Beans.

They’d been on the stove all day, and even outside Billy Joe caught the mouthwatering aroma drifting from his Mama’s kitchen. Still, not even the hungry grumbling of his belly could pull the boy inside to enjoy his favorite meal.

Three days past his seventh birthday, Billy Joe wouldn’t surrender even one minute of play with his newest, mightiest toys. Proudly stamped Tonka, the bulldozer and dump truck were gifts from his dad. They held the boy’s interest as nothing else had, focused all his playful energy, and only darkness--or Mama--would end the Tonka trials born of his fertile mind.

When the dining room light came on, Billy Joe knew time was short. He could play again tomorrow, but tomorrow seemed pretty dawgon far away to Billy Joe Spruill.

“Supper time, Billy Joe,” Mama called from the back door.

Well, there it was, the official end. “Comin’, Ma.”

Disappointed, Billy Joe pushed the bulldozer to its parking spot under the back porch, then went back for the dump truck. He’d saved it for last because it was his favorite. He knew he wanted to drive a dump truck, someday--when he wasn’t playing second base for the Atlanta Braves.

***

Hot and tired, Mattie Spruill wanted nothing more than to put her feet up and enjoy a few precious moments of doing nothing. Minus five minutes spent gossiping across the back fence, she’d cooked, cleaned, and busted her butt all day. She didn’t mind, really. She liked keeping a nice home for her family, liked being a mom, but she had a right to be a little crabby after Big Bill’s call from the mill. He would be late--again. Overtime, yes, and they could use the money, but still it rankled, and Mattie fought the urge to be snippy with her boys. She’d been successful, so far, but thought she might give Billy Joe a swat on his bee-hind if he didn’t get inside to eat his supper. It was his favorite, and his daddy’s too--great northern beans with onions and chunks of leftover ham--an’ it was gettin’ cold sittin’ on the table.

She’d already called him once, and despite her fatigue and her crabbiness, she had savored the warm pleasure of watching her son push the bulldozer to his “garage” under the porch. There weren’t many things better than seeing your children at play, Mattie didn’t think. Even the smell of them was special: mingled scents of sunshine and child-sweat, innocence and joy. She strapped the baby into his highchair, then went back to hurry her oldest.

“Billy Joe Spruill! You’d best get your hiney in here!”

Mattie used the distinctive tone moms save for times prompt obedience is expected. When combined with the full name opener, it almost guaranteed instant response. But this time she got nothing, and that wasn’t like Billy Joe.

The first queasy tendrils of fear snaked through Mattie as she stepped onto the porch. Maternal instinct? Mother’s intuition? Whatever the name, she knew something wasn’t right.

“Billy Joe?” No answer. “Come on, honey.” Billy?

Mattie rushed into the twilight calling for her boy and trying to smother the dread uncoiling in her belly. Her Billy Joe never strayed, and not seeing him scared her more than a little. But what scared her more was the feeling of emptiness...of talking to air...the sense of gone.

Oh God, please...

But God was busy, and Mattie’s little angel had disappeared.

Billy Joe hadn’t really disappeared, of course--he’d been harvested.

CHAPTER ONE

STUART, NORTH CAROLINA

FEBRUARY 6, 2008

Griffin basked in the sweet, lazy warmth of aftersex, Cat draped across his chest. The faint strawberry fragrance from her hair and the more pungent aroma built of their lovemaking danced about his nose; both pleased him. He never tired of the exotic tastes, scents, and textures of his wife.

The phone’s unwelcome shrilling shattered the moment like a rock through glass.

“Don’t answer,” Cat mumbled.

     He kissed her on top of the head and picked up the phone. His boss, Byron Styles.

“West Stuart Shopping Center,” said Styles. “NeverLand Toys. Black female, seven years old, abducted thirty minutes ago. Play nice with the locals. Keep me informed.”

Any response Griffin might have had was cut off by the dial tone. Styles wasn’t much for extraneous conversation.

