Claire leaned back in her seat. “Not a chance. There might be something there. I want to have a look.”
Those blue eyes pinned her where she sat. “You understand I’m going in’one way or another?”
“Just drive, frogman.”
Ben Slocum actually smiled.
Five
Troy Bridger lived in a run-down neighborhood not far from LAX. The apartment building had cracks in the plaster’probably earthquake damage’and the blue paint had faded to a washed-out gray. Unit four sat on the bottom floor, the curtains partially open. There was no on-site manager and no one around.
The sun was moving west, the afternoon waning as they walked up on the porch and looked through the windows. The apartment was cheaply furnished, but Ben could see no one was living there.
“I’m going to take a look inside,” he said. “Why don’t you wait for me in the car?”
“If you’re going in, so am I. I might find something you miss.”
“Breaking and entering’s a crime, angel. You’d be smarter to stay out of it.”
Her chin went up. “I’m going.”
Ben just shook his head. “I’ll go round back and find a way in, come back and open the door. Whistle if someone’s coming.”
Her pretty green eyes widened. “I don’t know how to whistle.”
Amusement slid through him. At least Claire Chastain was keeping him entertained. “You’ll think of something.”
He headed around the corner to the rear of the building. Behind the apartment, each ground-level unit had a small fenced yard. Bridger’s had enough dog crap to tell him that Pepper had definitely been in residence.
Using a credit card, he opened the cheesy lock on the back door into the kitchen. The good news was, the place hadn’t been cleaned. He made his way into the living room, past a worn tweed sofa with a couple of springs sticking out, and opened the front door for Claire.
As she walked inside, her nose wrinkled at the musty, unpleasant smell. “It looks like he’s been gone awhile. Thank God the cleaning crew hasn’t been in.”
Smart lady. “Doesn’t look like the cops have been here, either. Maybe the landlord wouldn’t let them in without a warrant.”
“The Robersons convinced the police Sam ran away, so they probably didn’t try to get one.”
He made a quick sweep of the living room and bedroom. “I don’t see any sign of a kid being here. Sam disappeared eleven days ago. If Bridger took him, they must have headed straight out of town.”
“Let’s make sure,” Claire said.
He nodded. “I’ll look in here. You take another look in the bedroom.”
Claire disappeared into the other room while Ben made a slow sweep of the living room, looking for anything that might have information they could use. All he saw were old movie-ticket stubs, dirty Kleenex, candy wrappers and empty foam cups. Nothing of any value.
Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he took out one of the small brown paper bags he carried for evidence collection, tucked the cup inside for a DNA sample.
He wandered into the kitchen, found an overdue electric bill on the counter. The wet garbage had been carried out, but a lot of paper trash remained. He used a pen to poke through litter here and there, looking for any scrap that might lead to Bridger.
His eye caught a haphazardly stacked pile of what looked like opened, discarded mail. Bridger’s name was on the envelopes and flyers, most of which were advertisements. All but one. A VISA credit card statement. The card had recently been canceled. This was the closing statement. No charges. No money owed.
It had been mailed to unit four but the name on the envelope wasn’t Troy Bridger. It was Troy Bennett.
Bingo.
He refolded the piece of paper, stuck it back in the envelope and shoved it into his hip pocket. Looking up, he saw Claire walking back into the living room, her eyes wide, her face as pale as cotton.
Ben started toward her, caught her shoulders to steady her. “Claire, what is it?”
She looked up at him, moistened her lips. “Blood...”
He urged her over to the sofa, sat her down on one of the sagging cushions. “Stay here.”
Blood. It didn’t mean anything. It could be anyone’s blood. There was no reason to think it was Sam’s. Still, a knot formed in his stomach as he rushed into the bedroom.
Nothing in there. But in the bathroom, the sink was covered with a dried, dark brown substance that could only be blood.
Using his pocket knife, he scraped enough blood off the porcelain into another bag for a sample. There was a fine spatter on the walls, but nothing else in the room besides dirt, mold and rust around the bathtub.
He spotted pieces of a broken glass in the corner and felt a hint of relief.
The color was back in Claire’s face when he returned to the living room.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she stood up. “Was it really’”
“It’s blood, but there’s no reason to think it’s Sam’s.”
“No, of course not. I was just... It scared me.”
“I found pieces of a broken glass. Looks like that’s what happened. Someone cut himself and bled into the sink. Doesn’t look like enough to be fatal. I took a sample. We’ll see what it shows.”
“Maybe the police can match the DNA or something, find out Bridger’s real name.”
“They have to have something to match the DNA to. Bridger would have to be in the system. Can take a while to find out.” He rested a hand at the small of her back as they started for the door. “The good news is I found an old VISA bill in the name of Troy Bennett.”
She stopped so suddenly, the curve of her bottom came up against his groin. “Oh, my God, that must be his real name.” Ben stepped back, the firm roundness feeling way too good.
“Not necessarily. Sometimes a guy like that uses half a dozen aliases.”
“Oh. Are you giving the card number to the police?”
“I’m giving the number to a friend in Houston. The card’s been canceled, but with any luck, he can tell us where it was used last.”
“What about the police?”
“Not yet. If Bridger’s got my son, I don’t want the police accidentally tipping him before we can get to him. We don’t know anything about this guy. We don’t know what he might do.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” There were things he needed to do. More pieces of the puzzle to find and fit together. More information he needed in order to find his son.
* * *
On the way back to her apartment, Claire sat quietly as Ben phoned Tyler Brodie and got the name of a private lab he and John Riggs occasionally used when they were working a case. She waited in the car while Ben went in to drop off the blood sample he had scraped out of the sink, fidgeting, wondering if they would be able to get a result before the end of the day.
A few minutes later, Ben climbed back into the car.
“How long will it take them to get the DNA?” she asked as he started the engine.
“They’ll