Romano peeled away from the curb.
“Wasn’t a robbery.” Bree rolled the facts around in her head. “They left cash in Tyson’s wallet. Also, they didn’t take the car. Drug deal gone sour?”
“We have no idea what happened, other than a guy got shot.”
“You don’t like any of those theories?” Bree asked.
Romano shot her a direct look. “I like evidence, not theories.”
Bree could have run the mile to the victim’s residence faster than they drove in morning rush-hour traffic. Romano pulled to the curb in front of a block of rowhomes that directly fronted the sidewalk. They stepped out of the vehicle.
Bree studied the crumbling brick facade. Thick utility wires hung overhead. She scanned the doors for numbers. “Looks like she rents the basement apartment.”
Cracked concrete steps led to the lower unit. A freshly painted robin’s-egg-blue front door made the rest of the block look older and more worn. They went down, and Bree knocked on the door. She heard footsteps on the other side. A curtain shifted in the window next to the door. A few seconds later, the door opened, and a young woman eyed them with suspicion.
According to Kelly Tyson’s motor vehicle records, she was twenty-three years old, but she could have passed for early thirties. She was tall and bony, with sallow skin that said she didn’t get outside much. Her shoulder-length blonde hair sported three inches of dark roots. Worry lines etched the corners of her mouth and eyes.
“We’re Detectives Taggert and Romano.” Bree opened her badge wallet and turned it toward the young woman. “Are you Kelly Tyson?” she asked, even though the woman matched her driver’s license photo.
Nodding, Mrs. Tyson crossed her arms and chewed on her thumbnail. Her fingernails were bitten far below the quick, and her cuticles looked like they’d been through a meat grinder. In a heavy sweatshirt and yoga pants, she shivered in the doorway.
“Are you married to James Tyson?” Romano asked.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t live here anymore.” Mrs. Tyson stepped back and grabbed the door, preparing to close it.
“May we come inside, Mrs. Tyson?” Bree asked.
“No.” Mrs. Tyson lifted her chin with a defiance that seemed permanent. “Whatever James did, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“May we please come inside?” Bree asked. “It’s freezing, and we’d rather not have this discussion in public.”
“A’ight.” Mrs. Tyson stepped into the house.
Romano and Bree followed her into a tiny living room–kitchen combination. The apartment was long and narrow. The air held the permanent chill of a basement. Off the main living space, a door opened into a small bathroom. Behind that, it appeared as if there were two bedrooms the size of walk-in closets. Despite the cramped quarters, there was an obvious attempt to keep the place tidy. The worn couch was draped with blankets. A stack of milk crates in the corner contained children’s toys and books.
“Mrs. Tyson,” Romano began.
“Call me Kelly.” But Kelly didn’t sit down or relax. She stood just inside the apartment, barely giving Bree room to close the door. Kelly knew something was wrong.
“Do you want to sit down?” Bree asked.
Kelly shook her head. “Just say it. What happened?”
“I regret to inform you that James was killed very early this morning.” Romano gave her the news straight up. Bree appreciated her new partner’s no-bullshit attitude.
Mrs. Tyson just stared, as if she didn’t know whether she should believe them. “What?”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Romano said.
The color drained from Kelly’s face as she absorbed the news. “Lena was with James overnight. Where’s my daughter?”
CHAPTER TWO
Bree’s gaze snapped around the room and fell on some framed snapshots on a side table. Most of the photos focused on a little blonde girl. Bree’s heart kicked against her ribs.
She’d known homicide would be challenging. Instead of encountering only the occasional dead body, death would be her focus on a daily basis. She’d come to terms with her new reality, but kids . . . For most cops, it was the child victims who broke them.
“Lena is your daughter?” Romano asked.
“Yeah.” Kelly’s eyes went wild. “You gotta find her.”
Bree studied the photos. “How old is she?”
“Five.” Kelly covered her mouth with one hand. She wrapped the other around her own waist.
“Is there anyone James could have left Lena with?” Romano’s voice remained calm, but the tone had shifted. There was a layer of urgency under the quiet words.
“Maybe his father. That’s who he lives with.” Kelly raked a hand through her limp hair. She pulled out a phone and jabbed the screen. She turned on the speakerphone and held the cell in front of her mouth.
A man answered in an angry voice. “Why are you calling me?”
Kelly ignored his question. “Marty, where’s Lena?”
“I don’t know. With James, I guess,” the man said. “James said I’m not supposed to talk to you. Everything has to go through the attorney.”
“James is dead,” Kelly snapped.
Bree winced. This wasn’t the way a father should learn about his son’s death, but Kelly was—understandably—focused on finding her daughter.
Three heartbeats of silence ticked by, then the man said, “What?”
“Two cops—detectives—are here right now. They said James is dead. Lena was with him last night.” Kelly’s breaths came quicker, as if she might hyperventilate. “Are you sure she’s not there? Can you check the bedroom?”
“James can’t be dead,” Marty said.
“Please, just see if Lena is in her room.” Kelly closed her eyes.
“OK, but he wouldn’t leave her here without telling me.” The sound of heavy footsteps came across the line. A door opened, and Marty said, “She’s not here.”
Kelly’s eyes snapped open, and she cried out. “Where is she?”
“I’ll be right over.” Marty’s words broke, as if the reality of his son’s death was sinking in.
Bree waved at Kelly and shook her head. “We need to see James’s living space,” she said in a soft voice. “Tell him we’ll come to him.”
Kelly repeated the message. It sounded as if the father was crying when Kelly said goodbye and ended the call.
“When was the last time you saw James?” Romano asked Kelly.
“Yesterday.” Kelly paced, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “He came to pick up Lena in the morning.”
Romano stepped into the kitchen area and began making calls. A minute later, she lowered her phone. “Kelly? We need a description of Lena, a recent photo, and something that carries her scent.”
They were bringing out a K-9.
“She’s three and a half feet tall and about forty pounds.” Kelly hurried into one of the back bedrooms. Bree followed her, stopping in the doorway to scan the room. Discarded clothing littered the floor. A stuffed elephant lay nestled in the unmade bed. Kelly snatched a small pink pajama top from the floor. “This is the last thing Lena wore before going with James.”