by Hunt, James
Stuffing from pillows and cushions covered the floor, and furniture and tables were flipped to their sides and broken. Broken glass from picture frames and a mirror sprinkled the floor, and Grant picked up a few of the pictures that had been discarded.
One was from a trail here in the woods. Another was taken at the front door of the house. There were a couple from their trips to Main Street, most likely from their first week in town, but as Grant flipped through the photos on display, he noticed one glaring consistency: they were all recent.
Most family homes were adorned with family pictures that stretched into the past of both parents and documented their lineage from birth. But there was no such documentation of the Dunnys. In fact, the only older picture that Grant found was of Anna when she was a baby, being held by her father as they both slept.
But there were no photos of family vacations, gatherings, or signs that the Dunnys had lived anywhere but here in Deville. It was as if their family had just been put together six months ago at the snap of a finger.
Grant set the photos down and then moved into the kitchen, which was in similar disarray. Cabinets and drawers were open, their contents spilled and smashed onto the tile. Grant skirted the broken plates and glasses and the torn-open bags of food and dented soup cans and made his way back out into the hallway, which dumped him near the back door, where he found another evidence marker.
Grant shone the light on another clustered blood splatter, the drops of crimson most likely coming from a puncture wound, which explained the blood Grant had seen on Bandit’s muzzle. The dog had attacked one of the intruders, which meant that at least one suspect was sporting a wound, most likely on a hand, forearm, or calf. He made a mental note to check any recent hospital admissions.
He examined the back door, finding no signs of forced entry, unlike the front door, and then turned his attention to the master bedroom, on his right-hand side.
Inside, Grant saw three suitcases on the bed. When he opened the first one, he found clothes, toiletries, and a wad of cash. The clothes were neatly folded, the bag meticulously organized. If the attack happened as quickly as he thought it did, the family wouldn’t have been able to put together a bag this nice that quickly, which meant they were packed prior to the abduction. But what they needed a quick to-go bag for eluded him.
Grant returned to the hallway, shining the light toward the front door, visualizing what happened. He saw the headlights of a car approach, Charles and Mary got spooked, and they got out their bags. It was most likely late, since Grant had found Anna in her pajamas, which meant that the mom probably went to the room to pick her up.
With the front door locked, it gave them some time to grab their stuff, and judging from the bloodstains near the back door, Grant thought it looked as if both parents were subdued while Bandit provided enough time for Anna to sprint out into the woods and hide.
The abductors hadn’t spent a lot of time searching for her, which meant they were on a time crunch. And with the way the house was turned upside down, they looked more preoccupied with searching for something that the Dunnys owned. But what it was and whether they found it was another matter.
Lastly, Grant stepped into Anna’s room, finding it in the same messy condition as the rest of the house. Toys and stuffed animals were scattered about, the bedsheets thrown across the room and the mattress flipped up against the wall. Whatever these people were looking for, they wanted it badly.
The beam of light crossed a flash of pink, and Grant backtracked, illumining a pink elephant among one of the piles of toys. It was the stuffed animal that Anna slept with. He reached for it and tucked it under his arm then turned to leave.
Back at the front door, Grant turned up the staircase. He made it one step up when a pair of headlights flashed outside.
On instinct, Grant turned off the flashlight and sprinted down the hallway, staying quiet on his toes, and slipped out the back. He wandered into the forest and then circled back around to the road, where he spied the sheriff’s cruiser parked out front.
They’d probably come to pick up a few of Anna’s things, considering how quickly they escorted her over to the hospital. The DCF worker who’d been assigned to her case most likely requested it.
Grant stared down at the pink elephant and then looked back at the sheriff’s cruiser. Tomorrow, he’d go to the nearest DCF office and pay Anna a little visit.
* * *
Grant drained his coffee on his drive up to Chester. After his walkthrough at the Dunnys’ house, he didn’t get much sleep. Bandit rode shotgun, yawning as much as Grant did, then blinked sleepily and curled up on the seat, resting his head on the center console.
Grant set the empty cup in a spare holder and then reached for his notepad on the dash. All of his scribbling from last night had been vomited onto the page, and he’d gone over it repeatedly. He had some broad working theories but nothing concrete. He was hoping that would change after his visit with Anna.
If Grant could just talk to the girl, he might be able to figure out what she knew. Kids were more intuitive and observant than adults gave them credit for. He was amazed at the number of times he solved a case based off him questioning children. There was an art to it that most detectives didn’t understand. Grant wasn’t sure how he inherited the gene, but he was glad he did.
Bandit panted heavily, and Grant rolled the window down. The dog immediately thrust his head outside, sniffing the air all the way to their destination. But when they arrived at the DCF building in Chester, Grant was forced to put the leash on him, which Bandit didn’t appreciate.
“Hey, if you want to see Anna, you’ll have to cooperate,” Grant said. “Got it?”
The dog licked him in response, and Grant took that as a yes. Grant adjusted the tie on his neck, feeling restricted. He hadn’t dressed like this since his detective days, but he wanted to look the part. It’d make it easier for him to see Anna that way.