Untangling himself from Cat, Griffin sat up, saw the question on her face, confirmed her suspicion. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

It was his first day off in three weeks, and she’d gone out of her way to let him know it was a good day to make a baby. They’d been trying for a year, but of late she’d gotten pretty scientific about it, baffling Griffin with optimum dates and temperatures and such.

“Oh, I’ll get by.” She smiled, but disappointment leaked into her words. “I need to do some shopping, anyway.”

“If I’m not too late, can we take up where we left off?” He liked the sex-tousled look of his Australian beauty.

That earned a more sincere smile. “Mmmmm, maybe,” she said, “if you promise to be naughty.”

One last kiss. Sweet, warm lips. “Goodbye.”

***

Hands thrust into the pockets of his Levis, Griffin tried to see the delivery zone behind NeverLand Toys through the eyes of a killer.

“What do you think?” Wade asked from over his shoulder. They’d been partners for years, and followed many a trail.

Hand cupped to shield his old Zippo’s flame from the biting wind, Griffin lit a cigarette before responding. “Stuart sealed the area, but too late.”

Assigned to the State Bureau’s Special Investigations Unit, the tired partners had months invested in their search for an elusive child killer. Unless they established a link to their investigation, the NeverLand case belonged to Stuart’s Police.

Shoulders hunched against the cold, Griffin watched an empty bag skitter across the pavement until the wind pasted it against the security fence. He felt...something, that odd, indefinable feeling he sometimes got when he was close, as if the monsters he chased left electricity in their wake. “What have we got?”

“Victim’s name is Tamyra Gamble,” Wade read from his notebook. “One clerk remembers a chunky, middle-aged white guy. Came in a few minutes before. Didn’t see him leave. No video.”

“Chunky middle-aged white guy matches what we got from Fayetteville. Could be him.” It’s him. It’s him and we’re an hour behind and he’s got a baby and she’s alone and she’s scared and... He forced those thoughts away; they pushed buttons better left unpushed.

“Maybe not,” Wade countered. “Not his style. Our man’s more cautious.” He lit a cigarette to go with the bubble gum he was chewing, a sure sign of stress.

“It is a little different,” said Griffin, “but now he’s had practice.”

Wade grunted, kicked a can with enough foot to bounce it off the back wall. He had kids of his own. They never discussed Griffin’s odd knack--cops work from fact, not feeling--but they’d been together too long for him to deny that sometimes his partner just knew.

Griffin blew smoke at the sky. “He’s perfecting his technique. He studied the layout, knew his chances were good.” He tossed his cigarette, organized his thoughts, continued. “He’s groovin’ on being the mysterious killer, reading about himself in the newspaper.”

In the past six months, their man had murdered children from Lumberton, White City, and Fayetteville. They suspected him of two earlier killings, but lacked the DNA evidence that linked the latter cases.

“Could be,” said Wade, “but I still ain’t feelin’ it.”

“He waited near the back, grabbed the girl when she strayed close, and ducked out that door right there.”  Acid flooding his stomach, he pointed at the back door. He wasn’t designed to work Crimes Against Children. “Got any Tums?”

Wade surrendered a roll that looked like it had lived in the bottom of his pocket for ten years. Griffin ate three.

“Maybe,” said Wade. “Still seems out of character.” He waved his hand at the emptiness around them. “Where did he go? Too open to leave a car back here.”

“Yeah.” Wade was right, a careful killer wouldn’t leave his getaway vehicle where it would stand out like a red flag. “But what if...”

The shopping center was separated from a wooded strip by a six foot chain-link fence. Griffin touched the cold metal, pondered it for a moment, started to the right. Without a word, Wade went left and found the hole within twenty yards.

Clipped at a support pole, the flap swung freely when pushed aside, granting access to a vague trail that snaked through the thick tangle of pine and underbrush. They followed the track and emerged at the dead end of a residential street. It was an older neighborhood of frame homes, the nearest fifty yards distant, and the bottles, cigarette butts, and condoms that decorated the semi-secluded cul-de-sac identified it as popular with the younger crowd.

