Bree directed her partner toward James’s father’s house. “Marty Tyson has lived at the same address forever.”
It wasn’t unusual for Philadelphia natives to stay in the same neighborhood where they were raised. Parents sold or left their homes to their children.
Marty Tyson lived just ten blocks from Kelly. He opened the door before Bree and Romano had even reached the stoop. Marty was a big man, with heavily calloused hands the size of whole hams. Devastation lined his craggy face.
He led them back to a warm, tidy kitchen that smelled of fresh coffee. He eased into a chair as if his bones ached. “My son is really dead?”
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Tyson.” Romano unzipped her jacket and sat across from him at a round oak table.
He nodded and appeared to be fighting tears. “I didn’t even see Lena yesterday. James said he was taking her out for pizza, and I went to bed early.”
Bree wandered a circle around the kitchen. She unbuttoned her coat to let the heat in.
“You wanted to see James’s room.” He pointed to the stairs. “Top of the steps. On the left. Help yourself.”
“Where did Lena sleep when she stayed here?” Romano asked.
“The room next to James’s. It’s small.” His face cracked in a bittersweet smile. “But so is Lena.” He turned watery blue eyes on Bree, then Romano. “You have to find her. She’s not like other kids.”
“We understand she’s autistic and nonverbal.”
Marty nodded. “Doesn’t talk, but she gets her point across.”
Bree headed for the stairs. She heard Romano asking more questions. “In what way?”
“She gestures.” He exhaled. “She knows what she wants. She might not talk, but she’s smart.”
“Sounds like you love your granddaughter.” Romano’s voice faded.
Bree climbed the stairs and went into James’s room. A basket full of folded clothes sat on the bed. Pulling on gloves, she searched every inch of the bedroom. No guns. No drugs. No illegal substances of any kind. The room didn’t smell of pot. If James was doing drugs, he hadn’t kept any at home.
She moved into the little girl’s room. It was small, but cozy and neat. Built-in shelves overflowed with picture books and stuffed animals.
Bree went back downstairs. She caught Romano’s eye and shook her head.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tyson.” Romano stood and zipped her coat.
Mr. Tyson was putting on his own coat.
“Where are you going?” Bree fastened her coat buttons.
“I’m going with you to look for Lena.” He grabbed a pair of heavy gloves.
Bree glanced around. Marty’s house was warm and welcoming. “What if Lena comes here? Shouldn’t someone be here?”
Marty went out onto the stoop and knocked on his neighbor’s door. A tiny old woman in a fuchsia tracksuit opened it. “Marty, what’s wrong?”
“Lena is missing.” Marty didn’t mention his son’s death. Maybe he was blocking it. Maybe he just couldn’t talk about it. “I’m going to go look for her. Would you stay at my place in case she comes back here?”
“Of course.” She nodded, her head of white curls bobbing.
Marty gave Romano a problem solved look. “Lena won’t go to just anyone. She might hide.”
Wonderful.
A dog will still find her.
Bree and Romano shared a Look. They’d only been partners for a couple of days, but they already communicated pretty well.
“You have to stay behind the barriers, Mr. Tyson,” Romano said.
He didn’t promise, just turned left on the sidewalk and got into a battered pickup truck.
Standing in the wind, Bree blinked as a second flashback hit. Bree, her little sister, and her baby brother hiding under a porch on a winter night long ago. Fear crawled up her throat just as it had that night. A gunshot blasted. Bree flinched.
“Hey, you OK?” Romano paused and stared at Bree over the roof of the vehicle.
“Sure. Just thinking.” Embarrassed, Bree slid into the passenger seat.
She and her siblings had survived their abusive father and traumatic childhood, but they’d been left with scars, both physical and emotional. Had Lena seen her father killed? How would she cope?
“About what?”
“You know my background.” Bree was convinced almost everyone on the Philly PD knew that at the age of eight, she’d hidden her siblings under their porch while their father shot their mother and then himself.
“I do,” Romano said. “Will it affect your job performance?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter.” Romano glanced sideways at her. “Can’t pick your family.”
Except Bree understood childhood trauma. She could put herself in a frightened child’s place all too well. Normally, she tried not to think about it, but today she might have to.
“Let’s take a fresh look at the surveillance footage.” Bree pulled out her phone. “I don’t see a kid leaving with the suspect. I don’t see a kid at all.”
Romano leaned across the front seat and squinted at the screen. “You can’t see into the back seat of the vehicle, and there are plenty of shadows.” She started the engine and drove back to the scene, parking behind a K-9 unit.
The handler was working his big German shepherd around the vehicle. They got out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Romano approached Officer Reilly. “Any luck with the dog?”
Watching the dog, Bree hung back. Sweat dripped down her back. Though the bite scar on her shoulder was more than twenty-five years old, it itched. She knew the symptom was psychological, but she couldn’t stop it. She knew what it was like to have a big dog’s teeth sink into your flesh. But she was at no risk from this dog. He was a well-trained K-9. If Lena was nearby, the dog would find her.
Unless Lena was afraid of dogs . . .
Reilly shook his head. “The dog isn’t picking up a trail. He keeps going back to the vehicle.”
Romano walked back to Bree. “Did you hear?”
Bree nodded. “So, Lena probably didn’t walk away from the Ford. Either she wasn’t in the car last night, or she left by vehicle.”
She could be anywhere.
Romano moved away to answer a call. Bree checked the time. Almost ten o’clock. The child had been missing for at least nine hours.
Romano hurried back and waved toward their vehicle. “We’ve got a lead. A thumbprint from the Ford. Belongs to Dillon Brown, a suspected drug dealer. He’s currently out on parole after serving six months on a narcotics possession charge.”
Bree compared the surveillance photo with Dillon Brown’s driver’s license picture. “Looks like him. Maybe he was James’s supplier.”
Bree rushed to the passenger seat.
Romano slid behind the wheel. “BOLO already went out looking for Brown.”
Maybe Dillon was also the killer.
CHAPTER THREE
In the passenger seat of their unmarked car, Bree reviewed Dillon Brown’s criminal record and studied his photo. He was short, with unkempt brown hair and a bushy beard. “He drives a 2002 F-150. No evidence of gang affiliation, though it’s always possible.”