A quick flash of his old badge got him past the guard at the front and granted Bandit entry, and while he turned a few heads on their way to the reception desk, no one paid him much attention. The receptionist at the front desk, however, was a different matter.
Grant flashed his badge and then quickly put it away. “I need to speak with the case worker in charge of Anna Dunny.”
The receptionist was a young woman, slightly overweight, with more makeup than she needed. She pointed a long, fake acrylic nail at the dog. “Animals aren’t allowed in here.”
“It’s a service dog, ma’am,” Grant said. “It’s for the girl.”
The receptionist, who wore a name tag labeling her as Sandy Quinton and a plastic smile, reached for her phone, turning away as she spoke, her whispering not boding well for Grant’s visit. She turned back, hung up the phone, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any child in our system with that name.”
Bandit pulled on the leash, jolting Grant’s arm back toward the exit doors. “This is the closest DCF station from where the girl was picked up. If she’s not here, then where was she dropped off?”
Sandy Quinton shrugged then frowned, her eyes forming narrow, suspicious slits. “What department are you with again? Detective?”
Before the woman could ask any more questions, Grant snatched a pamphlet off her desk. “I’ll check with my CO.” He didn’t look back on his exit, and Bandit moved happily back to the car.
Grant tried to remember if he’d misheard what the deputy had told him the day before. But the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that the officer told him she was being handed over to DCF.
Once he was back at the car, Grant let Bandit inside and then retrieved the card that the deputy had given him. He dialed the number and was connected with the station’s reception unit.
“Sheriff’s department, how can I help you?” The voice on the other end of the line spoke with a practiced empathy that accompanied a mechanical efficiency that she had no doubt mastered over the course of
one million calls.
“I need to speak with Deputy Sizemore,” Grant said.
After a pause and a few clicks on the line from being transferred, the deputy answered. “This is Sizemore.” Unlike the receptionist, the deputy provided no practiced empathy, and from the muddy sound in his voice, he must have just bitten into a sandwich.
“Deputy, this is Det— Chase Grant,” he said. “I spoke with you yesterday in regards to Anna Dunny.”
Sizemore paused, either to swallow or to try and gather his thoughts. “Uh-huh.”
“I brought her dog to the DCF building over in Chester, but the woman I spoke with told me that there was no Anna Dunny in her system. Is she still in custody with you at the station?”
The second pause lasted longer than the first. “Mr. Grant, I appreciate the concern in regards to the little girl, and if you need someone to take care of the animal, I can send over a deputy to pick it up, but right now I’m not at liberty to—”
Grant hung up. He knew the rest of the phrase. He’d repeated it enough himself to reporters or any time he needed a quick out to avoid further questions. He turned to Bandit, scratching behind the dog’s ear. “What was your family up to?”
But the animal only inched across the front seat and gave Grant a hearty lick across his face. “Not much of a witness, are you?” Grant stared at his phone, unsure if he should make his next call. But that itch needed to be scratched.
Grant dialed the number, unsure if she would even answer. And when she did, Grant felt something that he hadn’t felt since the last case he worked: hesitation.
“Hey, Grant,” Mocks said.
“Hey, I need you to look up a name for me.”
“What’s the case number?”
Grant paused. “It’s not for one of the cold cases.” And then he braced for what came next.
“Grant, we’ve been over this,” Mocks said. “Part of the agreement I have with the commissioner on you working these cases is that you only work these cases. I can’t be running background checks for you on a whim.”
“There was a break-in on my street,” Grant said, staring at Bandit, who had lain down in the passenger seat, resting his muzzle between his paws. “Parents were either abducted or killed, leaving behind their little girl. I’m getting the runaround with the sheriff’s department.”
“Yeah, because you’re not a cop anymore.”
“It’s something else, something bigger than that.”
“Grant, you need to—”
“She’s five, Mocks. She’s a five-year-old little girl whose family has been missing well over twenty-four hours, which means the odds of finding them have plummeted to nearly zero.” Grant shut his eyes, rubbing his forehead and trying to calm himself down. “You know how shitty the system is for kids. It’s bloated and overweight, and it can’t handle the influx it’s received over the past decade.”
Mocks sighed, the anxiety prevalent even over the phone. “You’re going to cause me to go into early labor, you know that?”
Grant smirked. “Well, I know how much you want to get that baby out of there.”
“What’s the name?”
“Charles Dunny.”
“I’ll run it, but I’m only giving you the information that’s nonessential.”
“Thanks, Mocks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’ll call you when I know more.”
The call ended, and Grant turned back to Bandit, giving him another pat. “Don’t worry, bud. We’ll find her.”
But the dog only yawned, leaving Grant to ponder what was going on by himself. The receptionist could have been lying to her, but that was not what his gut was telling him. She genuinely looked as if she’d never heard that name. And with the deputy giving him the runaround, it only solidified his suspicions. Hopefully, Mocks would be able to find something. Grant started the car, and after three tries, he finally headed back to Deville.