“This is it.” Griffin lit a fresh cigarette. “This is how he came out. He grabbed that girl and thirty seconds later he had her in a car right here.” A scenario built on straws of conjecture, but it felt right.

“Could be.” Wade shoved wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth and spat a thick brown stream before continuing. “Kinda makes me sick, y’know?”

Griffin didn’t want to think about it. “You wanna start the house-to-house, or touch base with Stuart?”

“I better take the liaison,” Wade said with a trace of a smile. “Lieutenant Sharp caught this one, and you two mix like gasoline and matches.”

“Not-so Sharp? Give the little fuck-stick my regards.”

***

The unpredictable series of snags, flaws, and mishaps known as Murphy’s Law are often kinder to law enforcement officers than the criminal laws to which they’re bound. With the brainier, ballsier, more professional criminals, it’s Mr. Murphy, often as not, who brings them down.

“No suh, I didn’t see nobody, just the car there at the end of the street.” A wiry, dark-skinned black man, Gaylord Kinston was one of those rare individuals who didn’t look much different at eighty than he had at thirty.

“Did you see when it went down there, or when it left?” Kinston’s house sat three up from the dead end. The sharp-eyed man perched on a porch swing overlooking his perfect yard, a small, muttish-looking dog curled in his lap.

“No, I didn’t. Killer,” Kinston pointed to the pint-sized mutt, “went chasin’ after some kids on bikes. They’s always cuttin’ through the woods down there to get to the sto’s. I went down to get Killer and the car was already there. Young’ns park down there from time to time, but they ain’t no bother to nobody. Did catch my attention, though, ‘cause nobody was there, but I thought maybe they’d walked to the sto’.”

“Can you describe the car?”

“Sure can,” Kinston said with a younger man’s grin. “Fact, I can do better than that; I can give you the license plate number, if’n you give me one o’ them smokes and promise not to tell my old lady. She’s a fine lookin’, God-fearin’ woman, but she gets meaner ever’ year an’ she’s not one to put up with my bad old habits.”

***

“Good afternoon,” Wade said to the man who answered the door. “I’m Special Agent Branson, of the State Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner,” he nodded toward Griffin, “Special Agent Griffin.” They both made perfunctory motions of displaying their credentials. “We’re conducting an investigation--”

Griffin studied the man while Wade did the talking. Big but soft-looking, Dale Dabney had the pale, doughy look of someone who avoided the outdoors. He looked unhappy to see them, too, but not shocked. Nonverbal communication conveys as much information as the spoken word, and Dabney’s body language and attitude said a lot. He looked uncomfortable, but not surprised to see them. Why?

“Do you live alone, Mr. Dabney?” asked Wade.

“I live with my mother.” Arrogant.

“Gwendolyn Zelder? Is that your mother?” Wade continued.

“Yes, my stepfather’s name was Zelder. He’s dead.” His tone suggested that his stepfather’s demise wasn’t a source of personal suffering. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Is your mother here?” Wade continued. “And is she still the owner of a 2000 Mercury Marquis?”

“Yes, but she’s asleep. She takes medication for her heart and needs her rest.” He stepped out and pulled the front door closed.

Funny he didn’t ask why we’re asking about the car.

“And the car?” Wade pressed, easing into Dabney’s personal space. Dabney shrank away.

“My mother has a car like that. It’s in there.” Dabney jerked his head in the direction of the garage. It was cold and getting colder, but Griffin caught the sheen of perspiration on the slobby man’s forehead.

“Do you or your mother own any other vehicles?” Wade said in his oiliest used car salesman’s voice.

“No, just that one.” Dabney licked his lips.

“Have you gone anywhere in that car today?” Wade inched a little closer, keeping his subject uncomfortable. Dabney still hadn’t asked their purpose. An innocent man would have wanted to know.

