Finding Her Son(40)

He searched the area, leaving no corner unexplored, even going so far as to place his hands on the hood of the cars in the parking lot. His every move filled Emily with confidence. He was wonderful.

He disappeared behind the building and a few minutes later came around the other side. In no time he rounded the truck and opened the door for Emily.

“Looks secure. No movement inside, but the owners could be in the office. The engines were cold.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten.”

She stuffed the phone in her pocket, and they walked to the front door. He tugged on the metal handle.

It didn’t budge.

“Locked?”

He rang the bell and waited another thirty seconds.

Still no response. Mitch peered through the window.

“I don’t see anyone,” he said.

A shudder of apprehension skittered up Emily’s neck. She clasped Mitch’s hand. His jaw throbbed, his entire body tense.

“Should we try another door?” she asked quietly.

Mitch banged on the glass. “I’m not leaving without checking this place out.” He drew his weapon. “Stay behind me.”

When he rounded the back corner, the pristine lot looked safe enough. Mitch walked up to a steel door. He tugged. It didn’t budge. He didn’t like the feel. Every instinct in his body thrummed with anticipation. His training told him to call for backup, but who could he trust? If the evidence was inside, how could he be certain it wouldn’t disappear, and, with it, Emily’s chance to find Joshua? Mitch never thought he’d come to a point where he’d completely turn his back on procedure. He’d live with the consequences.

If he found Joshua, it would be easy.

Mitch lifted a roll-up delivery door and let out a curse. Boxes were strewn everywhere. Wine bottles were broken. A bloody boot lay between two crates.

Emily gasped and followed Mitch as he walked toward the foot. A man lay on the concrete, his eyes wide open, a bullet hole in his chest.

“Stay close,” Mitch whispered and knelt down. “He’s cool to the touch. Been here awhile.”

He rose and methodically searched the loading room, keeping constant watch on the entrances. Once he’d secured the area, he paused in front of a closed door leading into the main building. He turned to Emily. “Stay barricaded in here until I call for you. If you hear anything, anything at all, don’t wait. Run. Take the truck and call 911.”

“What about you?”

“This is my job, Emily. I can take care of myself, but Joshua won’t have anyone if something happens to you. Understand me?”

She hesitated. “Mitch…”

He took her by the shoulders and forced her to meet his gaze. “Just promise me.”

Emily bit her lip and nodded. He gave her a quick wink, slowly opened the door, slipped through and pulled it softly shut. A purring filtered through the quiet from his right. He scanned the room, and a cat’s eyes glowed from beneath a table. The tabby was curled up against a woman’s body, her face, arms and throat cut, a broken wine bottle at her side.

He rested his fingers against her carotid, but she had no pulse. A search of the rest of the building came up empty, and he hurried back to Emily, who stood poised in the door with a broken wine bottle for a weapon.

He wrapped his hand around hers and took the jagged glass from her. “Always the fighter.” He led her into the shop. “Come this way.”

He escorted her past the woman’s body, but she paused, her hand covering her mouth, her expression shocked and saddened. “That poor woman.”

“These guys don’t leave witnesses alive.”

“How’d they know about this place?”

“Perry’s face was pretty bruised when we got there. They may have beat it out of him.”

“Did they take his evidence?”

“We’re about to find out.” Mitch stood in front of wine-storage locker eighty-five. The gate hung at an angle. The lock had been forced open. “They ransacked the place.”

Every bottle in the wine cabinet had been broken. The shelving torn apart.

Emily dropped to her knees. “It’s gone. They destroyed everything.”

Mitch knelt beside her and hugged her close. “Yes, they did.” He turned her to him. “Which may mean they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“But—”

“The woman’s throat was cut with a broken bottle,” he said. “Maybe they wanted information.”

Her hand clutched at her throat.

“Might be the same people who attacked you, though they weren’t very tidy.”

“If they didn’t find the evidence, where is it?” Emily asked. “Another compartment?”

“They destroyed the cabinet.” Mitch stood and looked around the facility. There were numerous lockers, all numbered. “Perry said, eighty-five.”

“That could’ve been the year of the wine, not the locker number.”

“Maybe,” Mitch mused. “Eight. Five. Eight times five. Forty. Eight minus five. Three. Fifty-eight.” He walked along the corridor, scanning those lockers. Some were full; some nearly empty. “If we have to, we’ll search them all.”

“Eight plus five,” Emily said, her voice tentative. “Thirteen. Mitch! Perry’s lucky number was thirteen. He made a point of telling me this long, involved story of how everyone else’s unlucky number was his rabbit’s foot.”