Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(50)

“Yeah?” Max said. “How’s that working out?”

“Mr. Sponger maintains fairly well when he stays on his meds.”

“What meds is he on?” Max asked.

Showles looked nervous. “I believe he takes chlorpromazine and Risperdal.”

“Heavy duty,” Afton said. This was not good news.

“He’s only experienced two psychotic breaks that I know of,” Showles said. “Since he’s been here anyway.”

“Is this guy dangerous?” Max asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“But you don’t really know,” Max said.

Afton and Max clumped up two narrow sets of stairs, Showles deciding to huff along behind them. They stopped outside Room 303 and Max wiggled a finger at Afton.

She knocked on the door and said in a pleasant, lilting voice, “Mr. Sponger? Are you in there?”

No answer.

Max stepped in and rapped harder on the door. “Mr. Sponger. Sir, we’d like to talk to you, please.”

Again nothing.

“Like I said, he might not be here right now,” Showles told them. “Sometimes he’s gone for a while. Hanging out at the library or down by the old railroad track.”

“The railroad track?” Afton said.

“Sponger used to live down there,” Showles said. “Before they paved it over and turned it into a bike trail. Back when he was drinking, before we took him in here. He’d hunker up under one of the bridges. Sometimes Al . . . well, he gets the urge to go back.”

“Let’s take a look in his room,” Max said. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. It was locked.

Afton gazed at Showles. “I presume you are the keeper of the master key?”

“I’m still not sure if I should let you people in,” Showles said.

“If you think we need a warrant,” Max said, “just say the word.”

Showles sighed and pulled out a ring of keys. The first key he tried didn’t work; the second one did.

As the door swung open, Max reached out and grabbed Showles by the shoulder, muscling him aside. Then Max stepped into the room, swiveled his head around, and waved Afton in after him.

The small white room was no larger than an eight-by-ten jail cell, but it was neat and clean. The narrow bed was made and covered with a threadbare white chenille bedspread, the folds razor-sharp. A small desk held a stack of old City Pages newspapers, a mug filled with pens and colored markers, and a small plastic Batman figure, the kind you’d get from a fast-food place.

“Tidy,” Max said.

“Monastic,” Afton said. There was a small closet but it was minus a door. A dozen articles of clothing dangled from wire hangers.

“Not much to see,” Showles said. “He lives a fairly quiet existence. Which is why I’m surprised you . . .”

Afton moved swiftly toward a series of pictures pinned to the wall and tapped one with a finger. “Is Mr. Sponger religious?”

Showles thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Not particularly. We have prayer circle, but . . .”

“Whatcha got?” Max asked.

“These pictures,” Afton said. She was slowly recalling the one art history class she’d taken at the University of Minnesota. “They’re bits and snips from Renaissance paintings. In fact, they look as if they were probably cut from an art book.”

Max stared at the pictures and frowned. “Angels. Huh.”

“They’re actually cherubs,” Afton said. “Painted by Raphael.” She was starting to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Max sucked in air through his front teeth as he studied the pictures a second time. “They’re babies, really. Little blond babies.” He shifted his gaze to Showles. “Where’d you say Sponger liked to hang out?”

“It’s cold, so he might be at the library . . . a few blocks over.”

“Walker Library,” Afton snapped. “Let’s go.”


*

WALKER Library wasn’t the most popular spot this Tuesday afternoon. They pulled into one of a dozen empty parking spots, next to a bicycle outfitted with studded tires and chained to an iced-up drain spout.

Their footsteps were loud and determined as they crunched across a layer of rock salt that the library’s maintenance staff had probably laid down to melt the ice.

“SWAT is still backing us up?” Afton asked. Her nervousness had turned to fear. Tom Showles’s mention of Sponger’s psychotic breaks didn’t sit well with her.

“I told ’em to stay back,” Max said as they muscled their way into the newly spiffed-up library. “Unless I make the call. Then they’ll come running.” Two men and a frizzy-haired woman were huddled at the front desk sorting books. They barely afforded them a glance as they breezed past.

Afton figured this was good. Get in, find their man, and get out. Let the chips fall where they may. And if they had to bring in the SWAT guys, so be it.

“You circle right, I’ll go left,” Max said. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Afton slipped off to the right, edging between the outside wall and the first set of tall, metal bookshelves. She decided she’d do a methodical search, up one aisle, then down another. She stepped along briskly, got to the end, turned a corner, and glanced at a small sign. She was in nonfiction, in a section that went from Relationships to Zoroastrianism.