“No, I haven’t left the house. Neither has my mother. She can’t go anywhere unless I drive her.”

“Do you work, Mr. Dabney?” Wade continued, crowding. Half a foot over six feet and less than fifty pounds shy of three hundred, Wade was good at creating discomfort.

Dabney fumbled a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, lit it with shaky hands. “Yes, well uhh, yeah. I mean I work here,” Dabney’s words came out around a stream of exhaled smoke. “I take care of my mother. She needs a caretaker, and I do that. It’s a full-time job, let me tell you.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Wade. “Have you ever been arrested?”

“Arrested?” Dabney gasped. “No! Why on earth should I be arrested?” The stricken expression on his face came right out of a silent movie.

“Just a routine question,” Wade said, smooth as silk. “Would you rather go inside and talk?”

“No! Are we almost finished? I have things I should be doing.” He crossed and re-crossed his arms, a defensive posture, creating a barrier between him and Wade.

“Almost done,” Wade lied. “Would you be able to verify that you were here all afternoon?”

Dabney’s stance relaxed--the shoulders dropped, the arms came down--and Griffin wondered why.

“Yes. My mother could verify it, if she needed to,” Dabney answered smugly. “And I was on the phone, long distance, for much of the afternoon. The phone records and the people I spoke with would confirm my presence here, wouldn’t they?”

Now Griffin understood: Dabney wanted that question. He’d built himself an alibi.

“Of course they would,” Wade soothed. “Could you tell us who you spoke with and the time of that conversation?”

“I made a series of calls that began at, oh, one-ish? And I was on the phone until around…two-thirty? I spoke with my aunt in Georgia, my cousin in Florida, and I made credit card purchases from Sears and J.C. Penney.”

Dabney’s relief at putting that information on the table was highlighted by a further slackening of stance. He felt safer, Griffin supposed, having proven he couldn’t be their suspect. Time to shake him up.

“Who used your mother’s car this afternoon?” Griffin broke his silence, stepped toward Dabney. He was tired of the attitude. His fingertips tingled with repressed aggression: While Dabney jerked them around, the clock ticked for Tamyra Gamble.

Dabney recoiled as far as the front door would allow. “Nobody!”

“Could you show us the car?” Wade kept his tone gentle and shifted the smallest bit toward Griffin. That almost nonexistent move gave an impression Wade intervened on Dabney’s behalf, shielded him from Griffin, but it was only a subtle play on the age old good cop-bad cop routine.

“The car?” Dabney tossed his cigarette butt, reached for the pack.

“The car, Dabney. Now.” Griffin kept his tone harsh, faked an attempt to edge past Wade’s defending shoulder. “Unless there’s a reason you don’t want us to see it?”

“Oh. No. Of course not,” Dabney stammered.

Griffin’s adrenals teased at first sight of the car’s position, and the faint tire tracks of another vehicle on the floor of the vacant half of the garage. Parked on the extreme right of the two car garage, the Marquis almost touched the wall on the passenger side, which was odd, considering it was the only car in there. He checked to be sure both the front and back seats were empty, and then placed the back of his hand on the hood. It felt warm. He conveyed that information to Wade with nothing but a bland look.

“Mr. Dabney, would you mind if we take a look in the trunk?” Wade said.

“In the trunk?” Dabney looked pale and sick. “I’m getting kind of uncomfortable with all this. What’s going on?” This weak attempt at righteousness came out without much conviction.

“Mr. Dabney,” Wade continued, “a car matching this description was seen leaving the area from which a seven year old girl was abducted. With your solid alibi and our verification that your mom’s car shows no evidence of ever having transported an abducted child, we’ll be able to cross you off our list and move on. Now, if--”

“I know my rights!” spouted Dabney. “You two are bullying me. You could plant evidence. Maybe I should talk to my--”

“Wade?” Griffin interrupted, looking to preclude the request for counsel he knew was coming. Dabney was a legitimate suspect at this point, and if he lawyered-up, their friendly chat was over. “Why don’t you touch base with Styles and the State Attorney?”

