Page 114 of Paternal Instincts
“I can’t. We’re almost there. Turning around will take too much time.”
“Quaid.”
“Az, I can’t. A child’s life is at stake. I’ll be back soon. I will not miss our baby being born.”
“Quaid—”
“I promise.”
Before he could argue more, I blindly tapped the disconnect button as tears filled my eyes. Slamming the heel of my palm against the steering wheel, I cursed. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t make it back in time, but the risk was too high.
We had discussed the instability of sociopaths. They played games. They manipulated situations to suit their needs, but when things came crashing down around them, they acted impulsively, recklessly, and with hostility.
Flynn wasn’t going to let himself get arrested, but he also wasn’t about to drag a child along when he went on the run. Whatever had triggered him to take Crowley and demand the truth in the first place was moot. Flynn would be in self-preservation mode, and anyone who stood in his way would be an unfortunate bystander.
Costa, in a clearer state of mind, called for backup the second I was off the phone, directing them to the address on Dawlish Avenue. “Possible hostage situation,” he told them. “Proceed with caution.”
“Are you armed?” I asked the minute he hung up.
“Yes, Quaid. I don’t work in the field without my piece.”
“Good.”
“Are you?”
“It’s in the trunk. I took it off when…”
I didn’t have to finish the sentence. Costa knew. I took off my service weapon so I could be a father and not a cop. So I could be a regular guy having a baby instead of a detective chasing down criminals. So I could officially start parental leave and not be on duty.
But dismissing a child in need wasn’t as easy as locking my gun away in a safe.
The professor’s residence was less than five minutes from the hospital, but with traffic, it took closer to ten to arrive. I located the correct address and parked illegally across the street, blocking a driveway because there were no available spots.
I immediately recognized Nixon’s car, but for the life of me, I had no idea what Flynn drove, and with over a dozen vehicles parked along both sides of the street, I had no way of knowing if he was here or not.
Costa followed me out of the Charger. I aimed for the trunk and retrieved my weapon before racing to the front of the house.
“We should wait for backup,” Costa said, scrambling a few steps behind.
Technically, he was right, but I didn’t want to wait for the district police to drag their feet and decide our call was important enough to leave the Tim Horton’s drive-through line. It would mean summarizing the case to street cops, planning a strategy for safe extraction, and possibly calling in a negotiator.
“We don’t have time.”
Costa didn’t argue. He’d recently told me it was my passion and willingness to do what was needed for a case that made him decide I was a decent person worth knowing. Dismissing protocol was not a deal breaker for our friendship.
The front door wasn’t latched. Whoever entered last hadn’t fully pushed it shut. That ominous discovery sent a prickle of goose bumps up my spine. I motioned to Costa that I planned to enter. We had never worked in this capacity before, but he understood my hand gestures without trouble, unholstering his weapon when I did and pressing himself against the brick wall on the opposite side of the archway.
I nudged the door with my foot. It swung inward, and I flattened against the wall opposite Costa.
We listened. The steady, pulsing beat of hip-hop emanated from a distant room, but otherwise, I didn’t hear people. Cueing Costa, I made a quick sweep of the front foyer before calling it clear.
Upon entering, we checked blind spots and a coat closet to be sure no one was hidden nearby. The house tipped the scale of superfluous. Its modern style boasted high ceilings, oversized windows, and intricate architecture with oak accents and white walls.
The foyer contained a sweeping, carpeted staircase to the upper level, several archways led into joining rooms, and a long, shadowed hallway pointed to the back of the house. Due to the angle of the stairs, we couldn’t see the top. The archways were an open design with no doors. The hallway led to who knew where.
The music sounded from a nearby room, possibly a television. Muffled, indistinct voices arose from somewhere deeper in the house. I couldn’t make out words, but the low tones, at the distant range of my hearing, seemed to suggest it was two men. Costa registered them too. He motioned to the archways and pointed to his eyes.
I nodded, and we moved together to sweep those closer rooms before venturing further into the house. The nearer room contained built-in bookcases, a billiard table, an eloquent bar, and a stone fireplace. Clean, sharp angles, and expensive furniture.
