Little Girl Gone (16 page)

“Help us out here,” Max said.

Darden lifted his head and said, “There was sexual misconduct.”

“An affair,” Sunder said.

“There was no affair,” Darden said. “Just an implication of sexual harassment.”

“Who'd you harass?” Max asked. “Who was the woman?”

Darden cocked his head and gave Max an incredulous look. “What? No, you've got it all wrong. It was a woman who was pressuring me!”

“What?” Max said. Now it was his turn to look surprised. “What woman? Who?”

At which point Slocum interceded. “That's not relevant,” he said smoothly. “The issue is over and done with and there are sealed documents for both parties. Mr. Darden has cooperated with you voluntarily. Now, if you need any more information, you're going to have to obtain a subpoena.”

“We can do that,” Max said pleasantly.

“Richard?” Slocum said. He stood up and cocked his head toward the door. But Darden remained seated.

“You're going to find this guy, Al, right?” Darden asked Max. “You're going to bring him in and question him like crazy?”

“Right away,” Max said.

“If he dared to take Elizabeth Ann . . .” Darden clenched his fists and got to his feet. As he stumbled toward Slocum, he looked like a man who was completely defeated.

*   *   *

CRAP
on a cracker,” Thacker burst out from where they were seated. “He was carrying on with another woman? What is this guy, some kind of modern-day Don Juan?”

But Afton was studying Darden as he shuffled out of the room. “I don't think he stole his own baby,” she said softly.

“What?” Jasper said, turning toward her. “What'd you say?”

“I think Darden's a lech and an arrogant jerk,” Afton said, with more assurance in her voice now. “But he's no kidnapper.”

“He
looks
guilty enough,” Thacker said. “He could have hired this guy Al to do the job for him. Maybe Al was the guy you tangled with last night.”

No
, Afton thought. Darden's demeanor and posture told her he was a broken man. Though he was floundering in an ocean of self-pity, she doubted that he'd masterminded the kidnapping. Or had a hand in last night's attack.

“We gotta huddle with Max,” Thacker said. “See if he wants us to send in a SWAT team to grab this guy Al.”

“Al Sponger,” Afton said.

Thacker and Bagin filed out, leaving Don Jasper behind. He fixed Afton with an inquisitive look.

“What?” she asked. She was afraid he was going to lay a mild flirt on her, hit on her. Or did a part of her
want
him to hit on her?

“Try not to lose that empathy,” Jasper said. “The best investigators retain their humanity despite having to endure a daily trudge through the mud. As long as you can wipe your feet off at the end of the day and remain human, you're doing okay. Better than okay.”

“You think?” Afton said. She was feeling a little forlorn. None of this had been pretty.

Jasper gave her a wink. “I know.”

T
HE
drive down Hennepin Avenue was sloppy and slow. Slush spattered the windshield as Afton navigated her Lincoln past a hodgepodge of mom-and-pop businesses set alongside slick national chain stores. She was glad she'd offered to drive, even though she was feeling tense. Max had decided that the two of them would go in and talk with Al Sponger. SWAT would hang back and keep their distance unless needed.

“Has Sponger been popped before?” Afton asked. She meant arrested.

Max shook his head. “No. But he did six months at Saint Peter.” Saint Peter was a state mental institution.

“And now he's at a halfway house.”

“Yup. It's our lucky day.”

They'd just crept across Twenty-sixth Street when Afton saw flashing lights up ahead.

“Accident,” she said. “I'm gonna turn left at the next street.”

“Huh?” Max grunted. He'd been busy reviewing notes from the Richard Darden interview. “Okay . . . sure.”

“The SWAT van's still behind us?”

Max glanced back over his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Good.” Afton wasn't as confident about confronting Al Sponger as
Max was. If Sponger had, in fact, kidnapped the Darden baby, then it was possible that he was the man who'd attacked her last night.

Heading into what was known as the Wedge, that slice of pie-shaped real estate between Hennepin and Lyndale Avenue, Afton sighed at the shrinking roadway. As snow continued to accumulate, each pass from the city's snowplows left more and more snow piled up along the curb. By the time March rolled around, the streets would be as narrow and carved as a bobsled run.

“What's the address again?” Afton asked. Her nerves were fizzing, her stomach turning flip-flops.

Max fumbled for the note Afton has passed on to him earlier. “Twenty-eight fourteen Girard,” he said. “It's some kind of halfway house for vets.”

“You think Sponger still lives there?”

“When I called fifteen minutes ago, the director said so. Or at least the guy showed up for supper two nights ago.”

“But you warned the director not to tell Sponger that we were gonna drop by.”

“That's right. Always nice to have the element of surprise on your side.”

Afton swung right on Girard and crawled along for a couple of blocks. “I think that's it up ahead on the right.”

“Drive slow,” Max said.

“If I drive any slower, I'm gonna get a parking ticket,” Afton said.

“Okay, okay.”