“But--” began Dabney.

“I guess I should,” said Wade. “I’ll be right back.” He threw Griffin an unspoken plea for caution, but left without another word. A courageous bear of a man, Wade lacked the ruthlessness that lurked inside his partner, who closed the gap between him and Dabney in a blink.

“Hey! What do you think--” Dabney’s words ended in a strangled squawk as Griffin grabbed his balls with crushing force and drove him backwards. The scream that formed in Dabney’s lungs stayed there, trapped by the forearm locked across his throat. Squirming and bug-eyed, he was pinned to the wall.

“Dale,” Griffin said in a guttural, barely controlled voice. “Playtime’s over. We need to reach an understanding, and we need to do that now. Understand?”

A sharp squeeze of Dabney’s bruised testicles brought him to his toes and transformed a negative shake of the head to a desperate nod. An anguished, keening sound escaped from between his lips. It did nothing to divert the focus of Griffin’s unfeigned rage.

“Because we’re talking about a little girl, Dale,” snarled Griffin, nose to nose with Dabney, “and I want answers.” The anger and frustration caged inside him begged for release. He felt shaky with the effort to keep it in check. “If anything happens to that child, I’m going to make it my mission in life to see you in the deepest, darkest hole in North Carolina.”

Dale’s eyes rolled.

“Even hardened cons don’t tolerate scumbag motherfuckers who prey on children,” Griffin continued, squeezing and twisting. “They’ll turn you out like a two dollar whore. You’ll have calluses on your lips. They’ll will wait in line to plow your sloppy white ass, and when making deposits into the Dabney Sperm Bank gets old, they’ll cut your throat and leave you dead on the floor of the shower. Do you get what I’m saying, Dale?”

He wanted to terrify Dabney, and the hot flood of urine that bathed his hand said he’d succeeded. “While you’re wasting my time, that little girl might be fighting to stay alive. So we need to get past this bullshit and see what we can do to save her, don’t you think?” He added a sharp little squeeze for emphasis.

Pasty-white, round-eyed, and slick with sweat, Dabney answered with jerky little nods. Always a danger, barely tethered fury coursed hotly through Griffin’s body.

“Good.” Another small squeeze. “Now, you need to tell me the truth. The kidnapper drove this car. Witnesses got the tag. So either you’re my man, in which case you’d better take me to Tamyra before I tear your balls off, or you loaned this car to the man I want.”

Dabney gave a weak nod. Tears coursed down his face, dripped warmly onto Griffin’s forearm.

“You don’t want anything to happen to that little girl, do you?” Griffin backed off an inch, eased the pressure at throat and crotch.

Dabney shook his head.

“That’s right. You wouldn’t want that. I can see you’re not that kind of man.” Griffin shifted his tone toward compassion. “I think you’ve been dragged into a bad situation by someone who cares nothing about the spot they’ve put you in. Isn’t that right, Dale?”

Terrify him, flay him emotionally, and then throw him some hope. Griffin released the trembling man’s balls but stayed close, sliding his arm from throat to shoulder; a caring gesture.

“Yes! Oh yes! God, I didn’t know!” Dabney wailed, crumpling to his knees. “How could I know? I only want to help--”

You better help, cocksucker.

***

“Allowing these animals to run loose is a crime.” Griffin squinted through the cigarette smoke that curled into his eyes. It was getting dark, but there were no lights in the rambling brick house. “They should be tracked and caged, rules be damned.”

Dabney had coughed up a name, Steven Walker, and admitted lending Walker the Mercury. About Tamyra, nothing. Four hours, now, and Griffin’s nerves were frayed.

