.”

“What did I do? You weren’t on my call list.”

“No, but why is it I gotta hear from Travolta that you took a case Friday night when you were supposed to go on leave?”

“I…” Unable to devise an excuse on the spot, I scowled instead. “I didn’t know I reported to you.”

“Well, apparently, no one fucking does.” He glared at Aslan before continuing, finger jabbing the air in front of my face and no longer protecting his daughter’s innocence.

“Admit it. You didn’t want my help. Why, Quaid?

I’m a good detective. Why is the freak in the dungeon running your case while I’m at home cleaning baby cereal off the walls?

I’m a better detective than him. Why did no one think to call me? ”

“Tor, would you chill?” Aslan said. “It’s not Quaid’s fault. We’ve been busy.”

“I will not chill.”

Ainsley beeped her daddy’s nose and babbled. Torin tried to avoid the attack and maintain his animosity, but she persisted until he laughed and caught her hand. “Stop it. Daddy’s trying to be mad. ”

Ainsley leaned in and open-mouth kissed his nose instead. Torin took it with grace and kissed her back.

Allison and Aslan laughed while I cringed at the exchange of slobber.

“You’re ruining everything, princess. No one’s going to take me seriously now.”

Ainsley continued to babble and examine Torin’s face, pulling his ears and poking his eyes, and sticking slimy fingers into his mouth.

He didn’t flinch, and I wondered if there was a certain amount of immunity that came with parenthood where you forgot to be grossed out by other people’s bodily fluids.

Allison found a spit blanket and wiped the long string of drool off their daughter’s chin before it transferred to Torin. “She’s teething,” Allison explained.

Their daughter was Allison’s spitting image.

Her brown skin tone was a few shades lighter, but she had the same ebony hair, which was pulled back into two tiny pigtails.

Her wide round eyes shone with curiosity, the irises such a deep brown her pupils got lost in their depths.

I’d heard from Aslan that she was a terror at home, especially since becoming mobile, and that told me enough to know she’d inherited Torin’s personality.

After another sneak kiss attack, Aslan plucked her from Torin’s arms while Allison offered her husband a tissue.

“How did you find out we were here?” Aslan asked.

“Travolta. He heard from Edwards and told me. It was a quiet day, so I buggered off, picked up Allison, and came here.” He propped his hands on his hips with a frown, but his initial irritation was gone. “How’s it going?”

Aslan bounced Ainsley on his hip, pretending to dance with her as he sang a kid song, so I answered. “Contractions are about four minutes apart. They seem intense, but I have no basis for comparison. She’s five centimeters. The baby has moved down.”

“How are you holding up?” Allison asked.

“Nervous but excited.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. I frowned and excused myself, wandering a short way down the hall to answer it.

Costa’s name showed on the screen, and instantly, the case and its perils resurfaced, along with the panic and worries.

“Hey,” I choked out. “Did you find them?”

“We went to the house in Pickering. No one was there. We had a landlord open the apartment, but no sign of recent occupation. The team we sent to the Flemingdon Park area told us to meet them at the apartment, so we drove back into the city. The roommate, John Christie, said Flynn hasn’t been around much the past few days.

He positively identified Clementine as a girl Flynn brought by more than once.

He said there was definitely a sexual component to their relationship since she spent the night in his room several times.

He knows nothing about a kid but describes Flynn as hot-tempered and unpredictable.

A cocky mouthpiece who thinks his shit don’t stink. ”

“Hold on. Flynn was sleeping with Clementine?”

“Yes.”

I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Shit. I bet Imogen found out, and that’s why she fired her.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“He’s in his forties. She’s twenty. That’s—”

“A very large age gap, but not illegal.”

I paced, my skin buzzing. “So, no sign of Crowley?”

“No, and we can’t find Nixon either. He wasn’t at Flynn’s place in Pickering, and he’s not here. John says he hasn’t seen him.”

“Shit. ”

“There’s more. We confirmed that the vehicle where Clementine was discovered bleeding out belonged to her. Under the circumstances, Jordyn felt we could legally search it without a warrant.”

“She’s right.”

“We came up with bags of groceries and a collection of child-size clothing, recently bought at a Walmart. Tags still on.”

“She’s helping him.”

“Quaid, we need to figure out where they’re keeping the boy. Any ideas?”

“No.” I racked my brain but came up empty. So far as we knew, Clementine lived at home with her parents. “I’ll… let me see if I can talk to Imogen, but… if she knew where Crowley was—”

“She would have retrieved him. It’s why she took off, isn’t it?”

I didn’t respond. We both knew he was right. Traffic sounds came through the line, and I suspected Costa was outside.

“How are things?” he asked after a silent minute, his tone quieter. “I didn’t mean to drag you back into this, but I wanted to keep you updated.”

“I appreciate it. Things are progressing. Slowly. Our families are here.” I huffed a short laugh. “Torin showed up in a rage because no one called him. He says he’s a better detective than you, and I should have asked for his help instead.”

Costa laughed. “Is that so. Tell him to go fuck himself.”

I smiled for the first time since answering the phone. “I gotta go, Costa. If I think of anything, I’ll call you.”

“Okay. We have a CSI team on the way to properly process the car. Once they arrive, we’re heading back to the hospital to chat with Clementine’s parents. I’ll pop in if we have a minute.”

We hung up, and I wandered to the waiting room where Aslan’s parents, his sister, Torin and Allison, and my dad waited for an update. Aslan’s mother had Ainsley in her arms, cooing at the baby, who soaked up the attention.

Aslan chatted with my dad and Ronan. Amelia, Torin, and Allison watched Cellina with the baby. Since everyone was occupied and no one had seen me, I backtracked down the hall and aimed for the other side of the ward and Imogen’s room.

All was quiet. The Davis and Walsh family storm seemed to have passed. When I checked the waiting room and found it empty, I frowned.

A familiar nurse caught me searching and stopped. “Imogen Davis was moved to the maternity floor about an hour ago if that’s who you’re looking for. The family followed her down.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Before she could wander off, I asked, “Is the baby okay?”

The nurse studied my face, but her expression was unreadable. Professional. “He’s stable, but preemies always have a tough go. We take it one day at a time and hope for the best.”

“Thank you.”

She continued her rounds, and I remained rooted to the spot, contemplating what to do. My place was at Bryn’s side. Even if I could get Imogen to admit she’d gone after Clementine in a jealous rage, there was no information to be had.

Imogen had not found her son, and I believed she’d threatened violence in exchange for answers. Clementine had not given her any and had suffered the consequences of a mother lion doing all she could to get her child back.

Feeling helpless and infuriatingly inept, I leaned against a nearby wall, too preoccupied with how the case was unfolding—or not unfolding—to do anything else.

What were we missing? Where had Nixon gone?

Where was Crowley being held? Flynn and Clementine?

That explained a few things, but the full picture was still murky.

Something niggled in the back of my brain, and I shoved my hands into my pockets as though they might contain the answer.

All I found was the wallet size photograph of Crowley I’d requested from the family.

When working on a case with a missing child, I always kept their picture on hand.

Crowley’s was the standard school photo taken at the beginning of the year.