and slipped into a deeper sleep.
His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard that name in nearly twenty years.
He backed up and sat down in the recliner again, and sent a text to one of the other detectives in Homicide.
Run a background check on Quinn O’Meara. Get license tag info off her Harley. It’s in police impound. Send it to my phone.
Then he put the shoulder holster back on over the scrub shirt and leaned back in the chair to wait. Thirty minutes turned into an hour as he drifted in and out of sleep, awakened occasionally by the sound of Quinn’s mumbling and crying.
When his phone finally signaled a text, he scrolled through the information quickly. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. He leaped to his feet, looking down at Quinn in disbelief.
“Oh, my God! Queenie!”
She was crying in her sleep again.
He stroked her cheek, then wiped the tears.
“Queenie?”
She sobbed, still caught in whatever nightmare she was having.
“Nicks is gone,” she murmured.
“Oh, my God, my little Queenie. What happened to you after they took me away?”
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