“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.”
22
THE 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 DEAN’S HOUSE stenciled in red on the side blocked the rest of the drive.