“Awful lot of head-doctors disagree,” Wade said in his slow, Coastal-Carolina argot. “They maintain that pedophiles can be treated as successfully as any other mentally disturbed patient.” It was Wade’s nature to defend the point of view opposite Griffin’s, whether it represented his own belief or not.

“That’s bullshit.” Griffin griped. “And those notions of rehabilitation would change if their kids were victims. Pedophiles can’t be rehabbed. They don’t break from their fixations, they just claim to. Do you think they’re gonna tell their touchy-feely shrinks or the parole board that Little Johnny still rings their bells? Of course not. They’re gonna say the treatment worked, they’ve seen the light, realized the wrongness of their actions, and all the other happy horse-shit their therapists want to hear.”

Griffin had no tolerance for pedophiles or those who treated them as less than disgusting predatory monsters. He rubbed his burning eyes. “Switch off?”

“Got it.” Wade picked up his binoculars.

Dabney placed Walker in a late-model Cadillac, and DMV records led to the upscale Ruben Street abode. There was no sign of the car, which could easily be inside the triple garage, and their knocks went unanswered. Griffin argued for a forced entry against the chance Walker had the girl inside, but that proposal was vetoed by the Assistant State Attorney, who wanted to assemble enough information for a search warrant.

While SBI crime scene technicians processed Dabney’s Mercury, hastily assembled teams watched Walker’s business, interviewed his last probation officer, and scrambled to learn all there was to know about Steven Walker.

“You’re not exactly schooled in psychology, Grif.” Wade liked to needle Griffin about his lack of education.

“I don’t need a degree in psychology to understand you can’t flip a switch and change a person’s sexual preference. Heterosexuals prefer the opposite sex. Homosexuals prefer the same sex. Pedophiles have a preference for children, sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes both. That’s not gonna change because they’re told it’s wrong, and people need to wake up to that fact.”

He hated getting into these conversations with Wade, who relished few things more than adding fuel to the fires of Griffin’s anger.

“How do you figure?” Wade smoked as he watched. The inside of the Suburban smelled like an ashtray.

“If I put you in prison and told you it was wrong to have sexual desire for women, but okay to be attracted to men, would it convert you to homosexuality?” He craved coffee, wanted another cigarette, but felt jittery with the stimulants already romping through his system.

“No, and that’s a stupid question.”

Wade sounded annoyed, as if his manhood had been challenged. Despite the frustration tearing his stomach to pieces, it brought a smile to Griffin’s face. The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, wiped away by sobering awareness: time was running out for Tamyra Gamble.

“It’s a legitimate question. You wouldn’t change, even if it meant getting out of prison?”

“No!”

“But would you be willing to say you’d changed, if it would get you back on the street? Because that’s what these people do. They say whatever is necessary, just like you would, but they come out of prison or therapy unchanged. You can’t reshape a person’s sexual orientation, it’s formed too early, so a scumbag’s preference for children isn’t going to disappear.”

Irritated with his weakness, Griffin surrendered to the urge and lit a Marlboro. “The thing to remember is that they look at children in exactly the same way you and I look at women.” The whole situation made Griffin’s head ache, and his eyelid started twitching, a sure sign of agitation.

“You can’t think every one of these assholes act on their fantasies?” Wade seemed intent on continuing. “There are plenty of convicted child-molesters who are married and have children.” His degree was in Law and he loved to argue any point. It often left Griffin wanting to choke the life out of his partner.

“I know they don’t all act on their fantasies. There are plenty of these dirtbags living a facade of normalcy, but all that does is make you wonder about your neighbors. Child predation is so vile it should be a one strike-you’re out offense.”

“That’s not constitutional, Grif. What about Due Process? How many times and in how many ways can we punish someone for the same offense?” Still smoking, he shoved a piece of gum into his mouth.

“Due Process is great if it doesn’t leave predators free to hunt,” Griffin said, a hot ball of anger bouncing around his stomach. “Look, the Feds convicted Walker of distributing child pornography and he got five years probation. North Carolina got him nine years ago on an Indecency collar and he served six months of a two year sentence. Two slaps on the wrist that left him free to hunt. Walker’s been off probation two weeks, and here we are. Where’s the justice?”

