Gibby dropped it on the floor, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Something bad, some kind of chemical. I think we need to call the cops.”

“You mean your father?”

“Not my father. Not this time.”

It took Burklow twenty minutes to get there, and he came inside with a wary glance. “Your call was pretty cryptic.”

“I thought we should talk in person.”

“Tell me first why you’re here.”

His eyes flicked from Chance’s face to mine, and I answered with a shrug. “I wanted to talk to Sara.”

“I mean, why are you inside her apartment?”

“The door was open.”

“So you walked in?”

“Basically.”

“All right. Walk me through it.”

There wasn’t much, but I told him what I knew. The rumpled bed and broken lamp, the wadded-up ball of sticky, sweet-smelling cloth.

Burklow cocked an eyebrow. “Sweet-smelling, but with a burn?”

“Back of my throat, yeah.”

“What else?”

“A back window is open, too, air-conditioning running on high.”

“What did you touch?”

“The door. The banister. The rag on the bed.”

“That’s it?”

“The glass on the bedside table. I stood it upright.”

He pointed at Chance. “What about you?”

“I didn’t touch a thing.”

“Which room is Sara’s?”

“Top left.”

He glanced at the stairwell, then studied the living room for long seconds, taking in the bottles, the dirty dishes. “Why didn’t you call your father about this?”

“We’re not really talking.”

Burklow made a sound in his throat, his eyes on everything but me. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”

He examined locks at the door and window, then took the stairs up. He was back in two minutes, very cop. “Come with me.” We followed him to the front door. He checked the sidewalks and the street. “Did anyone see you come inside?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But people were around?”

“Yeah, sure. Cars. Bikes. Regular people.”

“Anyone especially close or paying particular attention?”

“Ken, what’s going on?”

“You boys need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Listen, kid. You called me for help, and I came. Now, I’m saying jump, and that’s what I need you to do.”

I didn’t move. I made a point of it.

“All right, damn it. Fine.” Ken leaned in close, more cop now than ever. “The window’s been forced, but the front door is undamaged. That means someone came in through the back, and left by the front. Could be a simple burglary. Smash and grab. Happens all the time. But the rag you found—that sweet smell—that’s chloroform. It’s an anesthetic.”

“What are you saying?”

“Forced entry. Chloroform. Signs of a struggle. Worst-case scenario, someone took her.”

I said, “Jesus, Sara…”

“That’s worst case for her. We haven’t talked about you.” I touched my chest, and his features hardened. “Listen, son. Tyra’s dead and Sara is missing. Martinez and Smith already have doubts about you, especially Martinez.”