Chapter 24 Vanished

Chapter 24 Vanished
Detective Bruno POV

The door to David Kellerman's apartment hung open when I arrived, yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the hallway breeze like a taunt. I'd been a detective for nineteen years. I knew what an empty apartment looked like before I crossed the threshold.
"Don't bother with booties, Bruno." Jenkins from forensics stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips. "There's nothing here to contaminate."
I stepped inside anyway, latex gloves already on. The apartment had that hollow quality of a place recently abandoned—not the comfortable emptiness of someone on vacation, but the deliberate void left by someone who knew exactly what they were erasing.
"When did building security last see him?"
"Yesterday morning. 7:43 AM." Jenkins gestured to the kitchen. "We found traces of accelerant in the sink drain. He burned something, probably documents. Wiped down every surface with bleach solution. We're talking hospital-grade sterilization."
I moved through the space, my shoes squeaking on bare hardwood. No furniture remained except a leather couch too heavy to move quickly. The walls showed rectangular shadows where frames had hung. Even the refrigerator stood empty, door propped open, the shelves scrubbed clean.
"Closets?"
"Empty. Bathroom too. Guy took his toothbrush, Bruno. Who takes their toothbrush when they're running?"
Someone who'd planned this. Someone who'd run before.
I crouched beside the couch, running my flashlight along the baseboards. "What about electronics? Computer, phone?"
"Gone. We found a router, but the hard drive's been physically destroyed. Smashed with something heavy, then the pieces scattered. We're collecting fragments, but recovery's unlikely."
The bedroom offered more of the same sterile absence. The mattress lay bare, but when I pressed my palm against it, the center still held body heat from the building's radiators. He'd stripped this place within the last twenty-four hours. While I'd been chasing security logs and traffic cameras, David Kellerman had been systematically erasing his existence.
"The brother's place?" I asked, though I already knew.
"Morrison's there now. Same story. Richard cleared out even faster—no furniture left at all. His building's security cameras were disabled yesterday afternoon. Someone who knew exactly where they were and how to disable them without triggering alarms."
Of course. Richard, the former detective who'd spent thirty years learning how to circumvent the very systems designed to catch criminals like his brother.
I walked to the window. Forty-third floor, panoramic view of Manhattan. David had stood here, maybe yesterday, watching the city below while he planned his disappearance. While Morgana sat in a safe house thinking she was protected.
"Bruno." Jenkins appeared in the bedroom doorway. "Trash chute."
I followed him to the kitchen, where another tech was photographing the small trash bin beside the refrigerator. Inside, buried under wadded paper towels: a burner phone.
My pulse quickened. "Powered on?"
"Dead battery, but we charged it enough to access the call log." The tech's face was grim. "One outgoing call, made at 2:17 AM last night. Duration: forty-three seconds."
"To?"
He handed me a printout. I didn't need to check it against my notes. I'd memorized Morgana's number weeks ago when she first appeared in our victim's contact lists.
The safe house number.
My hands went cold inside the latex gloves. "That's impossible. That number isn't public record. It's not even in the precinct database—it's handled through federal witness protection protocols."
"Someone gave it to him," Jenkins said quietly. "Or he already knew where she was going before she got there."
I pulled out my phone, dialing Morrison. He answered on the first ring.
"Bruno, Richard's place is—"
"Empty, I know. Listen to me. David called Morgana's safe house at 2 AM. He has the number."
Silence. Then: "Jesus Christ."
"We have a leak. Someone in the department, or someone with access to federal protection databases." I was already moving toward the door, Jenkins and his team scrambling behind me. "I'm going to the safe house now. Get units rolling, but keep it off the radio. If we have a leak, we can't broadcast where we're going."
"On it. Bruno—"
"What?"
"Richard's apartment had something yours didn't. On the bathroom mirror, written in soap: 'Family first.'"
I ended the call, breaking into a run down the hallway. The elevator took an eternity. In my head, I calculated: 2:17 AM call, now 11:30 AM. Nine hours. What could a trained predator do with a nine-hour head start and inside knowledge of police protection protocols?
My phone buzzed. Text from the safe house detail: All clear. Subject secure. No unusual activity.
But David Kellerman didn't make mistakes. He didn't place calls to safe houses just to hear Morgana's voice. Every action had purpose, every move calculated.
The elevator doors opened to the parking garage. I was halfway to my car when the second text arrived: Correction—subject used bathroom 20 min ago, hasn't emerged. Checking now.
I was running, keys in hand, when the third text came through: Bathroom window open. She's gone.
I stood beside my car, phone gripped so tight the screen protested under my thumb. Through the parking garage's concrete pillars, traffic moved on the street above, oblivious. Somewhere in this city, David Kellerman had Morgana Gaius. He'd had her for at least twenty minutes, maybe longer.
And he'd called ahead to make sure we knew exactly when we'd lost her.
I dialed Morrison back. "He took her. Right out from under protective custody."
"That's not possible. How—"
"Because he's been planning this for months. Because his brother spent thirty years learning every weakness in our system. Because we're not hunting an amateur, Morrison. We're hunting a predator who knows exactly how we think." I climbed into my car, engine already roaring to life. "Put out an APB for both Kellermans. Every available unit. And Morrison? Start looking at everyone who had access to that safe house location. Someone told him where she was."
"Where are you going?"
I thought about the burner phone, left deliberately in the trash. The call made at 2 AM, ensuring we'd find it eventually but not soon enough. The soap message about family.
"Connecticut. Richard Kellerman owned property upstate before he moved to the city. Family estate, inherited from their father."
"That's not in any of his financial records."
"Because it was transferred to a shell company in 1987. I found the deed buried in county records yesterday." I pulled onto the street, siren screaming. "David didn't just clear his apartment, Morrison. He cleared everything. But you can't erase a deed filed before digital records. He's taking her somewhere he feels safe. Somewhere family history runs deep enough to hide bodies."
I ended the call before he could argue procedure or jurisdiction. The speedometer climbed past eighty as I merged onto the highway north.
The burner phone had been a message: I have her, and I wanted you to know.
But the timing told a different story. David Kellerman had called that safe house at 2:17 AM because he'd already been inside. Because someone had helped him. Because Morgana Gaius had been gone long before my forensics team found that phone.
I had nine hours to close. Maybe less.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number. I answered anyway.
"Detective Bruno." Richard Kellerman's voice was calm, almost friendly. "I assume you found the phone. David wanted to give you a sporting chance. Twenty-four hours. After that, well. Family business takes precedence over sporting chances."
The line went dead.