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“Where’re we going?”
“To the Blanchets’ home.”
The idea had come to him an hour earlier as he’d sifted through the paperwork on the case and tried to put himself in Isaiah Wiley’s position. If he had nowhere else, where would he go? Home to his mother. Would Isaiah do the same thing, even if his “mother” wasn’t there anymore?
“It’s a long shot, but worth looking into.”
“We’re with you, boss man,” Gonzo said, earning an eye roll from Freddie.
Gonzo was the boss whenever the two of them were together, and everyone knew it.
Freddie appreciated everyone deferring to him as the detective in charge of the investigation, but he’d be happy to get back to normal, where he was just a detective with Sam and Gonzo telling him what to do.
He’d already obtained the entry code from Lieutenant Haggerty with Crime Scene. They put a lockbox on the door of each place they investigated until the property was returned to the owners. He wondered who would own the home now that the Blanchets and their children were deceased. Probably Marcel’s mother.
Freddie directed Gonzo to park a block from the house. “Let’s fan out and see if there’s any sign of someone inside.”
They had radios with earpieces to keep in contact with one another as they moved around the perimeter.
“I see a TV flickering at the back of the house,” Matt reported.
Freddie and Gonzo went to take a look.
Adrenaline coursed through Freddie at having followed a hunch that might possibly have led them to their missing man.
“What’s the plan?” Gonzo asked.
Before Freddie could answer him, a door opened in the lower part of the house, and a person stepped outside. The spark of a lighter illuminated his face and confirmed his identity. A minute later, the scent of marijuana wafted over to where they were standing.
“Is it really gonna be this easy?” Freddie asked in a whisper.
“Looks like it,” Gonzo said.
“You guys go around to the other side,” Freddie said. “Let’s meet in the middle.”
When they were in position, Gonzo said, “Ready,” into the radio.
“Let’s go,” Freddie replied.
With his weapon drawn, he stuck close to the shrubbery to stay hidden until the last possible second.
The young man was surrounded by cops before he knew what hit him. He put his hands in the air, one of them still holding the joint.
“Put that out,” Freddie said.
Isaiah extinguished the blunt in an ashtray he’d obviously used before.
“I didn’t hurt them,” he said. “I loved them.”
“Let’s go inside and have a chat,” Freddie said, directing him toward the door with his weapon.
They followed him into a spacious basement and turned on the light to find that someone was obviously living there. Clothes were strewn about, fast-food containers were on the coffee table and sneakers on the floor. Isaiah was about six feet tall with broad shoulders and a handsome face. He was mixed race with light brown skin, brown eyes and curly dark hair. He had matured significantly since the boy he’d been in the photo Freddie had been given.
“How long have you been here?” Freddie asked.
“On and off for years.”
“What?” Freddie asked. “We were told your adoption was voided years ago.”
