Forever Man (19 page)

The ride to the Sallinen house was tense. Next to Izzy, Gene shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pulling on his safety restraint as he tried to ease the pressure on his back. Seated behind him, Katie appeared smaller, burdened by her grieving. Sitting beside the girl, Bart’s brown face was serene, his eyes closed, as if facing such perils were as mundane as breathing.

Izzy rolled down her car window and let the crisp autumn air wash over her face. She’d hoped the cool breeze would help clear her head; instead, it made her feel brittle. Her cell phone vibrated and she answered it.

“I’m in place,” said Sten. She’d sent the burly detective ahead in an unmarked car. He should be a few houses east of the Sallinen residence.

“See anything?” Izzy asked.

“Nope,” he answered. “No activity at the house. No cars out front. Street’s quiet.”

“Start making your way to the back of the house.”

“I might be seen.”

“I know. Be careful.”

Several seconds passed before Sten spoke again. “Chief, there’s still time to do this right. Get some backup. Secure the area. And I don’t like that we’re risking civilians.”

“Understood,” Izzy said. She wanted to explain herself to her friend, but her doubts were too numerous to contemplate right now. “Make your way around and cover the rear of the house. I’ll be there soon and take the front.”

She could hear his sigh over the phone. “All right. See you in a few.”

Izzy hung up. She turned east on Ryanwood. A gust of wind sent a patch of crimson leaves swirling around the car like a warning.

About a hundred feet west of Jack Sallinen’s house, she pulled to the curb and killed the engine. She had taken the other unmarked car. No sense advertising what they were doing.

Sten’s car sat three blocks down, looking inconspicuous with a scattering of dead leaves dusting the Buick’s hood. He must have tossed a handful of them over it, making it look like it’d been there a while. The man liked to be thorough.

He was right: the street was quiet. No cars coming from the east, and a glance in her side view mirror revealed more of the same to the west. Maybe she’d finally caught a break.

Unbuckling her seat belt, Izzy turned to face the others. Gene regarded her with quiet confidence, his face still hinting at the pain in his back. Katie’s wounded look made her want to wince. But neither one shied away from her steady gaze.

Bart Owens had opened his eyes; the certitude she saw in them left her conflicted. The man was an enigma and therefore shouldn’t be trusted, yet every instinct told her to believe in him. She hoped he would measure up to the task.

“Okay,” Izzy said, “here’s how we’re going to run this. You three stay here until Sten and I have had a chance to check out the house. Once we’ve secured the area, I’ll call you in. Until then, you’re not to leave this car for any reason. Understood?”

All three nodded in agreement.

“Good,” she continued. “Gene, once I leave I want you to move into the driver’s seat. If you hear any gunfire, or if you think the situation’s getting out of hand, I want you to go. Take the others and go back to the station. Same goes for anyone pulling up at the house. Just leave.”

Gene nodded. “I won’t let anyone get hurt.”

Izzy got out of the car. With her eyes locked on Jack’s house, she hurried across the street. The cold whipped around her, biting at her exposed hands and face, lifting the dry, moldy scent of dead leaves to her nose. The air tasted stale.

No movement.

Not at the house.

Not on the street.

Nothing.

When she reached the other side of Ryanwood, she stopped. She eased the Glock from its holster. Bravado may get people killed, but so did plain stupidity, like walking unarmed into a potentially dangerous situation. Holding the weapon near her cheek, the barrel pointed toward the sky like a benediction, she slowly approached the Sallinen house.

Weather had stripped most of the foliage from the two oaks guarding the front of Jack’s property. The remaining leaves fluttered like tattered bits of cloth on a pair of scarecrows. Early morning frost had started to kill off the delicate tea roses lining the front of the colonial, their pink and amber petals curling to a pulpy brown around the edges. The blinds on the lower level windows had been drawn. Her eyes rose to the second floor. White lace curtains could be seen behind two sets of double-hung windows. She paused for a few moments but nothing stirred behind them.

Izzy began to wonder if anyone was home.

Step by step, she eased her way up the walkway to the front door. Her heart hammered hard against her breastbone. Adrenaline raced through her, charging her nerves, sharpening her hearing.

