“This one’s your big payout, Denny,” he said. “Don’t blow it. Don’t make any more mistakes either.”
Chapter 84
FOR THE SECOND DAY of canvassing at homeless shelters, I did what I already should have and pulled in more of my team, including Sampson. I even called in that favor with Max Siegel, to see if he could spare any warm bodies.
Max surprised me by showing up himself, along with two eager young assistants. We split up the list and agreed to come together at the end of the day to check out mealtime and evening sign-in at one of the larger facilities.
At five o’clock that afternoon, we were all at Lindholm Family Services when they opened their doors for dinner. The shelter served more than a thousand meals a day, to a clientele that was everything you might expect, and some things you might not.
There were families with kids, and people who talked to themselves, and folks who looked like they just came from an office somewhere, all eating shoulder to shoulder at long cafeteria tables.
For the first hour or so, it was a frustrating repeat of the day before. None of the people who were willing to talk to me recognized Mitch’s picture or the old file photo I’d pulled of Steven Hennessey, aka Denny. And some people wouldn’t talk to the police at all.
One guy in particular seemed to be in his own world. He was sitting at the end of a table, turned away from everyone else, with his tray balanced on the corner. He mumbled to himself as I came over.
“Mind if I talk to you for a second?” I said.
His lips stopped moving, but he didn’t look up, so I held the picture down low where he could see it.
“We’re trying to get a message to this guy, Mitch Talley. There’s been a death in the family he needs to know about.”
This is the kind of half-truth you have to be comfortable with to get things done sometimes. We were all in street clothes today, too. Jackets and ties can be counterproductive in a place like this.
The man shook his head. “No,” he said, too fast. “No. Sorry. I don’t recognize him.” He had a thick accent that sounded eastern European to me.
“Take another look,” I said. “Mitch Talley? Usually hangs out with this guy named Denny. Any of it ringing a bell? We could use your help.”
He looked a little longer and ran a hand absently over his salt-and-pepper beard, which was matted halfway to dreadlocks.
“No,” he said again, without ever looking up. “I’m sorry. I do not know him.”
I didn’t push it. “All right,” I said. “I’ll be around for a while if you think of anything.”
As soon as I stepped away, he went right back to the mumbling, and on a hunch, I kept an eye on him.
Sure enough, I’d barely started talking to the next person before the mumbler got up to leave. When I looked over, his tray was still there — along with most of his dinner.
“Excuse me, sir?” I called out loudly enough that a few people around him turned their heads.
But not him. He just kept going.
“Sir?”
I was moving now, and that caught Sampson’s attention. The mumbling guy was clearly making a beeline for the exit. When he finally did look back, realizing we were coming after him, he broke into a run. He shot straight out the double doors and onto Second Street ahead of us.
Chapter 85
OUR RUNNER WAS HALFWAY to the corner by the time Sampson and I got outside. He’d looked maybe early fifties to me, but he was moving pretty well.
“Damnit, damnit, damnit —”
Foot pursuit sucks. It just does. Never mind all the variables — it’s nothing you want to be doing at the end of a long day. But here Sampson and I were, tearing ass down Second Street after a crazy man.
I shouted a few times for him to stop, but that obviously wasn’t in his game plan.
The rush-hour traffic on D had bunched up enough that he made it across the street fairly easily.
I cut right behind him between a taxi and an EMCOR truck, while a couple of guys on lawn chairs outside the shelter shouted after us.