"Emma Christina, a 19-year-old college student, went missing a month ago. Her roommate reported the disappearance three weeks ago, and the police filed a case, but her whereabouts are still unknown."
"Did the victim reveal the name of her captor?"
Hannah shook her head. "She didn't know where she was being held. After escaping, she was so nervous she just kept running until she collapsed."
"Until you ran her over?" Detective Mota sneered, his expression dripping with disdain.
Hannah bristled, but Jack quickly grabbed her arm before she lashed out.
"It was an accident," Jack said firmly. "No one on the street was willing to help her. When she saw the patrol car, she rushed forward hoping for rescue. She collapsed in front of it from sheer exhaustion."
His tone carried sharp emphasis, and his eyes flashed with contempt. Jack realized the bald detective wasn't just incompetent—he was the embodiment of the system's indifference.
Detective Page, perhaps embarrassed by her partner's hostility—or maybe drawn by Jack's steady presence—cut in quickly.
"We'll intensify the search for the hostage's residence. Did you get any leads just now?"
Hannah glanced at Superintendent Gray, whispered a few words to him, then nodded to Jack.
Jack handed over his notebook. "Here are the victim's details. She was calm and precise. Please let us know what else you need."
"Scan the neighborhood until we confirm the address," Page said.
"It's settled," Superintendent Gray declared. "I'll assign three patrol cars for round-the-clock coverage. Hannah, Jack—you're on it too."
"Understood," Hannah replied curtly, storming out with Jack right behind her. Her patience with Mota was long gone.
Nearly three in the afternoon, Jack handed her a lunchbox in the car. "Eat something. You need your strength."
Inside were soup dumplings he'd made the night before. Hannah bit carefully into one, sipped the hot broth, then devoured the rest in two bites, sighing in contentment.
"I've asked Tim to use his connections in the Detective Bureau to help locate the suspect's address. Gray also reported the case. Once we have it, the court will send us a search warrant. No need to wait for Major Crimes."
Jack wolfed one down himself, hunger gnawing at him. Since his physique breakthrough, his metabolism demanded more fuel. "I don't get it. Why doesn't Major Crimes treat missing minors seriously?"
Hannah chewed quickly, then answered: "Do you know how many people disappear in this country every year? Almost 100,000. Over 800,000 missing-persons cases from last year alone went nowhere. And missing minors? Even worse."
Jack stared, stunned.
"In big cities like L.A., kids vanish every single day," she continued. "But how many Amber Alerts have you seen? The rules are strict. Unless someone like that bald idiot agrees there's 'sufficient evidence,' no alert gets issued. Cases like Kara's just slip through."
Jack sighed. "Forget I asked." He wrestled a dumpling from her box, earning a playful glare.
"But how could Kara run barefoot, begging for help, and people just ignored her?" he pressed.
Hannah gestured at a group of oddly dressed pedestrians. "This is Los Angeles."
Jack fell silent. Maybe here, kidnappings were just another routine tragedy.
The radio crackled. Tim's voice: "Hannah, Jack—we've got him. The suspect is Angus Lucius, 47, ex-Marine. Address: 2699 Pickford Street. John and Angela are bringing the warrant."
Hannah straightened. "That's only three blocks from where we found Kara. We're the closest. ETA—five minutes."
Jack slammed the trunk shut, tossed the lunchbox inside, and jumped into the driver's seat. Sirens wailed as they sped toward Pickford Street.
Minutes later, the siren died. Jack slowed to a normal patrol speed, turning onto the quiet residential block.
"There," Hannah whispered, pointing at a gray bungalow with a red brick roof. The blinds were drawn. The driveway was empty.
Jack's gut twisted. We're too late.
Soon, backup arrived. Tim and Lucy in one car, Angela and John in another. Tim took command.
"Angela, John—cover the back. Lucy and I will flank. Jack, Hannah—front entry. Be careful. He's armed and dangerous."
Everyone checked their rifles. Jack held an Ithaca-12 shotgun, chambered with a breaching round.
Hannah banged on the door. "LAPD! Open up!"
Jack fired. The lock blew apart. Hannah kicked the door open, and the team surged inside.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
"No one!"
Room after room—empty.
Jack's dread deepened. Angus Lucius had already fled.
Tim pried open the basement door. A wave of foul stench rolled out. Empty.
"Guys, in here!" John called from the bedroom.
The others rushed in. On the bed sat an open box, stuffed with women's jewelry and intimate clothing. Tim switched on his flashlight's UV mode—stains glowed sickly under the beam.
Angela's jaw tightened. Lucy swore under her breath.
"Multiple sizes," Lucy whispered. "There's more than one victim."
The weight of her words sank into the room.
Tim's expression hardened. "Jack, with me. Backyard sweep. The rest—keep searching for anything. Emma doesn't have much time. If Lucius feels cornered, she's dead."
(End of this chapter)