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"Savea!" my voice bellowed into my apartment, knowing immediately she was gone, feeling the churning sickness in my stomach at that realization.
It wasn't like she had come to find me and forgot to set the code, or Nixon had shown up and didn't do it either.
No.
Because even as my body was charging through my place, screaming her name, I could hear them.
Sirens.
The alarm company had called the NBPD.
I was about to be swarmed, inundated with questions.
But I couldn't find a way to think about that, about how I would explain without hindering my own investigation.
All I could think about was Savea.
What she had felt.
If she had screamed for me, sure I would come to save her, only to fail.
Only to have her be taken.
"Rivers!" a voice called, screamed over the ear-splitting alarm as my eyes fell on the overturned coffee table, the suspicious red stain on the edge.
My stomach clenched.
Suddenly, the ringing stopped, surprising me enough to shock me out of my thoughts, my worries, to find Nixon standing there, eyes keen, knowing without having to be told exactly what happened.
"You need to put a BOLO out," I demanded, turning to look at Detective Lloyd, someone I had dealt with too many times to count in conjunction with many of my cases. I had always found him fair, passionate about causes that harmed someone too weak to defend themselves, people who the justice system he had devoted his life to, failed.
Lloyd was somewhere in his late thirties if I had to guess, tall, lean, dark-haired, a little rough in the eyes, but if you looked, you could find kindness there, a soft spot he was careful not to let others exploit if the cause was not noble enough.
"On who?" he asked, already reaching for a pad.
"Savea Saiza," I told him, charging through my apartment, finding my phone.
"Is she missing?"
"She was just kidnapped," I declared. "Two or three men. Dark hair and eyes is all I know. They have been looking for her for a while. I don't have time to tell you about it. Nixon..." I demanded, jerking my chin at him.
"I got it. Go."
"I am guessing I shouldn't ask where," Lloyd murmured, knowing that some parts of my business required things that skirted the line of lawfulness, and being in his job long enough to know that sometimes things like that were required to bring about results. So he looked the other way.
"Nix," I turned back.
"Yeah?"
"Get Atlas to take care of the animals," I told him.
"Savea would hand us all our balls if we didn't," he agreed, already reaching for his cell as I turned, ran out, knowing someone would show up, take care of Padfoot. It was the major perk of a large family used to needing to close ranks, band together when it was needed. Someone always had your back, got your mail, shoveled your walkways. You never had to worry. You rarely had to ask.
Jumping in my car, I drove around town once, looking for her, desperate to be the one to swoop in and save the day. Before anything worse could possibly happen to her.
God.
I didn't even know who these people were associated with. I didn't know their code. I didn't know if they were the types with morals. Of sorts. The kind who might kidnap to make a point, but wouldn't hurt the women. Or if they were the worse sort, the more common sort, the ones who would take the opportunity to do whatever they wanted to the women they had in their custody.
My stomach twisted, bile rising up my throat at the idea.
It was useless to drive around.
If I wanted to find her, I had to find Harry.
If I wanted to find Harry, I needed to go back to his place, look for anything I might have overlooked before.
Records, receipts.
I had to pore over them, find if there was any direction in particular he went in. For vacations. Or, more likely, hideaways from his problems.
Harry's place was what you might think a guy who spent his life shirking his responsibilities, spitting on his family legacy, and likely never getting laid - ever - looked like.
It was small and sparse, the living room dominated by a hideous faux leather lounge chair flanked at one side with a rickety table, the other with a giant Igloo cooler. Because he was too lazy to get up to get another drink when he ran out. The TV was respectably large, if a few years old. The kitchen had a pile of takeaway napkins instead of dish rags or paper towels. The bedroom had a queen bed, mismatching sheets and blankets twisted and smelling of unwashed flesh.
There was nothing soft, nothing to warm the place up. No air fresheners to make it smell less like armpits, feet, and unwashed clothes.
