turned to her and the man who’d reluctantly helped by giving up his coat.
By the time the paramedics had taken Wanda away in the waiting ambulance and the police had gone with a warning that there would likely be additional questions, Victoria was freezing. “Thank you,” she said to the man whose name she couldn’t immediately call to mind.
“I’m just sorry you had to ask for my help.” He shook his head and offered a bewildered shrug. “You see these things on the news … in the movies …” He shook his head again. “But you never expect to be the one …”
“You reacted commendably,” Victoria assured him before he trudged away. She surveyed the sidewalks where those who’d stood by watching now went on about the business of hurrying to their destinations.
When, she wondered, had helping one’s fellow-man become more a spectator’s sport than a call to action?
She peered at the bloody snow where the victim had lain, then up at the sky. Victoria closed her eyes and let the falling snow sting her cold cheeks. Who was this woman? This Wanda Larkin?
Was the incident related to a custody battle?
Or was this something far more sinister?
Either way … a child was missing.
Whatever the motive behind the act—Victoria shifted her gaze to the building where her staff waited—the Colby Agency would find the missing child.
And the man responsible for this unthinkable tragedy.
Chapter Two
Humboldt Park, 3:30 p.m. (2 hours missing)
Trinity Barrett surveyed the block surrounding the apartment building where Wanda Larkin lived. Jim Colby reached for the unsecured door leading into the building. Trinity followed his boss inside the dingy stairwell. The wails of an infant somewhere above the first floor were underscored by at least one blaring television. A woman shouting at someone who had evidently made her unhappy drowned out the rest of the cacophony.
Jim studied the row of mailboxes on the wall to the left of the entry door. “Third floor, 306.”
Wanda Larkin had given them the street address, but the apartment number she’d murmured had been inaudible.
Three flights of stairs later, Trinity approached Larkin’s apartment first. A metal number six identified the unit.
Jim held up a hand for Trinity to wait as he moved to the right side of the door and knocked loudly.
No response from the interior. No distinguishable sound.
Prompted by Jim’s second round of knocking, somewhere on the fourth floor a dog barked.
Jim nodded his approval and Trinity reached for the doorknob.
Technically they were entering unlawfully, but the woman had given her address when Jim asked—which could be loosely construed as authorization to enter the premises. The cops hadn’t arrived just yet, which meant Trinity and Jim would need to proceed with caution. Tampering with evidence could impede the investigation as well as get them in serious hot water with the authorities.
The latch released with nothing more than a single turn of the knob. Trinity pushed the door inward and drew back, staying to the left and clear of the opening.
Seconds ticked by with no reaction.
Jim moved into the doorway, then entered the apparently deserted apartment.
Trinity followed.
The place was neat and clean despite the worn-out furnishings.
No sign of a struggle.
The scent of recently baked cookies permeated the air. A small Christmas tree sat on the table in one corner, the decorations mostly homemade.
Jim headed for the small hall that likely led to the bedrooms and bath. Trinity moved around the living room. A couple of framed photos sat on a table in front of the window overlooking the unkempt street. No curtains, just the open slats of yellowed blinds.
Trinity picked up a photo of the woman, Wanda Larkin, and a small girl, six or seven years old, maybe. Cute kid with blond hair and brown eyes like her mother. His chest tightened at the idea that the child may have been harmed … or worse. He picked up another framed photo, this one probably taken at school. Her name, Lily, was stamped in gold lettering across the bottom of the photo. Using his cell phone, he snapped a close-up of the photo.
“Two bedrooms, one bath,” Jim announced as he strode back into the room. “All are clean. If there’s been any trouble here, there’s no indication.”
Trinity passed the framed photo of Lily to his boss. “I’ll check the kitchen.”
The kitchen was actually a part of the living room, the two spaces divided only by a breakfast bar. A plate of cookies decorated for Christmas sat on the counter. The little girl’s artwork and more photos were displayed on the fridge.
Lily. Trinity touched the name scrawled on a pink piece of construction paper, then traced the cut-and-pasted Christmas tree the child had drawn. An innocent child … that was now in danger.
He shook off the troubling thoughts and focused on the details. Fridge and cabinets were painfully bare of provisions. Clearly the mother struggled financially, but the cleanliness of the apartment as well as the Christmas decorations and cookies indicated how hard she tried. A schedule printed on computer paper was taped to the side of the fridge. Trinity studied the document.
“She works at Mercy General,” Trinity said aloud. The schedule gave no indication of the position she held, only the hours scheduled to work each day.
Jim joined him in the kitchen. “She scheduled to work today? “
Trinity shook his head. “Tomorrow afternoon.” The numerous night shifts made him wonder who kept the girl, Lily, while her mother worked.
“I’m calling the police!”
Trinity and Jim turned simultaneously. An elderly woman waved a cordless phone receiver in her right hand while sporting what appeared to be a can of pepper spray in the left.
Jim’s hands went up surrender style. “No need to call the police, ma’am,” he assured her. “We’re from the Colby Agency. We’re here to help Ms. Larkin.”
Trinity lifted his hands in the same fashion. “Are you a neighbor of Ms. Larkin’s?”
The woman pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “If you’re here to help her, why isn’t she here, too?” she demanded, promptly ignoring Trinity’s question. “Since she’s not, that means you’re here illegally.”
Unfortunately, Trinity considered, the lady had a valid point.
“I’m Jim Colby,” Jim explained, “and this is my colleague Trinity Barrett.” Jim gestured to his coat. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll gladly show you my ID.”
The
