“... I’m not the only one looking for this guy.”
Her eyes widened as she settled back into the chair, stunned as a clubbed baby seal. Who else could be looking for her brother? Two names popped into her mind: Lydecker; and Sterling... and then another: Kafelnikov. “How do you know?”
“It’s all over the street.”
Max sat forward again. “Explain.”
“Pawnshop owner, name of Jacobs, he’s... not what you would call a real upright citizen. More what you’d call... well...”
“A scumbag,” she said curtly. “Hard to imagine you associating with that type. What did he tell you?”
The detective didn’t argue with the characterization. “Anyway, Jacobs told me I wasn’t the first guy that had come ’round lately askin’ about a kid with these particular talents.”
“Who else is looking?”
“This is where it gets... scary. It’s somebody with a lot of grease, maybe even federal. Two bent cops... forgive the redundancy... were accompanying this character around.”
“What character?”
“I didn’t get a name — just a blond guy, not big or anything... but there was somethin’ about him, Jacobs said, scared him shitless. Jacobs, y’understand, is a guy who’s dealin’ with the dregs every hour of every day... nothin’ I know of ever scared Jacobs before, that’s why he’s able to thrive, livin’ like he does, sort of on the fringes.”
Vogelsang was on a nervous roll and might never shut up, and Max was listening, but her mind was working out whether the blond man was Lydecker, Sterling, or even Kafelnikov. The latter two would be bad enough, but if Manticore was on Seth’s heels, Max really needed to get to her brother, first.
“Anyway, Jacobs said he asked around, and the two cops and the blond guy were rousting every crook on the street, from the connected ones to the crum bums... slappin’ ’em around, when necessary, even guys that paid for protection.” His concern seemed genuine; even a little of it may have been for her. “Listen, Max, we’re playin’ with fire — if this is federal, I—”
“Okay,” Max said, patting the air. “Back to earth — settle.”
The detective nodded and tried to regulate his breathing. He asked, “You got any idea who this blond guy might be?”
“No... maybe you should hire a detective to find out.”
That seemed to hurt him a little. “Very funny.”
“Did your friend Jacobs know anything about the kid with the barcode?”
Vogelsang shook his head. “No — but his ears are perked. I got feelers all around town on this thing.”
“Good,” she said, letting out a long breath. “Keep on it.”
He nodded, then gave her a sheepish look. “Money’s goin’ fast though, kiddo.”
She glared at him.
He held his hands up, as if surrendering. “What can I do? I got overhead... getting street info means greasing palms, and if you don’t mind terribly, I gotta make a living myself.”
She moved out to the edge of the chair again and gave him a cold, hard, unblinking stare. “If you want money, Mr. Vogelsang... you’re gonna have to help me get it.”
Now he pushed the air with his palms, like a bad mime fighting imaginary wind. “Whoa, whoa, whoa... I’m an officer of the court, y’know... comes with the license. I don’t do crime.”
She gave him an arched-brow look.
He shrugged, smirked humorlessly. “Nothing you can do time for, anyway. Guy in my line does work the gray area sometimes.”
“Do tell... All I need is a name.”
He squinted, as if Max had gone out of focus momentarily. “Whose name?”
“Let’s just say... speaking hypothetically, since I wouldn’t want to offend an officer of the court... if you had a valuable piece of art, who would you go to, if you wanted to sell?”
He considered that. “I suppose this sale would have to be of a confidential nature.”
She nodded.
“An off-the-books transaction.”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not quick.”
The detective squinted again. “Large scale?”
“Oh yeah. Could keep you in egg rolls for a long time.”
Sparked by this incentive, Vogelsang thought for several long, hard seconds. “Forget the guy I mentioned earlier... Jacobs? Large scale is beyond him. But there is one guy, and he’s not far from here. His name is Sherwood.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Been down on his luck, but he’s good. Right now he does business in this old building off Broad Street.”
This time it was Max who squinted. “Will I need an intro with Mr. Sherwood?”
“Yeah, you will.”
“And who’s going to do that for me?” Max asked as she rose.
Vogelsang smiled at her and rubbed his fingers back and forth against his thumb. “I maybe could be persuaded.”
She leaned on the desk with both hands. “You want to keep getting paid?”
The detective switched gears. “I could call him for you, sure — sort of a favor to a good client. Referral kinda thing. Happy to do it.”
“Make the call.”
He did.
She listened attentively as he made arrangements with Sherwood, calling him “Woody.” Vogelsang’s manner was friendly enough to convince Max she wasn’t the first client the detective had referred to the fence. Vogelsang assured the man these were “quality goods,” that the seller was reliable, and so on.
Vogelsang covered the receiver and turned to Max. “How’s an hour from now?”
“Swell,” she said.
He relayed the information and nodded to her as he listened. Then he said, “I’ll tell her,” hung up, and gave his client detailed directions, ending with, “Third door on the right.”
Max thanked him.
“So,” Vogelsang said cheerfully, hands flat on his desk, “the next time I see you, you should have some cash.”
“Sure,” she said, exiting, throwing a blatantly insincere smile over her shoulder at him. “And the next time I see you, you should have some information.”
Back at her apartment, Max changed into a black hooded sweatshirt, leather jacket and pants, to better protect her against the bad weather on its way. She collected the Grant Wood and the Heart of the Ocean (still in their zippered pouch); and then she rode the Ninja hard into the night, heading to the address Vogelsang had provided.
The rain was closing in now, as if the city was a suspect the weather was after, Max knew that the storm could erupt at any moment and, despite the zippered bag, she feared subjecting the painting to a downpour, so she pushed the bike, enjoying the engine’s harsh song as she revved it up.
The first drops hit her just as she drove through the doorless entry of the building, a dilapidated three-story brick structure with most of the windows punched out and the walls starting to crumble. Only the roof seemed to be sound.
Max parked the bike, climbed off, and looked around. She stood in a wide hallway that had once had offices on either side — but now, doors were either absent or hung open, with their glass knocked out; and the Sheetrock interior walls had holes kicked in them. She could hear rats scuttling. Not surprisingly, the apparently abandoned building was dark, and if it hadn’t been for her special genetics, she would have needed a flashlight to get around.
Had Vogelsang sold her out? she wondered. Was she walking into a trap? Were Lydecker and/or Sterling and/or Kafelnikov among the rats scurrying in the darkness?
Carrying the zippered bag like a pizza she was delivering, she crept down the hall to the third door on the right — the only closed door in the corridor. To her relief, Max saw light filtering out from underneath.