Finished with the second floor, Cole went downstairs. He began in the laundry room, saw Pike’s marks on the window, then quickly moved to the downstairs bedroom. Wilson up in the master, his niece in the lower. Unlike the master, the bed was made and the room was clean, neat, and orderly. The windows had not been tampered with. Cole found a few women’s tops, dresses, and jeans in the closet. There weren’t many clothes, but Cole had no way to know if this was everything the woman owned or if she had packed a few things for a trip.

Cole moved to the kitchen, which opened into a large family room lined with French doors showing a pleasant view of the canal. Another dead digital phone sat on the counter near a sink stacked with dishes. The dishes bothered him. It was like the goat heads and blood. Nobody would walk away from a mess like that, but Button claimed that was exactly what Wilson had done. Cole had a bad feeling about it, but in and of itself it proved nothing. Except maybe that Smith was a slob.

The fridge was scaled with takeout menus held on by magnets. Cole opened it and found the refrigerator stocked with milk, beer, soda, and what appeared to be fried oysters and shrimp in greasy white cartons. Would two people in the restaurant business leave food they knew would go bad in the refrigerator?

When Cole closed the fridge, he noticed a hand-printed note taped to the door. He hadn’t seen it before because it was lost among the takeout menus.

IF EMERGENCY, CALL 911.

PLUMBING PROBLEM, CALL NICKY TATE - 323-555-8402 IF YOU NEED ME WHILE I’M IN LONDON STEVE - 310-555-3691

London was eight hours ahead. It was late, but Steve Brown might be up. If Smith took the time to call Button, maybe he called his landlord, too. Cole dialed the number.

Brown’s phone rang six times before voice mail picked up.

“Mr. Brown, my name is Elvis Cole. I’m in Los Angeles. Would you please give me a call about Wilson Smith and Dru Rayne?”

Cole left his number, hung up, then went to the window over the sink. It was the last thing he would check before leaving. He had found no hard evidence of either an abduction or a trip, and was already deciding which of his LAPD contacts to call about Mendoza and Gomer. The house had been a bust, and his head was out of the game.