“No. There’s no computer and no laptop. And I didn’t take anything else.” He lifted his hands to prove he had nothing.

“You didn’t search his car, too, did you?”

“I may have done that,” he admitted. “But you’ll be happy to know I didn’t have to break in. It wasn’t locked.”

Virtanen must’ve taken an Uber or some other ride service to the airport, which made sense, since he’d been gone so long. His neighbors claimed they hadn’t seen him for weeks.

“You didn’t find anything there, either?” one of the other officers asked.

“No, it was clean. Just like this place.”

“Get out!” Lewis said.

Amarok did as he was asked but turned back at the door. “What about the warrant for his phone records?”

“You heard me. Get out!” he yelled instead of answering.

Amarok narrowed his eyes. “You’d better call me as soon as you hear from the phone company.”

“Or what?” the detective responded. “Now you’re going to threaten me?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he admitted. “It’s never smart to test a desperate man.”

Lewis’s face flushed red as he started forward, but one of the other officers grabbed his arm. “Hey. The guy’s just trying to save his fiancée. And his unborn child. If there was no evidence here, or in the car, no harm, no foul, right?”

Lewis cast the guy a dirty look as he shook him off. “You’re not in charge here. Do you remember what happened to the detective who worked the Lyman Bishop case before me? Do you know where he is now? He’s working at a fucking pizza parlor!”

“We all know,” one of the others said. “But this isn’t the same.”

“Yes it is. He was doing the wrong thing but for the right reason. That’s exactly the same.”

Amarok wasn’t going to keep battling. Not now. Not when there wasn’t anything to be gained. If Lewis had the phone records, he would’ve reacted differently when Amarok asked about them.

With a quick nod for the guy who’d stepped in to show him some empathy and had the balls to speak up, he walked out and let the door slam behind him.

He was striding angrily to his rental car when he saw a short, heavyset woman with bleached-blond hair, a ring through her nose and sleeve tattoos hurrying toward Virtanen’s apartment carrying an armful of mail.

Grateful for the timing, he muttered, “Maybe there is a God,” and intercepted her. “I’ll take that from here,” he said, pulling out his badge.

Since the police were there with a warrant, or maybe it was the authoritative way he’d spoken, she didn’t hesitate to hand it over. “What’s going on?” she asked, obviously flustered by the activity in her complex. “What has my tenant done?”

“We think he kidnapped a woman in Alaska,” he admitted to keep her preoccupied and a bit off-kilter as he shuffled through the stack.

He was just being thorough by checking the mail and didn’t really expect to find anything. These days, snail mail consisted mostly of solicitations and possibly a few bills. Even those came electronically for a large percentage of the population, what with the popularity of online banking.