Byrne's heart was ablaze.If anything happened to Colleen, he would take out the son of a bitch-one shot, point blank-and then himself. There would not be a single reason to draw a single breath afterward. She was his life.
"What's going on now?" Byrne asked into the headset, into his three- way connection.
"Static shot," Mateo replied. "Just the… just Colleen against the wall. No change."
Byrne paced. Another row house. Another possible scene. Jessica rang the doorbell.
Was this the place? Byrne wondered. He ran his hand along the grimy window, felt nothing. He stepped back.
A woman opened the door. She was a stout black woman in her late forties, holding a baby, probably her granddaughter. She had gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. "What's this about?"
Walls up, attitude out front. To her, it was another invasion by the police. She glanced over Jessica's shoulder, tried to hold Byrne's gaze, backed off.
"Have you seen this girl, ma'am?" Jessica asked. She held up the picture with one hand, her badge with the other.
The woman didn't look at the photograph right away, choosing instead to exercise her right not to cooperate.
Byrne didn't wait for an answer. He bulled his way past her, looked around the living room, ran down the narrow steps to the basement. He found a dusty Nautilus machine, a pair of broken appliances. He did not find his daughter. He charged his way back up and out the front door. Before Jessica could utter a word of apology-including the hope that there would not be a lawsuit-he was banging on the door to the next row house. They split up. Jessica would take the next few row houses. Byrne jumped ahead, around the corner.
The next residence was a shambling three-story row house with a blue door. The nameplate next to the door read V. TALMAN. Jessica knocked. No answer. Again, no answer. She was just about to move on when the door inched open. An elderly white woman opened the door. She wore a fuzzy gray robe and Velcro-strap tennis shoes. "Help you?" the woman asked.
Jessica showed her the picture. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. Have you seen this girl?"
The woman lifted her glasses, focused. "Pretty."
"Have you seen her recently, ma'am?"
She refocused. "No."
"Do you live-"
"Van!" she shouted. She cocked her head, listened. Again. "Van!" Nothing. "Musta gone out. Sorry."
"Thanks for your time."
The woman closed the door as Jessica stepped over the rail onto the stoop of the adjoining row house. Beyond that house was a boarded-up retail space. She knocked, rang the bell. Nothing. She put her ear to the door. Silence.
Jessica walked down the steps, back across the sidewalk, and almost ran into someone. Instinct told her to draw her weapon. Luckily, she did not.
It was Mark Underwood. He was in plainclothes-dark PPD T-shirt, blue jeans, running shoes. "I heard the call go out," he said. "Don't worry. We'll find her."
"Thanks," she said.
"What have you cleared?"
"Right up through this house," Jessica said, although the word cleared was less than accurate. They had not been inside and checked every room.
Underwood looked up and down the street. "Let me get some warm bodies down here."
He reached out. Jessica gave him her rover. While Underwood made the request of base, Jessica stepped up to the door, put her ear against it. Nothing. She tried to imagine the horror for Colleen Byrne in her world of silence.
Underwood handed the rover back, said: "They'll be down here in a minute. We'll take the next block."
"I'll catch up with Kevin."
"Just tell him to be cool," Underwood said. "We'll find her."