Max was keyed up, too, and Afton knew it. This could be the break they needed. Thacker had wanted to go in with full SWAT, but Max had persuaded him to hold off, to have them stand by. The SWAT team with their bang sticks and smoke bombs could always come later.

“This is it,” Max said.

Afton turned into a semicircular drive outside a three-story white stucco house with two dormers that overlooked the street. Ahead of them, a large white passenger van with D
EAN
'
S
H
OUSE
stenciled in red on the side blocked the rest of the drive.

“Here we go,” Max said. His right hand crept unconsciously to the Glock G43 he wore in his shoulder harness.

They climbed the front steps, pulled open a rickety door, and found themselves inside a screen porch. There were three battered lawn chairs and a tippy-looking table that held half-filled disposable cups of coffee and an overflowing ashtray.

Softly kicking snow from their boots, they pushed open the main door of the halfway house and went in. The place wasn't exactly homey, but it wasn't terrible either. Directly ahead was a wooden front desk with a honeycomb of open mailboxes behind it, like you might see in an old European hotel. Off to the left was an empty parlor with a circle of folding chairs, presumably some kind of meeting room. To the right was a large room with two overstuffed sofas, various mismatched easy chairs, and two dilapidated wheelchairs. A TV was on and three men were huddled in front of it, watching a reality show where two women snarled at each other over the paternity of their “baby daddy.”

Max walked up to the front desk and rang an old-fashioned bell. “Anybody home?” he called out.

A door opened and a skinny guy emerged from a small, messy office. He was mid-fifties, balding, wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and was dressed in a pair of green army slacks and a 1991 Twins World Series T-shirt. “Help you?” he said.

“Minneapolis Police,” Afton said, while Max held up his ID.

“Tom Showles?” Max asked.

Showles nodded and tugged at his pants, which seemed to be slowly slipping down around his hips. “That's me. I'm the director.” He lifted a hand in a cautionary gesture and said, “We don't want any trouble.”

Afton thought Showles looked underpaid, underfed, and under pressure.

“Neither do we,” Max said.

“Is Aldous Sponger here?” Afton asked. “We need to speak with him.”

Showles looked worried. “May I ask why?”

“Like I told you on the phone, it's just a formality,” Max said. Which was copspeak for,
Get his sorry ass out here.

“He was seen disposing of a package in a Dumpster off Lyndale Avenue,” Afton explained.

Now Showles looked confused. “You're here because Al was involved in clandestine dumping?”

“Just point me toward his room, okay?” Max said.

“Room 303. Top of the stairs,” Showles said. “But I'm not sure he's here.”

“Where is he?” Afton asked.

Showles shifted from one foot to the other. “I don't keep strict tabs on the men. We operate on the honor system here.”

“Yeah?” Max said. “How's that working out?”

“Mr. Sponger maintains fairly well when he stays on his meds.”

“What meds is he on?” Max asked.

Showles looked nervous. “I believe he takes chlorpromazine and Risperdal.”

“Heavy duty,” Afton said. This was not good news.

“He's only experienced two psychotic breaks that I know of,” Showles said. “Since he's been here anyway.”

“Is this guy dangerous?” Max asked.

“I don't think so.”

“But you don't really know,” Max said.

Afton and Max clumped up two narrow sets of stairs, Showles deciding to huff along behind them. They stopped outside Room 303 and Max wiggled a finger at Afton.

She knocked on the door and said in a pleasant, lilting voice, “Mr. Sponger? Are you in there?”

No answer.

Max stepped in and rapped harder on the door. “Mr. Sponger. Sir, we'd like to talk to you, please.”

Again nothing.

“Like I said, he might not be here right now,” Showles told them. “Sometimes he's gone for a while. Hanging out at the library or down by the old railroad track.”

“The railroad track?” Afton said.

“Sponger used to live down there,” Showles said. “Before they paved it over and turned it into a bike trail. Back when he was drinking, before we
took him in here. He'd hunker up under one of the bridges. Sometimes Al . . . well, he gets the urge to go back.”

“Let's take a look in his room,” Max said. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. It was locked.

Afton gazed at Showles. “I presume you are the keeper of the master key?”

“I'm still not sure if I should let you people in,” Showles said.

“If you think we need a warrant,” Max said, “just say the word.”

Showles sighed and pulled out a ring of keys. The first key he tried didn't work; the second one did.

As the door swung open, Max reached out and grabbed Showles by the shoulder, muscling him aside. Then Max stepped into the room, swiveled his head around, and waved Afton in after him.

The small white room was no larger than an eight-by-ten jail cell, but it was neat and clean. The narrow bed was made and covered with a threadbare white chenille bedspread, the folds razor-sharp. A small desk held a stack of old
City Pages
newspapers, a mug filled with pens and colored markers, and a small plastic Batman figure, the kind you'd get from a fast-food place.

“Tidy,” Max said.

“Monastic,” Afton said. There was a small closet but it was minus a door. A dozen articles of clothing dangled from wire hangers.

“Not much to see,” Showles said. “He lives a fairly quiet existence. Which is why I'm surprised you . . .”

