Last Seen. Rick Mofina

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СКАЧАТЬ Sports highlights were on. The volume was low.

      “I’m sorry. It must’ve been a rough night,” Price said.

      Cal rubbed his face and messy hair and nodded.

      “Excuse me.” Price noticed Officers Berg and Ripkowski drinking coffee in the kitchen, studying maps on the counter with two men. “I need a private word with our people before a fresh crew relieves them.”

      Price went to the kitchen, and Lang spoke up. “Sir, can you show me your son’s room?”

      Cal led him upstairs and down the hall to Gage’s room, which seemed to shrink when Lang stood in the middle of it, taking stock without touching anything. He noticed Gage’s posters—the Cubs, the White Sox, Bears, Bulls and Blackhawks—nodding to one that was a mosaic.

      “Your son likes Pokémon?”

      “Yes.”

      “So does my daughter. She has the same poster. Not sure what generation that one is.” Lang had a soft, infectious smile that became all business when he shifted gears. “Mr. Hudson, we’re doing everything we can to find Gage.”

      Cal nodded, then said, “Look, I’m going out to continue search—”

      “Excuse me, Mr. Hudson.” Cal turned to see Price had come in behind him. “We’re going to need you and your wife to come to our offices so we can talk.”

      “Talk?”

      “We want to go over everything very carefully with both of you and we should go now.”

      “What’s going on?” Faith had emerged from their bedroom clutching a robe around her. “Who are these people?”

      “They’re detectives and they want us to go with them to help with the search for Gage.”

      “Cal, Faith.” Price made sure she had their attention. “Has anyone contacted you claiming to know your son’s whereabouts, or to demand ransom? Maybe they contacted you in some way we’re not aware of?”

      “No,” Cal said. “We would have alerted your people here.”

      “Good, okay. Now, we’d also like to request your consent to allow us to search your home and conduct other aspects of our investigation—on your phones, computers, vehicles, bank records, credit cards, that sort of thing. We’ll have the paperwork at our office.” They all watched Lang close Gage’s bedroom door by hooking his pen behind the knob. “Right now we’d like to seal your son’s bedroom, along with the rest of the house, so our techs can process it. I’ve got a log here—” Price tapped her folder “—from Officer Berg. We’ll also collect DNA, and fingerprints from you and everyone who’s been in the house since Gage’s disappearance to create an elimination set. We’ll get details on where your volunteers have searched and who was involved. Mr. Hudson, being a crime reporter, I’m sure you understand these steps?”

      “Wait! I don’t understand. Why do this?” Faith’s bloodshot eyes searched their faces for the answer. “Why search our private lives, our home? Why take our fingerprints? Gage isn’t here. You had two cops sitting in our kitchen all night. Get out there and search the city. Search the freakin’ fairgrounds, talk to those tattooed lowlifes working on the midway!”

      “Faith.” Cal grabbed her shoulders. “Honey, this is what they have to do. It’s procedure.”

      “That’s right, Mrs. Hudson,” Lang said. “We’re sorry if it’s upsetting but we need to do this. Believe me, we’ve got a lot of people working to locate your son.”

      “I don’t understand.” Faith pulled at the cuffs of her robe to wipe at her tears. “I don’t understand any of this.”

      Cal hugged her, then turned to the detectives.

      “Do we have time to take a shower?”

      “A quick one,” Price said. “I’m sorry, but time is crucial.”

      Half an hour later, as Cal and Faith accompanied the detectives to their sedan, Faith froze, having trouble catching her breath.

      Gage’s bicycle was in the front yard beside the walk.

      For a burning instant she thought he’d come home from riding through the neighborhood, leaving his bike on the lawn like he always did, and her heart soared with the relief that he’d returned to her.

      She reached out to touch Gage’s bike but was stabbed with the cold, hard truth: he’d neglected to put it the garage before they’d gone to the carnival because he was so excited.

      Cal put his arm around her, calming her, moving her along as they were caught in the glare of TV cameras and the staccato flash of newspaper photographers.

      Mary Kitterly, a Chicago TV news reporter, turned to her camera, which had tracked the Hudsons’ walk to the car live for its morning news broadcast. She was reporting to her anchor in what the station was calling a “Breaking Exclusive.”

      “That’s right, Bob.” Mary gripped her microphone with one hand and steadied her earpiece with the other. “Sources tell me that River Ridge detectives are taking the couple, Cal and Faith Hudson, in for what they call ‘interviews.’ Now, this comes less than twenty-four hours after the mysterious disappearance of their nine-year-old son, Gage Hudson, from the River Ridge midway.”

      “Mary, that’s an interesting turn of events in what is a very troubling case. Is there anything more you can tell us regarding the parents being escorted from their home by police?”

      The camera and Mary turned to see the perfect middle-class couple seated in the Chevy sedan before the doors closed and it whisked down the sleepy neighborhood street.

      “Bob, experts we’ve talked to have assured us that this is routine in cases involving missing children and does not imply any suspicion or role in the boy’s disappearance. It should be noted that it’s our understanding that the parents were the last to see the boy before he vanished...”

       11

      The River Ridge Police Department was headquartered downtown, across from city hall, in the Lewis D. Boatellick Building, a restored five-story glass-and-stone example of Midwestern civic architecture, named for the first officer killed on duty.

      Most cops called it “the Boat.”

      Price and Lang avoided the news crews huddled out front, driving through the secured entrance to the building’s underground parking garage. It smelled of exhaust, engine oil and cement when the detectives led the Hudsons to the elevator.

      They stepped off at the fourth floor and went down a corridor coming to a fluorescent-lit squad room. The walls were lined with maps, file cabinets, case-status boards, shift schedules and glass-walled offices. A large flat-screen TV suspended from the ceiling was tuned to an all-news channel. The middle of the room was open with an assortment of large desks cojoined in pairs.

      “Please have a seat.” Lang rolled out two chairs beside their desks. “First, we need you to sign the consent-to-search authorizations.”

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