As he got out of his car and headed for the entrance to the apartment block, Ty thought about the scene in the movie Pulp Fiction where Samuel L. Jackson’s character talked about how his girlfriend being a vegetarian meant that he had to be one.
This situation, he reflected, was a little like that. Because Lock had got bored and decided to go on a crusade, now Ty was on one too.
On the other hand, Lock had saved his ass more times than he cared to count. So, what the hell, he guessed a few days tracking down this kid wasn’t the end of the world. They’d find her, take her with them, and then he could get back to paying clients.
Apart from the height of hostilities in Afghanistan and Iraq, Ty couldn’t remember a time when the security business had been so in demand, not in America anyway.
People were scared. Especially rich people. Having spent time in actual war zones, he didn’t get it. He assumed it was down to reading the news and watching TV and the constant consumption of social media, which often painted a picture of the nation he didn’t recognize. All that said, fear was good when you were someone who sold safety and reassurance.
Timing his jog up the short flight of stairs to coincide with someone coming out, he held the door open as a woman came out carrying a tiny dog on a leash. She looked at him but didn’t say anything, which figured. The apartment building was a little down at heel and given the person he was looking for, Hanger’s bottom girl who went by the name Soothe, Ty figured that male visitors might just be a regular feature.
In the lobby he checked the mailbox and the apartment number. 203. Second floor. The mailbox for the apartment looked to be empty. That was good news, a sign that Soothe, and possibly Kristin, might be up there.
Ty’s plan was simple. Get inside somehow. If Kristin was there, make sure she didn’t leave and call the cops. If they didn’t respond fast enough or things got heated, he would put her in his car and drive her home himself. Lock had already given him the Miller family address.
The elevator was, unsurprisingly, out of order. The building reminded him of a lot of people in LA, something that the sunshine made look fine from a distance.
He took the stairs two at a time, taking the opportunity to work off some of the turkey and sweet potato pie he’d ODed on. He pushed out into the corridor, turned a corner and there it was. Apartment number 203.
With a loud rap of the knuckles, he stayed close to the door to see if he could hear movement, his hand pressed flat against the peephole so no one looking out could see him.
Nothing. No response. No sound from inside.
He tried again.
If anyone was inside, they were staying quiet.
He wondered if Monocle had coughed up a fake address, but doubted it. Monocle may have backed up his buddy when they beat up Lock, but Ty had put some real fear in the man.
It was more likely that he’d tipped off Hanger.
There was only one way to find out.
Stepping back, Ty launched a heavy boot at the edge of the door frame. Cheap door. Cheap lock. It gave way on the second attempt, the frame splintering.
None of the neighbors opened their door to see what was going on. Ty stepped inside, his gun drawn, just in case Hanger was waiting on the inside.
Pushing the front door closed behind him, he moved silently into the apartment. Dirty dishes and empty food containers and liquor bottles were strewn across a small kitchen. The dishes filled the sink and spilled over onto the counter. A cockroach made a sudden dash for safety as Ty took a closer look.
On a small breakfast table, an ashtray overflowed with lipstick smeared cigarette butts. A half empty bottle of vodka sat next to it.
It was impossible to tell if they had left in a hurry or whether the filth and squalor was a regular feature of a chaotic lifestyle.
The motif continued in the living room. A muted TV was tuned to a rap music channel. There were more bottles here. Ty lifted a small clear plastic bag full of marijuana buds. He set it back down and moved into a bedroom.
Clothes were strewn across the bed and floor. He checked the closet for suitcases and bags and didn’t see any.
They had split. In a hurry. He would bet on it.
He took a quick video, panning across the clothes. Perhaps Kristin’s mom would spot an item she recognized from her daughter’s wardrobe and they would have confirmation that she’d been here, even if she wasn’t here now.
If someone did see the breached door, or had heard him kick it in, and decided to call the cops, he planned on telling them why he was here and hoping for the best. But it was a conversation he’d rather avoid if he could. Breaking and entering was still just that, regardless of how noble your motive was.
A final sweep of the place threw up a utility bill. It had what he assumed was Soothe’s real name, Desiree Washington. He took a picture of the bill with his phone and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him.
Pulling up his collar, he flew back down the stairs and walked back outside to his car.
Ty drove a few blocks down and pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot. He called Lock. He didn’t pick up. He left a voicemail, giving his partner the bad news.Monocle had given him another lead, but this one, Ty suspected, would be a lot harder to chase down.