The interior of Sampson’s was darker than pitch. Probably well under the regulation lumens required by the liquor licensing board. That was okay with Afton. This way she wouldn’t have to look at the winos who were already slumped anonymously at the front bar, or the ugly orange carpet, or the studded red plastic lamps that dangled on bare cords.
Max paused to study the inhabitants, didn’t recognize any familiar faces lurking at the bar, and turned his attention to what could loosely be called the dining room. Loosely, because it was basically three Formica tables and an unattended pull-tab booth encased in chicken wire.
Seated at one of the tables, eating peanuts and sipping an amber-colored drink, was a man dressed in coveralls, Red Wing work boots, and a red cap with the earflaps down. His chair was tipped back and he was watching a college hockey game on TV.
“There’s our boy,” Max said.
They strolled across a dark expanse of dance floor that felt sticky underfoot, and headed straight for The Scrounger’s table.
“Whoa,” The Scrounger said when he caught sight of Max. “Look who’s out slumming.”
“How do,” Max said.
“Detective Montgomery,” The Scrounger said. “What an unexpected pleasure.” His eyes flicked over and took in Afton. “And I do believe you’ve made a serious upgrade when it comes to your choice in partners.”
“Thanks,” Afton said. “I think. Although I’m not technically a detective.” The Scrounger had ginger-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, a scruffy beard, and brown eyes that were pinpricks of intensity. He looked like a cross between a stoner and a University of Minnesota English professor.
“Mmn,” The Scrounger said, smiling at Afton. “You must be a protégée then.”
“Something like that,” Max said. He sat down across from The Scrounger and Afton followed suit. “This is Afton Tangler. She’s been working with me on the Darden kidnapping case.”
“Ah,” The Scrounger said. “Nasty.” He crunched a peanut between his front teeth and smiled again at Afton. “I meant the case, not you.”
“The FBI is working the case pretty hard,” Max said. “Obviously, they would. But MPD is running its own investigation as well.”
“It’s been all over the news,” The Scrounger said. “They think it might have been a woman who stole the kid?”
“It’s possible,” Afton said.
“I know that Kenwood Parkway, where the Dardens live, is one of your routes,” Max said.
“Surely you don’t think that I—”
Max held up a hand. “No, no, nothing like that. But I know you’re familiar with that particular part of the city.”
The Scrounger nodded. “Intimately.”
“And I was wondering if maybe you’d seen or heard anything that was a little off?”
“You mean suspicious,” The Scrounger said.
“Right,” Afton said.
The Scrounger thought for a few moments. “Last week I found an entire set of encyclopedias dumped in a trash can in the alley that runs behind James Avenue. Can you believe that? A compendium of universal knowledge trashed along with the detritus of chicken bones and potato peels. The biography of Cicero, great battles of World War Two, and botanical miracles. What’s the world coming to?”
“Digital,” Afton said.
“But are we better off for it?” The Scrounger picked up his almost empty glass and tinkled his ice cubes.
“Probably not,” Afton said. Though she did love her iPad.
“No, of course not,” The Scrounger said. “But to get back to your original inquiry . . . I have not noticed anything unusual or out of place in that neighborhood. Except for an empty Ripple bottle tossed into the recycling bin of a home that generally prefers Chateau Margaux Grand Cru or, at the very least, a Mondavi Cabernet. Though perhaps it was an insensitive transient who deposited his refuse among that of the hoi polloi.”
“So nothing at all,” Max said. He sounded disappointed.
“Nothing, my friend,” The Scrounger said. “Though I wish I could propel you in a more positive direction.”
“Ever hear of a halfway house called Dean’s Place?”
“Sure,” The Scrounger said. “Bunch of ex-druggies and drunks.”
“There’s a guy lives there named Al Sponger,” Max said. “Worked for the Dardens once. We brought him in for questioning yesterday and he’s being released this morning.”
The Scrounger nodded. “I see.”
Max pulled a photo out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “It’d be worth your while if you’d keep an eye on him.”
The Scrounger studied the photo. “Ah . . . a second level of surveillance. Your basic shadow-type investigation.”
“Something like that.”
“Consider it done.”
Max slipped a twenty from his wallet and placed it on top of the photo. “In case you’d like another refreshing beverage.”
“Always,” The Scrounger said.
*
BACK in the car, Max seemed at a loss for what to do next.
“Maybe we should finish going through the interviews?” Afton suggested.