“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.