Using Your Rules Against You

"24 hours? Are you kidding me?"

Denise Holt stared at me in disbelief.

"My daughter's been abducted! What the hell are you people standing around for? Her phone's dead, and the last location ping came from that abandoned brick factory on the east side.

"Her ex just got out of rehab. It's obviously him!"

My voice was steady, like I was reading from a procedure manual. "According to protocol, we can't open a case on a missing adult until the 24-hour mark, not without clear evidence of an abduction or physical violence."

Denise was getting frantic, her voice climbing until she was practically shouting. "Her ex has a history of violence! He's beaten her multiple times! And he's got a drug record on top of it! How is that not enough?

"Send someone! Go save her!"

My expression didn't change. "I understand how you feel."

She looked me up and down, her eyes shifting from desperate to contemptuous. "Who are you, anyway? Do you have any idea who my father is?"

There it was.

I'd waited 32 years to hear those words.

"I know who your father is," I said.

"Then how dare you treat me like this!" She stepped forward, her heels clicking sharp and fast against the floor.

"My father is Frank Holt, retired deputy chief of the city police department. One phone call from me and you'll be out of that uniform. You think I won't?"

The office went quiet for a couple of seconds. A few colleagues glanced over, and someone cleared their throat.

I studied Denise's face. She had her father's brow bone, his jawline, and the same habit of tilting her chin up slightly when she spoke.

Then I smiled.

"Ms. Holt, I know exactly who your father is." I closed the incident log.

"But rules are rules. Go home, wait out the 24 hours, and I'll contact you the moment we have anything."

Denise was shaking with rage. She pulled out her phone and dialed a number right in front of me.

"Dad! You need to get down to the detective division right now! Some cop is deliberately stonewalling me! I've already dropped your name, but she doesn't give a damn!"

She listened for a moment, then hung up and fixed me with a cold stare. "Just you wait."

Less than an hour later, the sound of a cane echoed down the hallway. Each tap was slow and deliberate, carrying the kind of swagger that signalled confidence.

The door swung open. A man in his 70s walked in, his hair completely white, his back slightly stooped. He wore a dark gray jacket and leaned on a cane.

His face was all hard lines and deep creases, but his eyes hadn't changed. They were still locked in that same arrogant half-squint.

It was Frank Holt. He'd gotten old, so old that I almost didn't recognize him.

But I would have recognized that frame, that walk, and those eyes anywhere. Even in my sleep.