Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(49)

“Has Sponger been popped before?” Afton asked. She meant arrested.

Max shook his head. “No. But he did six months at Saint Peter.” Saint Peter was a state mental institution.

“And now he’s at a halfway house.”

“Yup. It’s our lucky day.”

They’d just crept across Twenty-sixth Street when Afton saw flashing lights up ahead.

“Accident,” she said. “I’m gonna turn left at the next street.”

“Huh?” Max grunted. He’d been busy reviewing notes from the Richard Darden interview. “Okay . . . sure.”

“The SWAT van’s still behind us?”

Max glanced back over his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Good.” Afton wasn’t as confident about confronting Al Sponger as Max was. If Sponger had, in fact, kidnapped the Darden baby, then it was possible that he was the man who’d attacked her last night.

Heading into what was known as the Wedge, that slice of pie-shaped real estate between Hennepin and Lyndale Avenue, Afton sighed at the shrinking roadway. As snow continued to accumulate, each pass from the city’s snowplows left more and more snow piled up along the curb. By the time March rolled around, the streets would be as narrow and carved as a bobsled run.

“What’s the address again?” Afton asked. Her nerves were fizzing, her stomach turning flip-flops.

Max fumbled for the note Afton has passed on to him earlier. “Twenty-eight fourteen Girard,” he said. “It’s some kind of halfway house for vets.”

“You think Sponger still lives there?”

“When I called fifteen minutes ago, the director said so. Or at least the guy showed up for supper two nights ago.”

“But you warned the director not to tell Sponger that we were gonna drop by.”

“That’s right. Always nice to have the element of surprise on your side.”

Afton swung right on Girard and crawled along for a couple of blocks. “I think that’s it up ahead on the right.”

“Drive slow,” Max said.

“If I drive any slower, I’m gonna get a parking ticket,” Afton said.

“Okay, okay.”

Max was keyed up, too, and Afton knew it. This could be the break they needed. Thacker had wanted to go in with full SWAT, but Max had persuaded him to hold off, to have them stand by. The SWAT team with their bang sticks and smoke bombs could always come later.

“This is it,” Max said.

Afton turned into a semicircular drive outside a three-story white stucco house with two dormers that overlooked the street. Ahead of them, a large white passenger van with DEAN’S HOUSE stenciled in red on the side blocked the rest of the drive.

“Here we go,” Max said. His right hand crept unconsciously to the Glock G43 he wore in his shoulder harness.

They climbed the front steps, pulled open a rickety door, and found themselves inside a screen porch. There were three battered lawn chairs and a tippy-looking table that held half-filled disposable cups of coffee and an overflowing ashtray.

Softly kicking snow from their boots, they pushed open the main door of the halfway house and went in. The place wasn’t exactly homey, but it wasn’t terrible either. Directly ahead was a wooden front desk with a honeycomb of open mailboxes behind it, like you might see in an old European hotel. Off to the left was an empty parlor with a circle of folding chairs, presumably some kind of meeting room. To the right was a large room with two overstuffed sofas, various mismatched easy chairs, and two dilapidated wheelchairs. A TV was on and three men were huddled in front of it, watching a reality show where two women snarled at each other over the paternity of their “baby daddy.”

Max walked up to the front desk and rang an old-fashioned bell. “Anybody home?” he called out.

A door opened and a skinny guy emerged from a small, messy office. He was mid-fifties, balding, wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and was dressed in a pair of green army slacks and a 1991 Twins World Series T-shirt. “Help you?” he said.

“Minneapolis Police,” Afton said, while Max held up his ID.

“Tom Showles?” Max asked.

Showles nodded and tugged at his pants, which seemed to be slowly slipping down around his hips. “That’s me. I’m the director.” He lifted a hand in a cautionary gesture and said, “We don’t want any trouble.”

Afton thought Showles looked underpaid, underfed, and under pressure.

“Neither do we,” Max said.

“Is Aldous Sponger here?” Afton asked. “We need to speak with him.”

Showles looked worried. “May I ask why?”

“Like I told you on the phone, it’s just a formality,” Max said. Which was copspeak for, Get his sorry ass out here.

“He was seen disposing of a package in a Dumpster off Lyndale Avenue,” Afton explained.

Now Showles looked confused. “You’re here because Al was involved in clandestine dumping?”

“Just point me toward his room, okay?” Max said.

“Room 303. Top of the stairs,” Showles said. “But I’m not sure he’s here.”

“Where is he?” Afton asked.

Showles shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t keep strict tabs on the men. We operate on the honor system here.”