Page 8 of Paternal Instincts (Valor and Doyle #8)

Quaid

T he Davises lived on Cragmuir Court in Victoria Village, a short jaunt after exiting the Don Valley Parkway. Their moderate-size family-style home wasn’t extravagant but proved the couple lived well above the poverty line. Nixon had mentioned his business was doing well.

Cragmuir was a quiet cul-de-sac, a stone’s throw from the Don River and trail. The two-story brick dwelling sported a double-wide driveway, large windows, a lawn in desperate need of mowing, and a flowerbed full of weeds. The neglect made me wonder if the nanny was the only staff recently fired.

Sparrow had begrudgingly ridden with her father after Nixon announced she required a tethered booster seat. I didn’t point out it could have been easily moved to the Charger. The distraught man had enough on his plate without wondering why his daughter wanted to abandon him.

Jordyn parked on the street as Nixon pulled into the driveway. She killed the engine, and we silently watched the father exit his vehicle and head toward the house. A few steps into his retreat, Nixon reversed course to help his daughter out of the car like he’d forgotten she existed.

I clenched my jaw and refrained from commenting.

“He’s scattered, Quaid. It’s normal.”

Of course, Jordyn noticed. My partner was as in tune with me as I was with her.

Nixon scooped the small girl onto his hip and headed to the front door. It was the first act of proper parenting I’d witnessed since finding him in the office. The man unlocked the front door and glanced over his shoulder in our direction to see if we were coming.

Neither Jordyn nor I moved.

Nixon hesitated, then went inside.

“It’s too late to set up roadblocks,” Jordyn said, stating a fact.

I nodded. Three days meant our perp had a massive head start. They could be anywhere. Another city, another province, or even another country. “We need to map the distance between here and the Soccerplex and figure out every possible path the kid might have taken to get there.”

“Nixon mentioned a shortcut across train tracks.”

“It doesn’t mean that’s the way Crow went. His mother might have told him to stick to the road.”

“True. I’ll call the district police and have them send whatever constables they can spare to canvas the street. Should we get sniffer dogs and organize a search party, or is it too late for that too?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” I didn’t mention the handful of times we’d located children’s bodies less than a kilometer or two from their homes. I doubted that would be the case with Crow, not with a note, but I couldn’t dismiss it.

Jordyn made the call and spoke to the local district’s staff sergeant, giving them a brief outline of the situation.

She hung up and tucked her phone away. “They’ll send some constables right away. This abduction won’t be a secret much longer once neighbors are questioned.”

“That’s fine.”

“Are we putting out the Amber Alert?”

“As soon as we get a proper description of the boy and talk to the parents. We might get a better idea of who we’re looking for.”

Jordyn shifted to face me. “With a ransom note like the one we got, shouldn’t the parents know who’s threatening them? Isn’t that the whole point behind making a demand? How can they stop a behavior if they don’t know what behavior to stop?”

“They can’t, which is why I’m convinced they know who’s responsible. It’s likely why they didn’t come forward before now. Maybe they thought they could resolve it without police interference.”

“And something went wrong?”

“It usually does.” I glanced at the house, half expecting Nixon to be waiting at the door or front window.

He wasn’t. “The thing with ransoms, be it a demand for money, information, or any other form of extortion, the abductor puts themselves in a tight situation. They’ve acted impulsively, often irrationally.

They’ve done the unthinkable. If they get what they want—money, information, or whatever they’re asking for—how can they risk returning the child?

Chances are the authorities know who they are by that point.

The parents definitely do. The perpetrator has committed a felony.

They’re going to prison. The child was spontaneous leverage, a last resort, but they didn’t think through their actions. ”

“They were angry and desperate. ”

“Yes. Now, even if they get what they want, the child has become an inconvenience. Which is why we need to proceed with extreme caution. These types of perpetrators are prone to panicking and running. They got themselves in a pickle and don’t know how to safely get out.

Ideally, they would leave the child behind, perhaps somewhere public where they’ll be recovered quickly, but they’re also the type who are most likely to commit murder or take their own life because they have backed themselves into a corner. ”

“Great.”

I glanced at Jordyn, reading the worry lines across her forehead, knowing I wore a matching pair.

