Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,61

Currently, there’s another class in session, but according to the sign posted outside the door, this class is taught by the same professor.

Tyler wastes no time knocking on the door, interrupting the professor mid-sentence.

The professor, a clean-cut guy in his mid-thirties, opens the door and sticks his head through the opening. “Do you mind? We’re in the middle of class.”

Out of habit, Tyler starts to reach into his jacket pocket for his badge, but then he stops himself. “I apologize for the interruption. You’re Professor Baker?”

“Yes.” The man looks from Tyler to me. “What’s this about?”

Tyler can’t rely on his affiliation with the police department to demand information, so I step in. “Professor, we’re sorry for the interruption, but it’s urgent. I’m Ian Alexander, Layla’s brother. She’s in your one o’clock class.”

The man frowns. “Layla? Is everything okay? I was surprised when she missed class today. It’s not like her to be absent. I hope she’s not sick.”

“She missed class?” I ask. Shit. She’s been missing longer than we realized.

“Yes,” the man says. Abruptly, he stops himself. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t talk to you about this, not without Layla’s permission. Student privacy laws, you know.”

Tyler nods as he jots something down in his notebook. “Thanks for your time.”

As the professor returns to his lecturing, Tyler consults my notes on the rest of Layla’s class schedule.

We end up working our way backward through her schedule, locating each classroom and then trying to track down each of her professors—psychology, English, history, biology. Half of them are still on campus, and the other half have gone for the day. But the ones we speak to all give the same response.

Layla wasn’t in class today.

I feel sick as the implication sinks in. She’s been missing for hours, if not all day. I can’t even bear to think about where she is, or what’s happening to her. God, she must be terrified. “Tyler, what if she—”

“Ian, don’t go there. You’ll drive yourself crazy.” Tyler pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Martin, I need the contact information for Layla’s bodyguard. His home address, phone number, anything you can get from the agency.”

We head back to the car, and by the time we’re buckled in and ready to leave campus, my dad calls back with the information Tyler asked for. I write it all down in the notebook.

“Call Sean’s number,” Tyler tells me.

I try, but my call goes to voicemail. “Straight to voicemail.”

“You have his address?”

“Yes.” As I rattle it off, Tyler frowns. “Why the scowl?” I ask him.

“That’s a rough neighborhood. I would expect Sean to be able to afford something better.”

When we locate Sean’s apartment, Tyler parks in front of a four-unit, beige concrete building, two apartments on the ground floor and two above. Two of the first-floor windows are boarded up with plywood decorated with graffiti. Trash cans on the side of the building are overflowing, and there’s an abandoned sofa in the front yard.

Tyler points toward the spray-painted markings on the windows. “Those are gang symbols,” he says as he withdraws his gun from his holster and checks the magazine. “Stay in the car and lock the doors. Honk if there’s any trouble.”

I reach for my door handle. “I’m coming with you.”

Tyler gives me an exasperated look. “Ian, no.”

“I’m not waiting in the car. We’re doing this together.” I open my door and step out.

Looking far from happy, Tyler gets out of the car and locks it with his key fob. “Then stay close behind me.”

I follow him along the broken sidewalk to the front entrance, where the door hangs crookedly on broken hinges.

Tyler pushes me behind him as he pries the door open and peers inside the dimly lit building.

I follow right on his heels, immediately getting a strong whiff of urine. “This place reeks. I can’t believe Sean lives here.”

We head upstairs to Sean’s apartment, 2B. The hallway is littered with old newspapers, fast food containers, and empty beer cans.

Tyler knocks on the door. “Chicago PD. Open up!” When there’s no response, he pounds on the door. “Chicago PD! Open the door!”

Still no response.

Tyler reaches into his jacket and withdraws a black leather wallet, which he flips open. Inside are several slender picks that resemble tiny instruments of torture. He sticks one of the picks into the door lock, moves it around a bit, and then a moment later, the knob turns. He pushes the door open.

The apartment is a mess, with clothes and trash strewn across