“LOOK,” BARBARA SAID. “913 Prairie Avenue is a 7-Eleven. They wanted to make the meet in that shopping center parking lot, right? That wouldn’t have been my first choice.”
I came out of my funk. “Take a left here on Arbor Vitae. Look, right there, that two-story apartment building, the Langston Arms. Those two-story apartments look right down into the 7-Eleven parking lot at what, about four or five hundred feet away? Those apartments are going to be where they’d have watched the exchange, from that high point, that position of advantage. I don’t see anything else close that fits the bill. Yeah, that’s going to be it.
“Go down, turn around, come back up, and park on Prairie. We’ll walk in.” She didn’t comment or complain, an ex-felon telling a chief what to do. We parked on Prairie and walked back. I stopped and checked out the back of The Langston. Up top, on the second story in the back, looked like the bedrooms for the units cantilevered over the parking stalls. The stalls were numbered for each apartment, starting with 101. The two hundreds for the upstairs must be around the front. I stopped and looked back down Prairie to get my bearings.
“What?” Barbara asked.
“This is it. Now I’m sure of it. The Lennox Sheriff Station is less than two miles from here. And these guys are smart and would know that if we had to, we’d check every hotel and motel in the area. An apartment is a great idea. It’s close to where my nephew Bruno works at Lennox Station, if they wanted to keep a closer eye on him. Yeah, this is it.” I adjusted the gun in my belt under my shirt, the metal warmed now, making the weapon a part of me.
We went around to the front. The place looked like an old motel converted to small apartments. Tall wrought iron surrounded the front with two openings for the occupants and visitors to enter and exit. An exterior walkway for the second floor ran the length of the building, with the front doors looking down on the parking area.
“What a great defensive position,” Barbara said. “I see what you mean. How are we going to handle it?”
“You’re the chief of police, you call the play.”
“Don’t yank on my dick, Bruno. I’m a desk jockey. It’s been years since I played on the street. Throw me out some options here. You’ve had to have run into something like this in the past.”
“I have, and they didn’t turn out as well as they should’ve.”
“Shark for dinner?”
“Yeah.”
Not so many months ago, Barbara went with me to a door to recover three children—Eddie Crane, Elena Cortez, Sandy Williams—and Marie, who were held against their will. I kicked the door and got a chest-load of buckshot for my trouble. Laid me out flat, knocked the wind out me. The body armor saved my life. The FBI agent with us went next and fell to multiple gunshot wounds. He never made it across the threshold. Barbara, third in our entry stick, did not hesitate. She stepped right into the kill zone and continued to advance as she fired, taking out the suspect, Jonas Mabry. She should’ve been awarded the medal of valor for her actions, but as chief, the citizens expected nothing less.
No way did she qualify as merely a desk jockey. She possessed that innate street sense that great cops take years to hone to a fine edge. I’d go through a door with her anytime.
“I got an idea,” I said. “Come on.” I led the way to the end unit. Over the door, a cheap metal sign read “The Manager.”
Overhead, a naked yellow bulb illuminated us. I knocked. I didn’t have to tell Barbara; she got out her flat badge wallet and had it ready. The door opened. The manager stood back in the shadow created by the rusted-out screen door. “Yeah?” the woman said.
“Police, ma’am. Can we come in and talk with you?”
“Hell, no.” She slammed the wood door.
I pulled open the screen.
“Bruno, don’t.”
I tried the knob. It turned. I barged in.
“Bruno!”
The rail-thin woman had a mop of gray hair. She was dressed in men’s pants and a blouse that hung off her boney frame. She backed up, her eyes large. “Wait, wait. You’re not cops. Cops don’t act like that. I’m calling the real cops right now.” She recovered some of her moxie and headed to the old rotary-dial phone on the end table next to her recliner.
I took two long steps over to her, grabbed the phone from her hand, and slammed it down. “Sit.” I used two fingers pressed to her forehead to ease her into the recliner.
“You can’t do this. I’m reporting you.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll even dial the phone for you after we’re done with our business here.”
“What is it you want?”
“We are the police, and we’re here on a life-and-death matter. Two small children have been kidnapped.”
She lost her scowl and her expression turned to one of care and concern. She could’ve almost been someone’s grandmother. Almost.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. The place reeked with five decades of tar from cigarettes. Tar impregnated the walls and curtains and carpet. The walls carried a yellowish tint over the old beige paint. On the end table next to the phone sat three opened Old Milwaukee cans of beer, the tall, 16-ounce cans. Next to the beer sat an overflowing ashtray with ash and butts piled high. Next to that, an open carton of Virginia Slims. Now up close, I smelled the alcohol on her breath and emitting from her pores.
“It’s those people in 207, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said, trying to keep the momentum going with a bluff. “How long have they been renting from you?”
“About two months now. I knew something was fishy with them.”
“Why?” Barbara asked.
The woman looked at Barbara. “I guess ’cause I never had problem one out of ’em. Everyone else, they make too much noise. The women use the place as a hot-pillow joint. And damn near all of ’em are late on the rent. Not those folks in 207. They keep to themselves and paid the rent up three months in advance, said they didn’t want to be bothered with it every month.”
“What do the children look like?”
Her face lit up. “Cute little boy and girl, nice and polite, brought up real good.”
“How long have they been here?”
“The children?”
“Yeah, the children.”
“No more than a week, I wouldn’t think. No, no, maybe four days, now that I think about.” She picked up the Old Milwaukie and took a long chug, her throat working hard to carry the load. She brought down the can. “Now that I think about it, there is something strange about ’em.”
“What?” Barbara asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I only seen three men with those children, never any women. Never thought about that until just now. That’s awfully odd, don’t you think?”
I looked at Barbara. “You satisfied?”
“I’m good with it. How we going to do this?”
“By that clock”—I pointed to the wall—“we have about ten minutes before the meet on the pier. We have to hustle before they confirm the cops are involved and make a phone call that will surely cause them to move the kids.”
“Why move the kids?”
“Just to be safe. If the cops are involved, they wouldn’t leave them in any one place too long. You good with a cold knock?”
“Sure.”
“I can’t go up there with you.” I said. “They’ve had a look at me already. You get the door open and I’ll come runnin’.”
“I’ll tell them I’m with Social Services and need to get a count on how many are living in their section-eight housing.”
“I’ll be up on the landing down at this end. You get the door open and give me the signal.”
Barbara headed for the door.
“Thanks, ma’am,” I said. “Please stay off the phone until we leave the premises.”
She nodded as she took another chug of her beer.
I walked out the door, the shopping center in plain view across the street. The layout in relation to The Langston Arms struck me as odd. Outside, I looked down the side along the concrete path in front of all the apartment doors and then looked back at the parking lot to the strip center across the street. I tried to imagine the point of view ten feet up on the second level. I turned and stepped back into the manager’s apartment. Barbara stayed right with me and stopped at the threshold.
“Hey,” I said, “put that phone down. What’d we just tell you?” The woman had not even waited until her door closed with us outside before she’d started to dial. She fumbled the phone back into the cradle.
“Do the people in 207 have more than one apartment?”
“Ah, yeah, sure, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Forgot all about it. I guess I’m getting old.”
I turned back to Barbara. “Come back in and close the door.”