Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(83)

A chill wind suddenly blew across their ankles and Afton shivered, as if someone had just walked across her grave.

Over by the door Richie shouted, “Shut that door, *. Don’t you know there’s a blizzard on the way? We supposed to get thirteen inches by morning.”


*

THE weather really had gone to shit. Steam curled from sidewalk vents; a bank’s time and temperature sign flashed an icy white as it registered a chill 10 degrees. A woman in a down coat that made her look like an overblown Michelin man was walking a little schnauzer in a yellow coat and boots. Afton thought the dog looked embarrassed.

They were almost back at police headquarters when Max got the call. He listened on his cell phone for a minute, then said, “Send a squad, lights and sirens. We’ll hoof it over there right now. We’re three, maybe four, blocks away at best.”

He dropped his phone in his jacket pocket, turned, and said, “C’mon, we gotta go.”

Afton spun with him. “Where?”

“Call just came in about some guy taking photos of babies over at HCMC.”

“What?” Afton shrilled. “At the hospital?”

“Yeah.” Max coughed as he jogged along. “He’s apparently taking pictures of newborns.”

“Holy crap. That guy . . . maybe he came back!”

Max skidded out into traffic, trying to get a jump on the green light. “Come on, we gotta move.”


*

THE Maternity Center was located on the second floor at Hennepin County Medical Center. Max and Afton ran down Seventh Street, ducked in a side door, and caught an elevator.

“Come on, come on,” Max whispered urgently as the elevator started moving.

“Is hospital security going to grab this guy?” Afton asked.

“No, they’re just going to watch him. Busting him is our job.”

The elevator doors slid open and Max burst out so fast, he practically collided with a rolling cart stacked with sheets and towels. “Shit,” he cried, trying to sidestep it.

The female employee who was trying to hump the cart onto the elevator frowned her disapproval at him. “Hey,” she said.

Max dodged past the cart and ran lightly down the hallway, Afton following in his footsteps.

Skidding up to a nurses’ station, Max held up his ID and said, “Maternity?”

“Straight ahead,” one of the nurses said. “You can’t miss it.”

They didn’t miss it. And the man was still there. His face was pressed up against the glass, staring in at all the newborn babies in the nursery. A camera dangled in his right hand.

Max deliberately slowed his pace and crept up behind the guy. He clomped a hand down hard on the man’s shoulder and said, “Stop whatever you’re doing. Right now. Put your hands in the air. If you yell or make any sort of scene, I will for sure shoot you.”

The man’s mouth dropped open and he managed a startled, “What?” He tried to spin around, but was held firmly in Max’s viselike grip.

“You heard him,” Afton said. She reached down and, slick as you please, snatched the camera out of the man’s hand.

“What the . . . You can’t do that!” the man protested. He was thirtyish and wore a brown plaid parka over a pair of gray cargo pants. His dark hair was slicked back, he wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, and had a distinctly pointed chin. Afton was immediately disappointed. This was clearly a different guy.

Max spun the guy around hard, placed one hand on his shoulder, and twisted his arm behind his back. Then he duck-walked the guy stiffly down the hallway. When Max spotted a small waiting room, he steered him into it. He frisked the man and, when he was satisfied that he wasn’t carrying a weapon, pushed him down into a gray plastic chair. “You want to explain yourself?”

“Who do you think you are?” the guy demanded. “The photo police?”

“Minneapolis Police,” Max said.

“So what do you want with me?” the guy asked.

Afton held up the camera. “You care to explain this?”

“It’s a camera,” the man snarled.

“Still or video?” Max asked.

Afton examined it. “Still.”

“Delete everything he’s got,” Max said to Afton.

“Whoa!” the man cried. “Don’t be doin’ that!”

“Then maybe you really do want to explain yourself?”

The man sighed. “I’m gonna reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet, okay?”

“Sure,” Max said. “Go ahead.”

The guy pulled out his wallet, dug around in it, and pulled out a business card. Handed it to Max. “My name is Danny Kinghorn.”

“So what?”

“I run a website called Bloody Blue Murder dot com. We’re international.”

“No shit,” Max said.

“We do articles on true crime. You know, Jack the Ripper, Son of Sam, that kind of thing. The newer guys, too, like BTK. Plus we post book reviews on all the new thrillers and crime flicks.”

“Why were you taking pictures?” Max asked. But he said it in a bored, tired manner, as if he already had an inkling of what might be going on.

“Because I’m working on a story about the Darden kidnapping,” Kinghorn said. “And I needed some snaps to go with it.”