He'll keep her where he feels safe, at his home. Forensics be damned.

Knowing they're on the clock, Max and Aden head straight over to Bryson's place, Max driving while Aden checks all his gear. They pull up down the block and park, Max pulling out a set of binoculars, scoping the place out. It's a large three-story Colonial with a red brick facade and ornate white Corinthian columns on the porch. A trellis with ivy curls up on the south side, just off the porch, and several built-in floodlights in the front yard illuminate the place well enough no one is getting up there without being seen. There are some obvious security cameras, which means there are probably a few more hidden ones as well. There's a brown high-end sedan in the driveway, and all the shades are drawn.

"Triple lock on the door," Max observes.

"He's police, Max," Aden points out. "He's got legit reasons to have good security. And apparently enough money to make it good."

"His wife's money," Max sniffs, dismissive. "I'm pretty sure it's a marriage of convenience."

Aden scans the street. "No traffic. Lots of neighbors. Not sure I'd bring a captive here. Too much chance of a witness. I'm starting to think we're in the wrong place."

"We're here now, we should at least check."

Aden shakes his head. "See, that's your weakness, right there."

Max looks at him, pissed. "What are you talking about?"

"You think you know how people thing, but you never account for emotions or the fact someone else might be as smart as you are."

"No one is as smart as I am." Max says it likes it a fact, adjusting a shirt sleeve.

Aden grins. "I'm going around the back. Honk the horn if anyone comes up." He lets himself out and walks quickly down the side street, ducking into the back past some trees, sprinting quickly toward the white plastic privacy fence which surrounds Bryson's back yard. Crouching down long enough to pull a ski mask over his face and a pair of surgical gloves over his hands, he jumps up, grips the fence, and goes over it in one leap. The back is all lit up, too, an impressive pool with underwater lighting making rippling shadows play back and forth along the rear of the home. Aden goes straight to the sliding patio doors, pulling a knife as he peers through. He sees alarm tape, grabs his B and E kit. A couple of alligator clips and some quick knife work, and he has the alarm bypassed and the doors open enough for him to slide in. Knowing he only has a few minutes, he still stands in the center of Bryson's living room, spinning slowly in place, counting exits. From the stairs to his right, he can just make out the creaking of bedsprings, someone moving around. The rhythym says sex. No screams, no crying, no little girl noises, so it's probably consensual. If I did have her here, she'd be in the basement. It plays; he takes the steps downward into the basement as fast and as quietly as he can, pulling his pistol and holding it in front of him. At the bottom, there's a solid-looking door, deadbolt lock. Single cylinder, a simple twenty-dollar big box special. It takes him thirty seconds to pick it, and that's only because he's rusty.

The inside is an office, desk, chair, filing cabinet, table with papers on it. He tosses it fast, thorough; it's case files and cop work, nothing incriminating, nothing unusual. Aden starts to wonder what evidence Max really has about Bryson. Nothing here says crook, let alone serial ****-****. He searches the walls for any sign of a possible concealed door, finds nothing. Satisfied he's cleared the place, he pauses to think it through. Someone is having sex upstairs; it's not likely Bryson would bring a mistress home and fuck her with a kidnapped girl in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He considers the sex partner as a possible accomplice, discards it. Most serials do their thing solo; there are exceptions, but those exceptions are rarely successful business types with the ability to get promoted to senior positions in their field. It's a bust, he realizes. Quickly restoring everything he's searched, he ducks out, relocks the deadbolt, and bounds back up the stairs and across the living room to the sliding doors, pulling the alarm clips as soon as he makes it through. Back by the pool and over the fence, he's back in Max's car less than twenty minutes after he made the entry. He shakes his head at Max as he gets in. "Nothing. He's got someone in there with him I checked the basement, no girl and no evidence."

"What about upstairs?" Max asks.

"Start the car and drive," Aden suggests. "He's not going to fuck somebody with a girl tied up in another bedroom nearby."

"Why not?" Max pouts, starting the car.

"Because people who have had sex let their guard down, talk, snuggle, go to the bathroom." Aden looks out the window at the sky, which is darkening. "Too much risk for Bryson that his lover might decide to go look around that big beautiful house."

Max shakes his head. "I'm not sure your logic is solid."

"Have sex some day, you might understand." Aden feels the monster twitching in his belly. "We're wasting time. If Bryson checks his security tapes, he'll see I went in. He'll head to wherever the girl is and finish her."

"We could just stay nearby and follow him to her." Max mulls that over, then shakes his head. "No, he would assume surveillance. He'd distract us, look for tails. With only one car, he'd be able to slip us and get to her before we can catch him."

"So we head to the other locations. We better make it good, though. I'm not sure we have a lot of time left."