Colby Brass. Debra Webb

building where Wanda Larkin lived. Jim Colby reached for the unsecured door leading into the building. Trinity followed his boss inside the dingy stairwell. The wails of an infant somewhere above the first floor were underscored by at least one blaring television. A woman shouting at someone who had evidently made her unhappy drowned out the rest of the cacophony.

      Jim studied the row of mailboxes on the wall to the left of the entry door. “Third floor, 306.”

      Wanda Larkin had given them the street address, but the apartment number she’d murmured had been inaudible.

      Three flights of stairs later, Trinity approached Larkin’s apartment first. A metal number six identified the unit.

      Jim held up a hand for Trinity to wait as he moved to the right side of the door and knocked loudly.

      No response from the interior. No distinguishable sound.

      Prompted by Jim’s second round of knocking, somewhere on the fourth floor a dog barked.

      Jim nodded his approval and Trinity reached for the doorknob.

      Technically they were entering unlawfully, but the woman had given her address when Jim asked—which could be loosely construed as authorization to enter the premises. The cops hadn’t arrived just yet, which meant Trinity and Jim would need to proceed with caution. Tampering with evidence could impede the investigation as well as get them in serious hot water with the authorities.

      The latch released with nothing more than a single turn of the knob. Trinity pushed the door inward and drew back, staying to the left and clear of the opening.

      Seconds ticked by with no reaction.

      Jim moved into the doorway, then entered the apparently deserted apartment.

      Trinity followed.

      The place was neat and clean despite the worn-out furnishings.

      No sign of a struggle.

      The scent of recently baked cookies permeated the air. A small Christmas tree sat on the table in one corner, the decorations mostly homemade.

      Jim headed for the small hall that likely led to the bedrooms and bath. Trinity moved around the living room. A couple of framed photos sat on a table in front of the window overlooking the unkempt street. No curtains, just the open slats of yellowed blinds.

      Trinity picked up a photo of the woman, Wanda Larkin, and a small girl, six or seven years old, maybe. Cute kid with blond hair and brown eyes like her mother. His chest tightened at the idea that the child may have been harmed … or worse. He picked up another framed photo, this one probably taken at school. Her name, Lily, was stamped in gold lettering across the bottom of the photo. Using his cell phone, he snapped a close-up of the photo.

      “Two bedrooms, one bath,” Jim announced as he strode back into the room. “All are clean. If there’s been any trouble here, there’s no indication.”

      Trinity passed the framed photo of Lily to his boss. “I’ll check the kitchen.”

      The kitchen was actually a part of the living room, the two spaces divided only by a breakfast bar. A plate of cookies decorated for Christmas sat on the counter. The little girl’s artwork and more photos were displayed on the fridge.

      Lily. Trinity touched the name scrawled on a pink piece of construction paper, then traced the cut-and-pasted Christmas tree the child had drawn. An innocent child … that was now in danger.

      He shook off the troubling thoughts and focused on the details. Fridge and cabinets were painfully bare of provisions. Clearly the mother struggled financially, but the cleanliness of the apartment as well as the Christmas decorations and cookies indicated how hard she tried. A schedule printed on computer paper was taped to the side of the fridge. Trinity studied the document.

      “She works at Mercy General,” Trinity said aloud. The schedule gave no indication of the position she held, only the hours scheduled to work each day.

      Jim joined him in the kitchen. “She scheduled to work today? “

      Trinity shook his head. “Tomorrow afternoon.” The numerous night shifts made him wonder who kept the girl, Lily, while her mother worked.

      “I’m calling the police!”

      Trinity and Jim turned simultaneously. An elderly woman waved a cordless phone receiver in her right hand while sporting what appeared to be a can of pepper spray in the left.

      Jim’s hands went up surrender style. “No need to call the police, ma’am,” he assured her. “We’re from the Colby Agency. We’re here to help Ms. Larkin.”

      Trinity lifted his hands in the same fashion. “Are you a neighbor of Ms. Larkin’s?”

      The woman pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “If you’re here to help her, why isn’t she here, too?” she demanded, promptly ignoring Trinity’s question. “Since she’s not, that means you’re here illegally.”

      Unfortunately, Trinity considered, the lady had a valid point.

      “I’m Jim Colby,” Jim explained, “and this is my colleague Trinity Barrett.” Jim gestured to his coat. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll gladly show you my ID.”

      The woman cocked her head. “Open that coat up so I can see if there’s a gun under there.”

      Smart lady, Trinity decided.

      Jim obliged, gingerly tugging open his coat using his thumbs and forefingers.

      The woman nodded, a frizzy gray curl slipped loose from her haphazard ponytail. “You, too,” she instructed Trinity.

      Trinity did the same. Jacy Kelley, the agency’s new receptionist, had appeared in the parking garage with Trinity and Jim’s coats before they headed here.

      “Come on over here where I can see.” The neighbor wasn’t stepping away from the open doorway.

      Moving cautiously, Trinity and his boss again complied with her demand.

      When they’d reached the center of the living room, she said, “That’s close enough right there.”

      Both displayed their credentials.

      After leaning forward to check out the IDs they offered, she eyed first Jim then Trinity with marginally less suspicion. “Where’s Wanda and Lily? “ Fury tightened her lips. “Has something happened?”

      Jim explained the circumstances that brought them to Larkin’s apartment, leaving out the part about the missing child. They needed this woman cooperative, not hysterical. Her face paled and her eyes widened at the few details Jim provided.

      “I knew that no-good bum would do something like this eventually.” She shoved the canister of pepper spray into the pocket of her baggy jeans, shifted the phone to her left hand and extended her right toward Jim. “I’m Teresa Boles. I live cross the hall. I take care of Lily after school.” As Jim shook her hand, she added, “He should’ve gone to jail for good the last time he knocked Wanda around.”

      “Ms. Boles,” Trinity began as he, too, accepted a brisk handshake from the lady. Her grip was a heck of a lot stronger than he’d expected. “We’ll need the ex-husband’s name, phone number and address. Can you help us with that?”

      “Kobi Larkin.” Teresa wagged her head. “I haven’t seen him in months. Not since he broke Wanda’s jaw.” She muttered a curse under her breath. “I helped her take out a restraining order and he hasn’t been back. I hoped we’d seen the last of him.” She suddenly frowned. “Wait.” She looked from Jim to Trinity and back. “You said Wanda was at the hospital. Where’s Lily?”

      Trinity and Jim exchanged a look. “Ms. Boles,” Jim said gently, “we don’t know where Lily is. Bear in mind that Wanda was seriously injured and we can’t be certain her story was accurate.”

      “Where’s the baby?” Boles demanded, anger