Afton moved swiftly toward a series of pictures pinned to the wall and tapped one with a finger. “Is Mr. Sponger religious?”

Showles thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Not particularly. We have prayer circle, but . . .”

“Whatcha got?” Max asked.

“These pictures,” Afton said. She was slowly recalling the one art history class she'd taken at the University of Minnesota. “They're bits and snips from Renaissance paintings. In fact, they look as if they were probably cut from an art book.”

Max stared at the pictures and frowned. “Angels. Huh.”

“They're actually cherubs,” Afton said. “Painted by Raphael.” She was starting to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Max sucked in air through his front teeth as he studied the pictures a second time. “They're babies, really. Little blond babies.” He shifted his gaze to Showles. “Where'd you say Sponger liked to hang out?”

“It's cold, so he might be at the library . . . a few blocks over.”

“Walker Library,” Afton snapped. “Let's go.”

*   *   *

WALKER
Library wasn't the most popular spot this Tuesday afternoon. They pulled into one of a dozen empty parking spots, next to a bicycle outfitted with studded tires and chained to an iced-up drain spout.

Their footsteps were loud and determined as they crunched across a layer of rock salt that the library's maintenance staff had probably laid down to melt the ice.

“SWAT is still backing us up?” Afton asked. Her nervousness had turned to fear. Tom Showles's mention of Sponger's psychotic breaks didn't sit well with her.

“I told 'em to stay back,” Max said as they muscled their way into the newly spiffed-up library. “Unless I make the call. Then they'll come running.” Two men and a frizzy-haired woman were huddled at the front desk sorting books. They barely afforded them a glance as they breezed past.

Afton figured this was good. Get in, find their man, and get out. Let the chips fall where they may. And if they had to bring in the SWAT guys, so be it.

“You circle right, I'll go left,” Max said. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Afton slipped off to the right, edging between the outside wall and the first set of tall, metal bookshelves. She decided she'd do a methodical search, up one aisle, then down another. She stepped along briskly, got to the end, turned a corner, and glanced at a small sign. She was in nonfiction, in a section that went from Relationships to Zoroastrianism.

Not surprisingly, nobody was browsing books in this particular aisle. No problem. This was a sprawling library and she still had lots of aisles to
cover. She ghosted along, covering two, then three more aisles. No sign of Sponger. Turning a corner, she emerged into a common area. One man in a suit sat with his back to her, doing a hunt-and-peck number on his laptop computer. A young mother paged through a magazine while her toddler slept in a stroller. Another young woman, a student perhaps, read a Joan Didion novel, making occasional notes.

Sponger wasn't here.

Okay, just keep going.

Afton was in fiction now, moving along, a few book titles that she'd always wanted to read catching her eye. She turned the corner and . . . boom.

Sitting on the floor, bent over a large book, was a man in a ratty gray parka, brown stocking cap, and dirty Sorel boots. He was frowning and muttering to himself. Was this Sponger? Had to be—he looked an awful lot like the guy from the photo. She just hoped he'd remembered to swallow his little pink pills this morning.

Afton backed out of the aisle slowly and went off in search of Max. She found him lurking in the Business Section.

“Sponger's here,” she told him. “Maybe ten rows over. In fiction.”

Max's eyebrows rose in twin arcs. “Show me.”

They dodged around shelves and tiptoed down a row of books just one aisle over from where Sponger was sitting. Afton pulled a book off a shelf and Max peered through the empty space. He nodded when he caught sight of Sponger's face. He recognized him, too.

“Wait here,” Max whispered. He walked to the far wall, paused for a moment, and then dove around toward Sponger.

Sponger saw him coming and exploded like he'd been fired from a cannon. He leapt to his feet, squirted away from Max, and almost ran smack dab into Afton, who had headed around the other way.

“Hey!” Afton cried as Sponger skittered past her, wild-eyed and screeching, his arms flapping like an angry bird. She flailed out, trying to grab hold of him, but her fingertips only brushed the tail end of his coat.

“Noooo!” Sponger screamed as he raced through the common area.
Chairs flew, stacks of magazines toppled, a row of CDs went down like dominoes. Sponger grabbed a metal chair, tossed it back at them.

Afton leapt over the fallen chair, but heard a crashing sound and then Max swearing behind her. He hadn't cleared it.

“Call SWAT!” Afton cried. She pounded out the front door after Sponger and skidded to a stop. Her eyes darted up and down the street, trying to figure out which direction he might have run. Finally, she caught sight of him.

Sponger had dodged his way across Hennepin Avenue through fairly heavy traffic and was on the far sidewalk running north.

“Police! Stop!” Afton shouted, but Sponger ignored her. Scared but determined, she dove into traffic, was almost bullied back by a big black SUV with an aggressive driver and a honking horn, but managed to skitter across the street anyway. Sponger might have had a running start, but Afton had something to prove. If this was the guy who attacked her last night, she was out for revenge.
Gonna run this asshole down
, she told herself, kick him in the balls, grab him by the throat, and not let go no matter what.