Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(70)

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They…got a little lost.”

Her daughter, sitting up in bed: “Someone took them.”

“We don’t know for sure.”

Sophie, repeating firmly: “Someone took them. Do they have a little girl?”

“They have a big girl. Teenager.”

“Does she know how to fight?”

“I’m told the whole family knows how to fight.”

“Good. They’ll be someplace dark. That’s what kidnappers do. They take you, and lock you up someplace all alone and very dark. You should search those places first.”

Tessa, turning away from her dresser to meet her eight-year-old daughter’s gaze as somberly as her daughter met hers. The therapist had advised a straightforward approach to dealing with Sophie’s trauma: Acknowledge the incident, encourage communication and promote empowerment. No dismissing of fears or placating of nerves.

Sophie had learned the hard way that adults couldn’t always protect her. There was nothing Tessa could do or say about that now.

“What else would you recommend?” Tessa asked her daughter.

“You should check the windows for a sign. Maybe the word help. You can write on dirty windows, you know. Just lick your finger and use your spit to draw each letter. Except you have to keep licking your finger, and after a while, your finger doesn’t taste so good.”

“Got it.”

“They might need food. You should bring snacks. Kidnappers don’t like to feed kids. Especially bad kids, and when you’re scared, it’s hard to be good.”

A small ache tearing into Tessa’s heart. Trying hard not to think too much about what her daughter must have endured two years ago. Keeping her own voice steady and resolute: “What kind of snacks should I bring?”

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

“Okay. I’ll stock my car with blankets and chocolate chip cookies. Maybe a thermos of hot chocolate?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Sophie. That’s very helpful.”

“Are you going to shoot someone, Mommy?”

“I’m not planning on it.”

“But you’re going to bring your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Good, Mommy. I think you should.”

Now, Tessa couldn’t help but think that Chris Lopez’s triple-decker appeared cold and dark. And the lower windows were very dirty, the kind that would make a finger taste particularly awful when smearing out a message for help.

Tessa placed her right hand inside her open coat, on the butt of her gun. She turned her body slightly sideways, to make it less of a target.

Then, she nodded once to Wyatt, who raised his left hand and knocked.


A BLACK LAB OPENED THE DOOR. Older dog, with a graying muzzle that stood out in sharp contrast to his sleek black coat. He released the rope that had been tied around the door handle, then sat, staring patiently at Tessa and Wyatt while thumping his tail in welcome.

“Hello?” Tessa called out.

“Say, good dog,” a man’s voice called from upstairs. Chris Lopez.

“Good dog,” Tessa muttered. The black Lab thumped his tail a couple more beats.

“Good dog, Zeus,” the voice called from upstairs.

Tessa still had her hand on the butt of her gun, slowly scanning the shadowed interior for signs of other life. “Good dog, Zeus,” she repeated.

The dog yawned. Apparently, her voice wasn’t too convincing.

“Chris Lopez?” she called out. “It’s Tessa Leoni, Northledge Investigations. Got a couple of questions for you.”

A few seconds later, the staircase creaked, then shuddered as Lopez went rat-a-tat down the upper half. When he rounded the lower landing and spotted Wyatt as well, his steps slowed. He was holding a rag, wiping what appeared to be white clay from his fingers and forearms. Now, he gripped the rag tightly, coming to a halt two steps from the bottom.

“Do you have…news?” He spoke the words tightly, as if already anticipating that any word that took two investigators to deliver wouldn’t be good.

“No. Just more questions. May we come in?”

“Yeah. I guess. I mean, sure. Couldn’t sleep, so just, um…been grouting the upstairs bath. Give me a sec. I’ll wash up in the kitchen.”

He gestured toward the back of the house, and Tessa and Wyatt followed him through the entry, past the staircase to the rear-facing kitchen. Zeus, the elderly guard dog, plodded along beside them, apparently content to join the party.

The kitchen turned out to be gutted. Stripped down to the subfloor, with a lone refrigerator, jury-rigged sink and several sawhorses topped with plywood serving as counters. In the corner sat an old blue card table big enough for four. Chris nodded toward it, so Tessa and Wyatt each grabbed a metal folding chair and took a seat.

“Sorry for the mess,” Lopez said as he banged on the faucets, started scrubbing the grout from his hands. “I bought the place two years ago. Figured I’d have it fully functional in eight months. You’d think, as a construction professional, I’d know better.”

“Doing the work yourself?” Wyatt spoke up.

“Exactly.”

“Licensed?”

“’Course not. But I got buddies who are. They already helped update plumbing and electrical. Now, I’m mostly down to finish work. In theory, I can manage that.”