Wade opted for a change of subject. “What we’ve got is pretty thin for a search warrant. Walker borrowed a car from Dabney and that car was seen in the vicinity of the abduction. That’s it. Nothing else. Walker’s got a record, but it’s minor compared to many. He has a successful business. Attends church. Continues his counseling. I don’t think it’s enough, compadre.”

“I know it’s him, and you know it, too.” Damn cigarettes. He crushed it out, wished again for coffee.

“I’m only saying it’s an easily defended situation. Dabney said he never saw the girl, and maybe he didn’t. Without that, what have we got?” Eyes on the target, Wade blew a smoke-filled bubble.

“There is gonna be evidence in that car,” Griffin said. “Hair, fingerprints, fibers, Walker’s prints. With that and Dabney’s info, we’ll have enough for the warrant, but by the time we get it, it’ll be too late. We should be inside that place already.”

Still no lights. The house looked deserted.

“Go in without Lewis’ approval and you’ll be unemployed tomorrow.”

Griffin and Robert Lewis, the Assistant State Attorney assigned to handle Special Investigations cases, shared a mutual loathing. Griffin thought Lewis spineless and timid; Lewis made no secret he considered Griffin a heavy-handed cowboy.

“Fuck Lewis.” He could feel the seconds slipping through his fingers.

“He says we need the paper to protect the integrity of the case,” Wade responded serenely. “And of course he wants the glory if Walker pans out.”

“He’s a dumbass. There’s no glory. All there is, is a terrified little girl and us sitting on our asses.” Griffin had no time for politics or glory hounds. “And you know what? I’m done sitting on my ass!” He was out of the Suburban and stalking toward the house before Wade could react.

“Grif!”

Griffin ignored him. Wade caught up, grabbed him by the arm, and spun him for a face to face confrontation.

“Goddammit! You can’t do this!”

“Wade,” Griffin’s words came out quiet and cold, “Lewis okayed a knock and talk.”

“Yeah, and we did one. Nobody answered. He wants a paper now. C’mon, Grif, you go on with this and it’s gonna bite us on the ass.”

“If you were Walker and had that girl in there, would you answer the door? He’s in there.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know Lewis authorized the knock and talk,” Griffin countered. “He never specifically said we couldn’t do more than one.” He stared at Wade for another moment, unwilling to accept his partner’s reluctance, then shook the hand off his arm. “If you’ve got a problem with this, go grab some coffee, but I’m through waiting.”

Wade caught up at the door. “If we get fired I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Griffin smacked his shoulder. “It’s a deal. If we get fired, you can kick my ass.”

Wade looked unhappy, but pounded on the door without further argument. They waited for fifteen seconds before Wade repeated the pounding.

“Did you hear that?” hissed Griffin.

“What? Did I hear what?” Wade’s face contorted as he shifted all focus to his ears.

“I thought I heard something. A squeal, maybe,” Griffin lied.

“A squeal?” Wade turned an ear toward the door. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I did. Give me fifteen seconds, then knock again. I’ll watch the back.” He didn’t wait for a response.

Rear sliding doors opened onto a deck, and as Wade renewed his pounding, Griffin grabbed a wrought-iron deck chair and heaved it through the plate glass without a moment’s hesitation. Glass was still falling when he followed the chair inside.

Long and dark, the mahogany-paneled den held no surprises for Griffin, whose eyes swept the shadows over the top of his Smith & Wesson. Empty. Throwing caution to the wind, he rushed the hallway to his left.

He stopped in the last doorway, his hand found the light switch, and in a fraction of a second darkness surrendered to light. Every detail of that tiny little piece of a moment burned itself into his mind; after all his worry about finding Tamyra, she was in the first place he looked, the master bedroom.