She listened at the door. Nothing.

Izzy grasped the brass doorknob. The cold metal stung her skin. Slowly,
slowly
, she turned her hand. Expecting to meet resistance, she was surprised when the door cracked open.

A man like Jack Sallinen would have expensive tastes. A house full of treasures. The door wouldn’t be unlocked unless someone was home.

Damn
.

She was committed now. Izzy pushed the door open and stepped inside. No alarm went off, though there was a security keypad on the wall next to the door.

Someone
had
to be here.

In the dim, grainy light seeping through the shades, Izzy saw an empty living room on her left. A half-full glass of milk and a paper plate sat on the coffee table in front of a leather sofa. Above the fireplace on the southern wall hung a large screen television; it played some children’s cartoon show, the volume turned all the way down. A scattering of crayons and drawing paper littered the carpet.

A narrow hallway with hardwood floors led further into the home. A stairway beckoned her to the second floor. The kids’ rooms were likely up there. To her right was a set of closed French doors with frosted glass panes. Through the glass’s opacity she saw more blinds. The handle had a locking mechanism and dead bolt. The room practically screamed “private.”

Jack’s office?

Her phone vibrated. She ignored it. Likely it was Sten wanting to know where she was. She advanced a few more steps down the hallway, the heels of her flats clicking loudly against the parquet wood inlays. She passed the stairway and glanced up, expecting to see Jack’s angry face glaring down at her from the second story hallway.

Nothing.

She moved far enough to look into the kitchen at the end of the hall, then the dining room adjacent to Jack’s office. Both were empty.

A shadow passed behind her.

The creak of a floorboard.

Shit—

Izzy spun, the Glock whipping around as she aimed at the dark shape silhouetted by the light coming from the open front door.

“Chief, it’s me.”

Sten Billick.

Izzy removed her finger from the trigger and brought the gun back up near her face. “Damn it, Sten. I could’ve shot you!”

He stepped toward her. His blue nylon jacket was open at the neck, and she could see the edges of his Kevlar vest. “Anything?”

Izzy shook her head. “The door was unlocked and the alarm wasn’t set. The television is on. Somebody must be here.”

“But you haven’t heard anything?”

“Not a whisper.”

“Might as well get this over with,” Sten said. In a louder voice: “Police! Anybody home?”

The silence was complete.

“Okay,” Izzy said. “Go check the upstairs.”

She stayed downstairs while Sten explored the second floor.

“Nobody’s here,” he said as he came down the stairs. “But I found Kevin’s room. His dresser drawers are open. And his closet. Looks like he might be missing a few clothes. And there was a scuffle as well. A chair’s knocked over. Some of his drawings ripped up.”

Izzy’s shoulders sagged as she holstered her gun.

“We’re too late,” she said. “They’ve got Kevin.”

They’d gathered in the Sallinen’s living room. Izzy stood by the fireplace, her hopes battered again. Gene hovered nearby, arms crossed, as if he dared Izzy to blame herself for what had happened. Katie, the only one familiar with the home, had turned off the television, taken the milk glass and paper plate into the kitchen, and returned to sit on the sofa, where she’d fallen silent. Owens had placed himself midway between Katie and Gene, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, the other rubbing absently at something under his Predators sweatshirt. Next to the old man, Sten Billick wrote with precise lines in his notebook, facts—or perhaps facts as he
wanted
to remember them—which would be used later in his report.

“Don’t do this,” Gene said to Izzy. “Don’t blame yourself for everything that’s happened. It’s unfair to you, and it’s unfair to the people counting on you.”

Izzy turned to him. “I’ve been playing catch-up since this whole thing started. Natalie’s still missing. I’ve still got some twisted killer running loose. And now Kevin’s gone.” Frustration burned in her stomach like acid. “I’ve gotten exactly nowhere.”

Gene said, “What more could you have done? You learned about Webber
and
Jack’s involvement. Then there’s Denny and Chet and whatever role they’re playing. And with his help”—he pointed to Owens—“you’ve started putting the pieces together. It’s only a matter of time before you figure this out.”

