Ranger was waiting for me in the lot. He pulled a piece of paper, folded into four sections, from his jacket pocket and gave it to me. “A list of Montgomery Street tenants,” he said. “Anything jump out at you?”
I didn't ask how he'd gotten the list. I didn't want to know the details of Ranger's network. I suspected his methods for acquiring information might sometimes involve broken bones and small-caliber bullet holes.
I handed the list back to him. “Don't know any of these people.”
“Then we go door-to-door at nine o'clock.”
Oh goody.
“In the meantime we'll stake out the lobby and the garage.”
The plan was for Ranger to take the lobby and for me to take the garage, to position ourselves at the elevator banks and question the tenants as they left for work. At nine o'clock, after drawing a big zero, we started working the floors.
The first four floors were a washout.
“This doesn't feel hopeful,” I said to Ranger. “We've talked to a lot of people, and we haven't even had a nibble.”
Ranger shrugged. “People don't notice. Especially in a building like this. No sense of community. And there's another possible reason for no one to have seen him.”
“Jackie might have been wrong.”
“She's not the most reliable witness.”
We walked up a flight and started moving down the hall, knocking on doors, showing Mo's picture. Third door down I got a hit.
The woman was older than most in the building. Sixties, I guessed. Nicely dressed.
“I've seen this man,” she said. She studied the photo. “I just don't know . . . Maybe Stanley Larkin. Yes, I think I must have seen him with Stanley.”
“Is Larkin's apartment on this floor?” I asked.
“Two doors down on this side. Number five-eleven.” Two little frown lin
es creased her forehead. “You said you were apprehension agents. What does that mean?”
I gave her the minor charge, the missed-a-court-appearance line, and she seemed relieved.
Ranger knocked on Larkin's door, and we both flattened ourselves against the wall so Larkin couldn't see us through the security peephole.
A moment later, Larkin opened the door. “Yes?”
Ranger badged him. “Bond enforcement. May we step inside to ask you a few questions?”
“I don't know,” Larkin said. “I don't think so. I mean, what is this all about?”
Larkin was in his late sixties. About five feet, ten inches. Ruddy complexion. Sandy hair, thin on the top.
“It will only take a moment,” Ranger said, his hand on Larkin's elbow, gently guiding him back a few steps.
I used the opportunity to step inside and look around. It was a small apartment packed with furniture. Avocado green wall-to-wall carpet. Harvest gold drapes straight from the seventies. I could see the kitchen from where I stood. One juice glass and one cereal bowl in the dish drain. A coffee mug and newspaper on the kitchen table.
Ranger was showing Larkin the picture, asking him about Mo. Larkin was shaking his head.
“No,” Larkin said. “I don't know him. Mrs. Greer must have been confused. I have some older men friends. Maybe from a distance one of them might look like this man.”
I quietly stepped to the bedroom door. Queen-size bed in the bedroom. Perfectly made with a dark green paisley spread. A few pictures on the dresser in an assortment of silver frames. Night table at bedside with a clock radio.
Ranger handed Stanley Larkin a card. “Just in case,” Ranger said. “If you see him, we'd appreciate a call.”