“In this case, information is paramount. Not only do we need lists of people in the Davises’ lives, but we need to know if they’ve been contacted by the abductor again and not told us.

Ransom notes usually come with deadlines.

Ours didn’t. Until the person establishes some form of communication, or we learn differently, we have to assume the child is alive. ”

Jordyn seemed to roll that information around. “But Quaid, if the parents know who has their child, why wouldn’t they tell us so we can get him back?”

I stared at the house, seeing the note inside my head. The words. The meaning. “Because they, too, have secrets. ‘If you ruin me, I’ll ruin you.’ The threat goes both ways.”

“But it’s their child.”

“Which is what makes this so dangerous. The stakes must be high. We need to figure out what this family is hiding.”

** *

The interior of the Davises’ residence was as neglected as the exterior.

No one had cleaned or picked up in days.

Nixon led us through a messy kitchen—counters covered with crumbs and the sink full of unwashed dishes—where Sparrow sat on her knees at a cluttered table with a Lunchables pack and juice box set out on a kid-friendly place mat.

God help Nixon, but he’d recognized his shortcomings and tried to amend them.

I winked at the forlorn child, but she didn’t smile back. Too much was happening in her young life, and the short reprieve from stress Aslan had offered earlier was over. Sparrow looked as exhausted as her father. She needed a bath and a good night’s sleep. I feared she would get neither.

“We need a family liaison asap,” I whispered to Jordyn.

“I’ll make a call once we get a second.”

Moving into the next room to interview Sparrow’s parents felt like a betrayal. Instead of eating the prepackaged snack pack, the young child followed our retreat, lower lip jutted in a pout. I wanted to go back, sit with her, and make promises I couldn’t keep.

I fought the urge and trailed after my partner.

A tired-looking pregnant woman lay on the couch. The coffee table beside her was full of used tissues, empty bowls, and mugs full of half-drunk coffee or tea. I couldn't be sure whether they belonged to her or Nixon, but they were further signs of the couples’ mounting grief.

Nixon fussed, arranging pillows around his wife, telling her to rest, put her feet up, and not strain, but the instant Imogen noticed us, she pushed her husband away and maneuvered herself into a sitting position .

She wore a formfitting tank top that barely covered her lump—it didn’t look like a maternity style—and cotton shorts that wouldn’t have gone around her swollen belly if she tried.

The waistband sat below the baby bump, leaving a peek of pale, stretched skin where the two articles of clothing didn’t quite meet.

Her feet were bare and slightly swollen.

When Nixon offered her slippers, she waved them off. “But sweetie.”

“I’m fine.” Although styled in an intricate knot, Imogen’s long brown hair had fallen loose from its elastic. Several frizzy flyaways fanned her face. She would have been pretty if not for the accumulation of stress wearing her down and the dark circles under her eyes.

Nixon, abandoning his attempts at helping his wife, introduced us. “Detectives, this is my wife, Imogen.”

When the woman tried to get to her feet, Nixon protested but gave her a hand in the end.

“It’s Genie, please. Can I get you something to drink?” Moving winded her, and she clutched her lower back, arching forward and making her belly seem larger.

“You aren’t doing that, sweetie. Please sit down and rest.” Again, Nixon’s suggestion was ignored.

“We’re fine, Mrs. Davis,” I said. “Don’t trouble yourself. Please sit. I understand you’re on bed rest.”

“I am, but it gets exhausting lying around all day.” Nixon returned her to the couch, and Imogen didn’t protest.

The distressed man studied his wife as though trying to figure out what else he could do to alleviate her discomfort. She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m fine,” she said again, and I had a feeling she said those words a lot .

“W-we have to talk to the detectives.” Nixon wrung his hands, face crumpling.

“You shouldn’t have gone.”

“I had to. You know, I had to.”

Imogen Davis wore the same red-rimmed eyes as her husband.

They shared a look I couldn’t read. I pegged the couple as in their early to mid-thirties.

While Nixon’s face was permanently wet with tears, Imogen’s cheeks were dry.

Their anguish and worry, however, were indistinguishable from one another.

Not everyone wore grief the same. I’d seen parents from every walk of life go through the tragedy of child abduction, and it always looked different. It was impossible to predict how someone might act under such astronomical strain.