The Abducted Book 0 Read Online Free Page B

the glass was a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey. Things started
to come back to him. It had been another night of drinking himself
to sleep.
    Too tired to move, he lay in his bed
as raindrops beat against the nearby window, providing some odd
sort of comfort. He looked at his alarm clock: 3:11 a.m. He was
supposed to meet the Dawson s that day and let them
know that their daughter’s abduction had recently been categorized
as a “cold case.” He wasn’t looking forward to it. Perhaps it was
time to move on. There were other cases on his plate too. It had
been a rotten year so far, and O’Leary needed a win to change the
tide.
    By morning, rain had turned to drizzle.
Outside, daylight glowed behind the thin, transparent curtains.
O’Leary opened his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. It was ten
after nine, and he was due at the Dawson house in one hour.
    He turned over and sat up, wearing only
boxer shorts. His modest bedroom was littered in files, newspapers,
photos, take-out boxes, and empty soda cans. He stepped onto the
carpet and hobbled over to his bathroom to throw some water on his
face. A nice hot shower would do the trick. Some coffee would get
him started too.
    He splashed water on his stubbly cheeks and
cooled his forehead. Living in a one-bedroom apartment following
his lengthy divorce had its perks. He never had to wait for the
bathroom. The apartment had become a second office of sorts. His
job was his life, but lately it seemed that everything had slowed
down. He’d grown stagnant, and at thirty-nine years old, the
thought was terrifying.
    A shower and a cup of coffee later, O’Leary
felt refreshed and energized. He grabbed a left-over drumstick and
devoured it as local news played on a nearby radio. He threw on a
white dress shirt, blue tie, and black slacks, ready to go. His
badge rested on top of the dresser next to his holstered 9mm pistol
and dark-gray jacket.
    Before leaving, he took one last look
at himself in the mirror. His short, thick hair was showing some
noticeable gray. Never one to shave regularly, he still had a good
deal of stubble along his square jaw and high cheeks. He just hoped
that the Dawsons wouldn’t take notice of that, or his worn and
slightly bloodshot eyes. He walked back into the
bedroom and put some case files into his briefcase. His ID hung by
a lanyard over his tie. His gun was holstered at his hip. Ready for
the morning, he left with time to spare.
    After a twenty-minute drive down State
Route 44, O’Leary’s green Ford Taurus arrived at the Dawson home, marked by a long, circular driveway. The luxurious
two-story brick house was shrouded by large bushes, covering most
windows. Marbled steps led to a pair of elegant double doors. The
Dawsons were an affluent family, well known throughout town. Ted
owned a chain of appliance outlets, and business had been good over
the years.
    One look at their thick, weedy front lawn,
neglected home, and rusty surrounding fence gave a clear indication
that it hadn’t been a good year. O’Leary rolled past the front door
and parked a few feet from the garage.
    The front doors opened, and Patricia Dawson
walked out—her silver hair pinned back. She was wearing a red
long-sleeved blouse and jeans. A look of perpetual worry consumed
her pretty face as always. O’Leary stuffed a piece of Juicy Fruit
into his mouth, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out of the
car.
    “ Good morning!” he said with a
wave.
    “ Morning,” Patricia replied. Nothing
in her neutral tone belied what she might be thinking.
    Thunder rumbled beyond the dark, rolling
clouds above. The smell of rain was in the air.
    “ Better come in before it gets nasty,”
she said, gesturing with the bottle of V8 juice she was
holding.
    O’Leary walked up the steps leading inside.
She closed the door behind him and asked for his coat. He handed
her his jacket, and she offered him a drink.
    “ Sure. Scotch on the rocks,” he said
with a smile.
    She smiled back. “I