5
Officers buzzed around the hive that was Seattle’s Eighteenth. It was a flurry of activity—ringing phones, bookings, interviews, and interrogations. The department was a living, breathing organism that had survived in the city for decades, and it would continue to thrive long after Mocks was gone. All she tried to do was make sure it functioned at a high enough capacity to not be a burden to the city’s taxpayers.
Lieutenant Susan Mullocks sat at her desk, her door open and providing her the daily soundtrack of her unit. There wasn’t anyone in the department left to call her Mocks—only Grant still did that. She was known only as Lieutenant now.
Even after holding the position for a year, she still felt odd about being addressed as such. She remembered her time as a detective and how she had always sneered at anyone who chose a desk. But perspectives changed as you grew older. And after her conversation with Rick last year when they finally decided to try and have a kid, she knew that she couldn’t work the streets forever. So when the lieutenant’s position opened in her department, she threw her hat in the ring, never thinking she’d actually be considered as a serious candidate. She was surprised to find out that she was wrong.
But since her severance from Grant over four years ago, she’d developed her own reputation as a detective. It took some time to escape his shadow, but once she fell into a rhythm of finishing cases and recovering missing persons, she started casting her own shadow.
Still, after Grant was dismissed from the department and she was assigned a new partner, she never found that same dynamic that she had with Grant. Aside from her and Rick deciding to have kids, Mocks knew that the other big reason for her move to the desk was her work life. She still loved the work, but when Grant left, it just wasn’t the same.
Mocks reached for the box of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts on her desk, her eyes trained on the stack of reports she needed to get through before the end of the day. Her fingers snatched the last pair in the box, and she ripped open the package then rested one of the Pop-Tarts on her stomach and took a large bite out of the one in her hand.
Crumbs fell on her chest, adding to the pile from the previous snacks. Mocks had reached the point in her pregnancy where she no longer cared what she looked like. Not that she needed much of a push to get there in the first place, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the “pregnancy excuse.”
Mocks ignored the knock at her door, placing the rest of the strawberry pastry in her mouth as she composed an email.
“Lieutenant?”
“What?” Mocks typed quickly, her attention still focused on her computer screen.
Officer Lane stepped inside, sheepishly ducking his head as he approached her desk. He was a greenhorn, but he worked hard and had a good head on his shoulders. He was a traffic cop, but when he was on desk duty, Mocks had him double as an assistant for the detectives. She believed he had a future on the beat.
“I ran that name you requested in the database,” Lane answered.
“Oh, right,” Mocks said, holding out one hand but keeping the other to type. But when Lane never handed her anything, she finally looked at him. “Well, where is it?”
“There is no Charles Dunny in the system.”
“I don’t need a criminal check. It’s for a civilian—”
“I know,” Lane said. “There is no Charles Dunny, no Chuck Dunny, or any variation of the name that was close enough to count.”
Mocks leaned back in her seat, her eyes drifting away from Lane and to a random patch of carpet as she furrowed her brow. Grant wouldn’t have given her a fake name on purpose, and he wouldn’t have made up a story about a family kidnapping.
“Lieutenant?” Lane asked. “Are you all right?”
Mocks nodded, unconsciously moving her hands to her stomach. “That’ll be all, Officer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lane straightened up and turned on his heel, disappearing into the bustle of the precinct.
Mocks kept quiet for a moment, lightly rocking back and forth in the chair, rubbing her stomach. She eyed the
top drawer to her left and then opened it. She reached inside, pushing past the paperclips, pens, and other stationery until she felt its familiar shape and pulled it out.
A green Bic lighter rested in her palm. It had been given to her by Grant after he’d lost her last one. She used to flick that thing from a nervous tic, a symptom of a past that had long since been buried. She hadn’t needed it since she found out she was pregnant. It just didn’t seem important anymore.
But while Mocks had been able to bury the past and move on, she knew that her old partner was still struggling. Sure, he could talk about Ellen now, even bring up the case that ended his career without too much distress, but he had to put on a mask before he spoke about either of them.
And whatever Grant had gotten into now felt big. It felt dangerous. She knew him better than anyone that was still living, and she knew that once he got a hold of a thread, he’d follow it until it ran out. It was what made him such a formidable detective. And it was the same attribute that got him into trouble in the first place.
Mocks rolled the lighter around in her hand and then gave it one quick flick, sprouting a flame that wiggled back and forth from the silver head. She let go, and the flame disappeared, and she tossed the lighter back into the drawer then slammed it shut.
She planted her elbows on her desk and rubbed her temples. “Jesus, Grant.” The anxiety made the baby kick, and she reached down, gently placing her hand over the spot where he was fussing. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
* * *
With Grant’s failed promise of reuniting Bandit with Anna, the dog ignored Grant the entire ride back to Deville. And while the dog sulked, Grant occupied himself with his running theories on the Dunnys, not liking any of them.
A random attack felt too impersonal. The blood and the fact that the house was a mess leaned toward the victims knowing the attackers. He toyed around with the idea that Charles’s accounting business might have something to do with it, but if he was dealing with any unsavory characters, they weren’t in Deville.