Время живых машин. Биологическая революция в технологиях. Сьюзан Хокфилд
Easy to see why she feared foul play.
Of course, it was also possible the young man had decided to chuck it all and run away from home. At eighteen, he wouldn’t technically be a runaway. In the eyes of the law, he was an adult with the right to live wherever he chose.
Travis finished off his coffee and then moved on to the notes Ethridge had provided. There was no final report, as the investigation was ongoing.
Not good, Travis decided as he delved into the investigation discoveries. Although Faith had insisted that her son had no issues that would cause him to run away, his friends from school painted a different story.
Several of his classmates, including Jason, had said he’d started acting strange in the days before he’d disappeared. They said he’d stopped hanging out with them after school, always said he was busy.
Ethridge had checked out the local drug and prostitute scene. Two strippers from the Passion Pit had recognized him from his picture, said they’d seen him in the club a couple times over the past few weeks, but not since his disappearance. One claimed he was hot for one of the dancers.
Even Georgio admitted to having seen him. Said he’d caught Cornell trying to touch one of his dancers inappropriately, and kicked him out. Claimed he realized then the kid was underage, and had told him to go home before he got into trouble.
After that, the clues ran dry.
Ethridge would have told Faith what he’d discovered. That explained her hanging out in the city’s scummiest dive. She’d been looking for her son or someone who could tell her where to find him.
The only good news was that Cornell’s body had not turned up at the local morgue.
That was the reality Travis lived with every day. He and his partner were the lead detectives in five unsolved murder cases of male victims between the ages of sixteen and eighteen who’d been killed over the past nineteen months. All had been shot twice in the back of the head, gangster-style, their bodies either left in an alley or dumped into the Trinity River.
At first people had paid little attention to the murders, attributing them to gangs or drug deals gone bad. But the last victim had been from a prominent family.
Now the media had jumped on board and were suddenly clamoring for information about the murders and pushing the idea that a serial killer was stalking Dallas. Nothing got the citizens more riled and afraid than the possibility of a serial killer who chose his victims randomly.
Neither Travis nor his partner, Reno Vargas, believed the murders were random. In fact, they were convinced Georgio was behind them. What they didn’t have was proof of his involvement.
Any way you looked at it, Faith Ashburn had plenty of reason to be worried.
Travis was about to go for more coffee when his cell phone vibrated. He yanked it from his pocket and checked the caller ID. Faith Ashburn’s name lit up the display.
He glanced at his watch. Only seven thirty-five and on a Sunday morning. He’d hoped he might hear from her, but he definitely hadn’t expected her to call this soon. He doubted it was personal, which meant she was calling about Cornell.
“Detective Travis Dalton,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”
“Travis, this is Faith.”
He liked the way she said his name. He didn’t like the tremor of apprehension in her voice. “Hi, Faith. Nice to hear from you.”
“It’s...” She paused. “I need to talk to you, as a detective. It’s about my son.”
“Cornell?”
“You know about his disappearance?”
“I didn’t until a few minutes ago. I just finished reading the missing-person report.”
“There’s a new development,” she said.
“Since last night?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of development?”
“I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Actually, I suppose I should call Mark Ethridge, but I’m not even sure he’s kept the investigation open, and you did offer to help.”
“Don’t worry about the chain of command. I’ll handle that. I was going to talk to Ethridge about the case, anyway. When do you want to get together?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Right now works for me. How about breakfast?”
“That would be great. I can meet you anywhere you say.”
“I’m almost finished up here, so how about I pick you up at your place?”
“What time?”
He reached for the form she’d filled out, and checked her home address. It was probably a twenty-minute drive in light Sunday-morning traffic. “Is a half hour from now too soon?”
“That would be perfect, but, Travis...” She paused again. Unsure of him or facing new fears? He couldn’t tell which.
“Go on,” he urged.
“Don’t mention to Joni or Leif that I called you.”
“Joni surely knows your son is missing.”
“Yes. They both do. Leif even offered to hire a private detective to help find him.”
“You turned him down?”
“I’d already hired one.”
That, Travis hadn’t known. “Your decision,” he said. “You don’t have to admit to anyone you called me, if that’s how you want it.”
“It’s just that I don’t want to spoil Joni and Leif’s honeymoon, and there’s nothing either of them can do. Besides, Joni has spent enough time holding my hand and crying with me over the last ten months.”
“Then this is our secret,” he said. “See you in half an hour. I’ll try to offer more than a hand or a shoulder to cry on—though I have both if they’re needed.”
“Just help me find Cornell and bring him home.”
Travis couldn’t promise to bring him home. Cornell would have a say in that. But he would find him. Hopefully, alive.
He left the precinct and headed to her house. She lived in a neighborhood of small brick homes built close together, with well-tended yards. No gated access. Few trees. Driveways sported basketball hoops.
A young man pushed a baby stroller down the narrow sidewalk. An attractive woman in white shorts and a knit shirt walked behind them, keeping a close watch on a toddler who was pedaling furiously on her bright red trike.
It looked to be a good middle-class neighborhood to grow up in. Much nicer than the one Travis had lived in for the first few years after his mother’s death.
Then, most of the houses had been in need of repair and drive-by shootings were as commonplace as his foster father’s drunken binges.
Travis figured if it hadn’t been for his mother’s influence during the early years and Leif’s efforts to rescue him from the ghetto, he might have grown up as troubled and in trouble as the young punks who committed most of the crimes in Dallas.
He turned at the corner and started checking addresses. Faith’s house was in the middle of the block, a redbrick with white trim. The hedges were neatly groomed. Colorful pansies and snapdragons overflowed from pots by her door. In spite of her grief, she was keeping up appearances. Probably wanted home to be welcoming if or when Cornell showed up again.
Travis pulled into the driveway and took the walk to her covered entry. She opened the door seconds after he pushed the bell, handbag in hand, clearly ready to go.
“You’re