Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(43)

“We did,” Afton said. “But now we’d like to figure out who dumped the doll. Because it’s . . . well, strange.”

Debow nodded and ushered them past racks of plastic-bagged clothes into his back office so they could all view his surveillance tapes.

Which really weren’t tapes at all.

“It’s just a motion-activated camera,” Debow explained. “Duane, my sixteen-year-old, was the one who set it up for me. It just records for a couple hours, pauses, then records again over the old stuff.” He sneezed hard, said, “This damn sinus drip, excuse me,” then pressed a button on a small monitor. “I don’t know if this will help or not, but you’re more than welcome to look.”

“Can you take it back to about a half hour ago?” Max asked.

Debow fiddled with some more buttons and a picture came up immediately. They watched patiently for ten minutes as a couple dozen people streamed by, and cars and buses zipped past on the street. Finally, lo and behold, there was a man dressed in an old brown coat with a ratty fur collar, a coat like immigrants sometimes wore when they came trooping through Ellis Island back in the thirties. The man was walking down Lyndale Avenue and clutching a bundle.

“Holy crap,” Pinsky said. “That’s gotta be your guy.”

“It could be,” Max said.

“The question is, why is he doing that?” Afton asked. She wondered if it was supposed to be some kind of ruse or decoy. Or, God forbid, a practice run?

Max looked at Debow. “Can we have this tape?”

“It’s a CD. Go ahead and take it,” Debow said, trying not to sneeze again. “Hope you find that poor baby.”


*

WHEN they returned to the parking lot, Studer had already looped black-and-yellow crime scene tape around the Dumpster and between two light standards to cordon off the premises. “Already called in the crime scene guys,” he told them.

Now they all stood around blowing out plumes of steam, stomping their feet to stay warm, and fending off a half dozen looky-loos who seemed to enjoy the leisurely pace of not having a day job.

“You realize,” Afton said, “this place is, like, twelve blocks as the crow flies from Kenwood.”

“Yeah,” Max said, “but look around. It’s a whole ’nother universe.”

And he was right. This stretch of Lyndale Avenue was populated by Vietnamese green grocers, loan offices, Mexican restaurants, and thrift shops. Whereas Kenwood was old-world stone mansions clustered around picturesque Lake of the Isles, this area was strictly working class. Mom-and-pop businesses were interspersed with fading apartment buildings, duplexes, and small bungalows. It was, as a sociologist might say, still in the process of gentrification.

Max thanked the two officers, who said they’d wait there with the doll for the crime scene techs to arrive.

“Now what?” Afton asked.

“Climb in,” Max said. “I got an idea.” He turned down Lyndale then suddenly sliced right onto Twenty-fourth Street.

“We’re taking a detour?” Afton asked.

“I want to take an extra five minutes.” Max nosed along slowly, then turned down a narrow alley that was basically two churned-up ruts in six inches of packed snow.

“What are you looking for? Who are you looking for?”

Max pursed his lips. “Aw, just this guy I know. He’s a kind of . . . contact, I guess you’d call him.”

“A snitch?” Afton said.

Max lifted a shoulder. “Something like that.”

“Does this guy have a name?”

“He’s just known around town as The Scrounger,” Max said. “Here.” He slowed to a crawl and then stopped. “This is his place.”

The Scrounger lived in what looked to be a shabby duplex with a falling-down three-car garage out back. The backyard was heaped with junk—tires, old bicycles, snow blowers, lawn mowers, rolls of metal fencing, railroad planks, old oil barrels, and a pile of demolished swing sets.

“This is his place of business?” Afton asked. And then, “What exactly is his business?”

“Scrounging,” Max said. “He drives around in this beat-up old black pickup truck looking for stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Junk that people toss into the alley. Or that’s been left on the street. You name it.”

“What does he do with it?” Afton said.

“I don’t know, he repurposes it.”

“Isn’t that just a fancy name for selling scrap metal?”

“I suppose,” Max said.

“How do you know this guy, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Popped him a couple years ago on a B and E. But the thing is, he’s kind of a charming guy. Well-spoken, reads a little William Carlos Williams, sneaks into Orchestra Hall when the good conductors drop into town.”

“You took pity on this Scrounger guy because he’s got taste?” Afton gazed at the junk-strewn backyard again. “Well, maybe he does when it comes to the arts.”

“Let’s just say we have a well-oiled quid pro quo going on.”

“And you think The Scrounger might know something about that doll we just found?”

“Not that specifically,” Max said. “But he’s connected, he knows this neighborhood.” He nodded to himself. “And maybe even the whack job who planted the doll.”