He opened the map program on his smartphone—the van did not have GPS in it—and looked up Kemper’s Groveland Street address. As soon as he saw it on the screen, he realized he knew roughly where it was, and wouldn’t need directions.
He kept glancing in the mirror, saw the large mouth of the Audi grille trailing him right up until he turned onto Groveland, at which point Gaynor hung back. Sturgess pulled into the driveway at 36A and 36B. Kemper’s place was on the left.
He turned off the engine and sat for a moment before getting out. If Sarita was inside, she might have heard the van pull up and, thinking it was her boyfriend, run outside to greet him.
When she didn’t, the doctor got out and went to the door. Knocked. When no one answered, he knocked harder. Finally he tried turning the knob and, finding the door unlocked, stepped inside.
“Hello?” he said. “Sarita, are you here?”
It was a small apartment. He walked to the middle of it, surveyed the unmade bed, the dirty dishes in the sink, an untouched breakfast sandwich, men’s clothes scattered across the floor. The bathroom door was open. He poked his head in, pulled back the bathtub curtain. Not only did he not see Sarita, he saw no signs that a woman was living here. Which meant either Kemper had been lying, or that he’d been telling the truth, and Sarita had skipped.
He had a feeling it was the latter.
But if she had been here, she must have left recently. Kemper, desperate for a second needle that would save his life, had said she was here. Maybe she’d been trying to reach him on his phone, and when she couldn’t, panicked. She had to know he’d been trying to blackmail Bill Gaynor, so she might be thinking the police had picked him up, and this was going to be their next stop.
And then he remembered that when Kemper’s phone had rung, it had shown STEMPLE as the caller.
Sturgess got out his phone again, opened the app for phone numbers and addresses, and typed in “Stemple.”
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. The address attached to that name was the apartment next door.
Sturgess walked out, made the short journey to the other apartment, and rapped on the door. He could hear a television. He knocked again, at which point someone hollered, “Hold your horses!”
Finally, an elderly woman opened the door. She looked him up and down, at the doctor’s expensive suit, and said, “I ain’t dead yet.”
“Excuse me?”
“You look like an undertaker.”
“I’m not,” Sturgess said. “You must be Mrs. Stemple?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m looking for Sarita. Is she here?”
“Sarita?” the woman said. “Who the hell is that?”
Sturgess put his palm flat on the door, pushed it wide-open, and walked in.
“Hey,” she said. “You can’t do that.”
The apartment was slightly larger than Kemper’s, with a bedroom attached to the living area. He explored the two rooms, peered into the bathroom.
“I know she was here,” Sturgess said. “She made several calls from your phone. Recently. You going to deny that?”
“Maybe I was sleeping,” Mrs. Stemple said. “Someone could have come in and used the phone while I was having a nap in front of the TV.”
“Where is she?” Sturgess said, keeping his voice level. “If you don’t tell me, half an hour from now you’ll be downtown getting charged with . . .” He had to think. “Harboring a fugitive. That’s what you’ll be charged with.”
“You another cop?” she said.
Sturgess thought, Shit. The police had already been here? Did they already have Sarita?
“I was sent back here to talk to you again,” Sturgess said, improvising. “We don’t think you were very forthcoming with our other officer.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “I want you to get out of my house. I want to watch my shows.”
Sturgess looked at the high-tech chair in its elevated position. On the small table next to it, a remote, a book of crossword puzzles, an open box of chocolates, a Danielle Steel novel. That was her whole world there, a command center, sitting in front of the television.
Sturgess walked over there, found where the TV cord led to a power bar, and yanked it out. The TV went black.
“Hey!” Mrs. Stemple said.
The doctor knelt down, started fiddling with the cables.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to take your DVR, your cables, all this shit,” he said.
“What the hell for?”
“Because you won’t cooperate,” he said.
“She went to the bus station.”
He stopped. “What?”
“Sarita. She took a taxi to the bus station. She’s going to New York. Now turn my TV back on.”
“How long ago was this?”
The woman shrugged. “Ten minutes? I don’t know. Hook that back up.”
Sturgess plugged the TV back in, and the screen came to life. He stood up and said, “There you go.”
“Now get out,” Mrs. Stemple said.
“Let me help you into your chair,” he said.
“My chair helps me get into my chair,” she said, and positioned herself in front of it. She settled in, grabbed the remote, and powered the chair back down.
“I’ll let myself out,” Sturgess said.