Free The Disappearance by J. F. Freedman

the cop’s flashlight catches a reflection off something lying on the floor behind the seat.
    “Excuse me, sir,” the officer says tersely. “What’s this?”
    “What’s what?” Allison turns to look behind him.
    There’s a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon on the floor. It’s half empty. “Turn around, sir,” the cop says harshly. “Come up here onto the sidewalk, and place both hands behind your head.” Keeping his eyes on Joe, he bends down and picks up the bottle. “Having an opened bottle of spirits in a vehicle is illegal, Mr. Allison.”
    Joe’s startled. “Hey, I don’t know how this got here,” he protests. “I don’t even drink bourbon.”
    “Do as I say.”
    Joe backs off. How did that get there? “The parking lot attendant must’ve left it there, because it isn’t mine, I swear to God.”
    The officer pats him down. “Please sit down on the ground, sir, with your hands behind your head.” He opens the passenger door, shining the flashlight on the floorboards and under the seats.
    “That isn’t mine,” Joe protests again.
    The cop ignores him. He starts rummaging around in the still-open glove compartment, taking items out and laying them on the seat.
    “There’s nothing in there.” The sidewalk is damp; his ass is getting wet through his trousers, and he’s sweating like a bandit under the arms.
    The officer has almost finished searching through the pile of bills, old registrations, used food wrappers, and assorted other junk. All the way in the back, almost buried in a crease in the lining, he feels something like a key. He shines his light into the recess, pushing some of the junk aside so he can pull it out and see what it is.
    A couple of house keys on a short key ring attached to a funny-looking cross. Expensive, the cop thinks, tossing the keys in his palm. Why does this seem familiar?
    Then he remembers.
    Joe is brought to the police station. He doesn’t have a lawyer in town; he’s never needed one. He tries to call his agent in L.A., but Scott’s on the red-eye to New York.
    At least they’ve got him in a single cell, not sharing with anyone else.
    The key ring belonged to Emma Lancaster. Her mother had bought it for her in Greece, when they were on vacation the summer before last. The summer before she died.
    It’s after one in the morning. Bert Sterling and Terry Jackson, who had been the lead detectives on the kidnapping case, are called at home. They dress hurriedly and come down to the station. Sheriff Williams is also summoned and comes in.
    Joe has already been Mirandized out in the field which he assumed had been on the DUI and open-bottle violation. The arresting officer wasn’t specific. The officers talk about what they should do.
    Williams is cautiously optimistic—what an incredible stroke of luck. “We’ve got to be really careful here. We don’t want to blow this.” He thinks about what to do. He calls the district attorney, Ray Logan.
    Logan listens intently as Williams fills him in over the phone. There are good reasons to consider Joe Allison a prime suspect, both men agree. The key ring, of course, is a damning piece of evidence. Allison knew the Lancaster house and property well; he’d been there dozens of times. He may well have known the alarm-system codes. And as ugly as the prospect might be, he could be the guy who was fucking Emma—he’s great-looking, charismatic, exactly the kind of man a young girl just learning how to fall in love would go for.
    Logan gets to the jail in less than twenty minutes. “What do you think?” he asks the sheriff.
    “I think it could be him,” the sheriff says. “That key ring …”
    “A big piece, anyway,” Logan agrees. He ponders the options, then says to the sheriff, “Let’s talk to the man.” He thinks a moment longer. “And I want to send one of your men to his house. I’ll call in the search warrant.”
    Williams turns to Sterling. “Go get ’em, slugger. You know what we’re