“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.