While each family member was interrogated a second and third time, the detective sergeant kept track of the investigation via walkie-talkie. His men were situated throughout the building and checking every available space in the hotel as well as working the grounds and spreading through the city, reporting anything remotely suspicious on the streets.

Informants were contacted, and anyone with an arrest record for kidnapping was in for a shock, though Logan suspected that this case was different. This wasn’t the work of penny-ante crooks-this was different and deadly.

Logan was a practical man, a cop who had fought his way through the ranks to make detective sergeant. He hadn’t earned his position because of his education or his sophistication; he’d built his reputation by the simple fact that he always got the job done. Over the course of his twenty-odd years with the force, he’d been called a mule, a terrier, and a self-centered bastard, but the bottom line was that he got results. Crusty and cantankerous, with four-letter words being the essence of his vocabulary, he’d devoted his life to cleaning up the filthy streets of Portland.

He called ’em as he saw ’em and in his book, Zachary Danvers was a bad seed. Maybe not even Witt’s son. Rumor had it that Zach was sired by Anthony Polidori, and though Logan didn’t give much credit to most of the gossip he heard, he did believe that where there was smoke there was fire. He’d caught more than one slippery criminal on the anonymous tip, the “gossip” of the streets. So maybe the grudge between Zach and Witt was stronger than the old man wanted to admit. Maybe Zach hated the man who had raised him. Considering the feud between the Polidori and Danvers families, anything was possible.