Fuck, the clock is ticking. Maybe the mother's place?

They make the drive to the old Bryson family home in record time, neither of them saying very much. Unlike Bryson's wife, who grew up rich and priviledged, Bryson's roots are in the rough part of town. A few blocks from the house, the neighborhood begins to get seedy and run down, more buildings abandoned than occupied. There are pretty young things walking the streets, many of them not so pretty once you got close. They're selling ****, or themselves, maybe dreaming of being rich enough to move uptown someday, maybe just trying to feed a long-standing habit, maybe trapped down here by fading looks and health. Any way he looks at it, Aden feels sick inside, remembering how he met Tommy, how she was trapped, maybe how she still is. They still haven't talked about it, and he realizes with great shame that he's let her down by leaving her in jeopardy with the Ukrainian. He promises himself that, as soon as they can find the time, he'll sit down with her and talk out their options.

Max breaks his reverie. "Wake up, soldier boy, we're here." He's parked in an alleyway near the Bryson place. There are three abandoned buildings surrounding them, one occupied home just a few doors down. A single golden light bulb lights the porch, a pair of older black men and a dark-skinned Hispanic man sitting there, playing dominoes on a small fold-up card table. He can hear the clack of the bones as one of the men slams a domino down, and the trip laugh and grouse at each other. An idea forms in his head.

"Hang on here," he tells Max, sliding out of the car and walking up toward the men. He can hear Max's pissed-off objection, ignores it as he walks up into the light. All three men pause their game, looking up at him suspiciously. They can smell danger when they see it, and Aden is flaring bad news. He stops on the sidewalk in front of the house, casually placing his hands where they can see he doesn't have a weapon. "Good evening, gentlemen," he starts, but the Hispanic man holds up a hand.

"Whatever you want, we ain't buying," the man says, voice rough from too many cigarettes. "You can go back to your car and leave."

"If I do, a little girl might be dead in a few hours."

He sees the men's eyes widen, and the black man on the left, pulls off a very snazzy looking felt widebrim, testing the crease with his finger and thumb. "Whatchu talkin' about?" he asks, voice cautious.

"There's a twelve-year-old girl that's been kidnapped," Aden says. "Maybe you've seen the case on the news?"

"Yeah, we seen it," the other black man says, rubbing his beard and eyeballing Aden. "Don't even tell me you a cop. You ain't no cop."

"We know cops," the Hispanic man agrees. "You ain't no cop."

Aden nods. "I'm about as far from a police officer as you can get, gentlemen." He points across the street to the darkened front of the Bryson house. It's dark and overgrown with brush; the place has a million blind spots, and he's not sure he likes the idea of going in there cold. "I'm working to find the girl, and I think she might be in there. You seen anything recently?"

The three men look at each other, and then the oldest nods. "When Beverly died, that bastard son of hers didn't even come to the funeral."

"He was always a punk," the Hispanic guy says, face angry. "Left the neighborhood and never came to check on his momma."

"He been out here a few times, parks in the back with some other guys," Beard says. "Tomasso thinks they **** dealers, but I ain't sure."

"Man was doing somethin' shady in there, fo shore," Felt Hat sighs. "You wanna catch 'em, you too late. They was here a couple hours ago, packing up they shit. Big black panel truck. Lotsa boxes."

Max nods, badges them. "See any licence plate or anything else might be useful?"

All three men shake their heads no. Aden scowls. "Thank you, fellas. I appreciate the good word. You all have a great night." He turns toward the house, which is dark and quiet. "I think we're too late," he says to Max, walking up toward the front porch.

Max nods. "You wanna leave now, I'll go in and see how they left her."

"You that sure she's here?"

"Why else the sudden runner?" Max steps up onto the porch, looks down at Aden. For once, there's a sympathetic tone as the detective addresses him. "Go home, Nickolas. You've seen enough dead girls in your life."

"I need to know," Aden starts, but Max quiets him, holding up the badge.

"I'm not asking," Max murmurs, voice soft. "I'm calling for backup and a forensic team now."

"How you plan on explaining this?"

Max grins, honestly amused by the question. "Nickolas, if I can get away with what we did to my father, this will be nothing." Max pulls a cell phone, begins dialing. Aden backs up, then turns and lopes away down the street into the night. About fifteen minutes later, he gets a two-word text from Max. SHE'S DEAD.