Nash’s face flushed and he released the handle, flexing his fingers. “You’re doing eighty through the Loop at the start of evening rush hour. I’m surprised you haven’t jumped up on the sidewalk and mowed down a few pedestrians yet.”
Clair swerved, cutting off a middle-aged man in a black BMW. He held down his horn and slammed his middle finger against his windshield. “Emergency vehicles get right of way, asshole!” Clair shouted at her rearview mirror, holding her own finger out the window.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Nash said.
“You want my opinion? I think Watson or Bishop or whatever the hell his name is is playing us. We’re going to bust down that door, and the whole damn place is going to blow up in our faces, that’s what I think,” Clair said. “You know what else? If there’s a chance she’s in there, I think it’s worth the risk. This has been a game to him from the start. We’ve been like mice running through his maze. We’re going to his apartment because he wants us to, plain and simple. Why else would he write down the address? I guess—”
“Shit!” Nash shouted.
Clair pulled hard at the wheel, jumped the curb, and missed a garbage truck by less than four feet. As she tugged the wheel to the left, the car bounced back onto the road, avoiding a hot dog stand by a distance so snug, Nash could have reached out the window and grabbed dinner. “I guess as long as he’s yanking our strings, Emory is still alive somewhere.”
“You’re going to pretend that didn’t just happen?”
Clair nodded. “Yep.”
Nash rolled his eyes. “Kill the siren and lights—we’re getting close. Bishop’s building should be right up ahead.”
“There’s Espinosa.” Clair pointed at the dark blue Tomlinson Plumbing van about two blocks ahead. She parallel parked three cars behind it and called Espinosa on speaker.
Espinosa’s voice crackled back. “It’s the two-story building with the red Camry out front.”
Clair and Nash both looked up at once. “Got it.”
“My men are in position. Bishop’s apartment is on the first floor, second door from the right facing the street. We’ve been watching for about twenty minutes now. The blinds are drawn. We’re not getting any heat signatures from inside, but it’s tough to get a good reading through that brick. We’re going to breach, clear the space, then give you the go-ahead to follow. Copy?”
“Copy,” Clair replied. “Ready whenever you are.”
Espinosa began barking orders. Three men left the van in a quick run. Espinosa and another went for the front door, and the third rounded the side of the building heading toward the back. Arriving at the door, the first man shouted, “Police!” then broke it open with a small ram while the Espinosa covered him. They both ducked inside and disappeared in the shadows.
Espinosa’s voice came back on the line. “All clear, Detectives.”
Clair and Nash exited the Civic and bolted down the street, weapons drawn.
As they approached the front door, Espinosa stepped back outside. “He knew we were coming. He wants us here.”
“Why? What’s inside?”
He nodded back over his shoulder. “Take a look for yourself.”
Clair frowned and stepped through the doorway into the apartment.
It wasn’t very large, maybe eight hundred square feet or so. The door opened on a living room with a small kitchen to the side, a bathroom to the right, and another door toward the rear. There was no furniture, and the kitchen appeared unused. The walls were bare.
In the center of the room stood a white file box tied off with a black string.
69
Diary
I scooped up the photos and shoved them into my pocket just as Mother and Father stepped into the kitchen behind me.
“It smells something fierce in here,” Mother exclaimed, wrinkling her nose.
Father pointed at the refrigerator. “Somebody left the door open. Everything has probably started to spoil.”
My hand was still deep in my pocket. I was afraid to look down, half expecting to see the photographs floating to the floor, but they stayed safely tucked away in my pants.
Father let out a whistle. “They did a number on this place.”
They had. All the kitchen drawers and cabinets were open, the contents littering the floor and counter. In the living room, the couch was a tattered mess. The cushions had been sliced and gutted, their innards drifting around the room like white tumbleweeds. They had scratched a large X into the television screen. The books from Mrs. Carter’s collection had been pulled from the shelves and torn to pieces, pages scattered everywhere. Not a single item had been left untouched.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Mother said. “We should go.”
Father took a quick peek down the hallway into the master bedroom, then returned to the kitchen. “If whatever they’re looking for was here, they must have found it. They hit every room, every possible hiding spot.”
“I want to leave.” Mother shuffled her feet.
I heard the car right before Father did, but he still beat me to the screen door. I drew next to him and watched the green Plymouth Duster as it left the road and started down the gravel driveway toward the house. The morning sun glared off the windshield, and I couldn’t see inside.
“Back home, now!” Father ordered.
The three of us bolted out the front door and across the lawn in a dead run, with Mother in the lead and Father behind me. I half expected him to stop and exact some kind of revenge for his Porsche, but he did not. Father was very smart and not one to let his anger take charge.
I bounded up the steps into our house as the Plymouth slid to a halt somewhere behind us. A car door squeaked open, quickly followed by the distinctive clunk of a rifle bolt. Mr. Stranger’s voice boomed: “Howdy, neighbors! Did you miss us?”
70
Porter
Day 2 ? 4:57 p.m.
As Porter exited the hospital’s main entrance, he spotted a young woman climbing out of a cab at the curb. With two fingers pressed between his lips, he let out a whistle loud enough to startle an elderly gentleman at his right. He forced a smile, nodded at him, and hobbled toward the taxi.
When Porter fell into the back seat, the driver snickered. “Are you escaping?”
Porter pulled the door shut and winced as the motion tugged at his stitches. “What?”
“You’re wearing scrubs and you look a little rough to be on staff.”
“No, nothing like that. One of my coworkers stabbed me in the leg with a kitchen knife, then left me for dead in my kitchen. I couldn’t find my clothes, so I took these.”
“Smart-ass.” The man smirked. “Where we heading?”
“A place called Lost Time Antiques and Collectibles, on Belmont,” Porter told him.
“Address?”
Porter realized he didn’t have an exact address. He reached for his phone and remembered again that Bishop had crushed it. “I don’t know. I was told it was on Belmont.”
The driver rolled his eyes, reached for his own phone, and tapped away at the screen. “316 West Belmont. Looks like it’s across the street from the Belmont Edge apartments.”