“You don’t understand,” said Izzy angrily. “You’re not a parent. Natalie’s out there, and I don’t even know if she’s alive or dead. Kevin might’ve been able to help, but I was too late—again.” She turned her back on him, and repeated, “I’ve gotten exactly nowhere.”

“Maybe this is too much for you,” Owens said with unexpected bluntness.

She rounded on the black man. “You know this Webber. Do
you
have any idea where he took Kevin?”

Owens shook his head. “No. Besides, isn’t that your job?”

Her anger rising, she strode past Gene and up to Owens. His placid expression, which she’d envied minutes ago, now seemed arrogant, the teardrop-shaped mark on his cheek full of false empathy.

“You’re part of this,” she said furiously. “You and Webber. Ever since the two of you got here, people have either gone missing or died. I know you could’ve easily told me what was going on, but you had to play games instead. Now the only link to finding my daughter is gone. You really are a son of a bitch, you know that.”

Bart Owens’ stony demeanor hadn’t changed. “You’re looking for the easy answers, Chief Morris, and in life there aren’t any. The world’s bigger and far more dangerous than you know. It’s a place where innocents die and the guilty go free just as often as the other way around. There’s no changing that.” His gaze intensified. “You want some honesty? How about this: if you ever want a chance at finding daughter, you’d better grow up fast. Feeling sorry for yourself won’t do it.”

Stung by his rebuke, she did something that surprised even her—she slapped him. And when she did, pain flared up her arm, setting her nerves on fire. She bit back a scream and pulled her arm to her chest, cradling it like she would an injured child. But the unexpected agony had shocked the rage out of her. She watched as Owens nodded, an affirmation that she was back in control.

“Don’t worry,” Bart said. “I’ve had worse than a slap in the face before. More to the point, are you okay?”

“You did that on purpose,” said Gene, pointing an accusing finger at Owens. “You goaded her. She’s already under enough stress, and you added to it.”

“No,” said Izzy as she rubbed the pain from her arm. “It’s okay. He did the right thing. I—I needed to get that out.”

Gene peered at her for a moment, then mumbled, “I still don’t have to like it.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Katie.

“Find Kevin,” said Sten Billick. “We don’t have any other leads.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Katie from her spot on the sofa. Her brow was furrowed in concentration. “I just remembered something.”

“What?” Izzy asked the girl.

“Yesterday,” she replied. “When I was here with J.J..” She rose and began to walk, her fingers lightly touching the furniture as she passed by. “We snuck into his dad’s office.” Words started to spill out of her in an excited rush. “He broke into one of his dad’s desk drawers, thinking he’d find booze. But he found something else instead. I don’t know what.” She headed for the French doors Izzy had seen earlier. “In here,” she said, placing the palm of her hand against the frame. “J.J. found something that scared him.” She turned to the others. “I wonder if it’s still in there.”

Izzy, Gene, Katie and Bart stood at Jack’s massive oak desk. Sten Billick, who’d made quick work of the lock and deadbolt, hovered near the office’s open door.

“I was over there,” Katie said with a gesture, “standing near that creepy painting. J.J. said he’d gotten the drawer open. Then he just freaked. Wouldn’t tell me what he found. Then he practically ran me out of the house.”

Izzy ran her finger along the damaged top edge of a drawer. “This one’s been forced open.” She grabbed the burnished metal handle and slowly pulled the drawer open.

Empty.

“Damn,” she said, and began opening the other drawers. Inside the lower right one, she discovered a small, gray metal box with a steel lock fasten to the hasp. She pulled it out and set it on the top of the desk. The metal on the box was covered with scratches, as if someone had been working at it with something sharp. The lock looked new.

Gene batted at the lock with a finger. “Anyone here love a good mystery?”

They were all focused on the metal box to the exclusion of anything else, which explained their slow reactions when they heard the front door open and Jack Sallinen’s voice came booming from the other room.

“We’ll just get Kevin and—hey, what the hell are
you
doing in my house?”

For a moment no one moved, then Izzy saw Sten turn, his hand going for his gun. But his movements were too slow and too late.

The thunderous blast of a single gunshot roared through the house.

Sten Billick’s body spun around, blood spraying in a wet pattern along the office wall. The detective continued to twist as he fell, landing heavily on the carpet, his left arm trapped under his body.