‘Mr. Smith?’ Hunter asked. ‘James Smith?’
Silence.
Hunter subtly placed the tip of his boot against the bottom of the door and lifted his badge. ‘We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?’
Two more seconds of silence. Suddenly, in a desperate reaction, the door was pushed forward with a jerk, but Hunter’s foot stopped it from slamming shut.
‘James . . . ? What the hell?’ Hunter called.
The tension on the door relaxed as Smith let go of it. They heard the hustle of foot scuffing inside the apartment, moving deeper within, and away from them. Hunter looked at Garcia quizzically for a split second. They both realized it at the same time.
‘Fire escape . . .’
Thirty-Five
Hunter pointed to the far end of the hall. ‘Back alley . . . go . . . now.’
Garcia spun around on the balls of his feet and took off down the corridor like a locomotive. Hunter pushed the apartment’s door open but it halted at the security chain. He slammed his left shoulder hard against it. Once was all it took. The chain came undone from the doorframe, wooden splinters flying through the air. Hunter saw and heard the door at the end of the apartment’s hallway slam shut. He dashed towards it but didn’t get there in time. A step away from it he heard the lock turn. Mechanically he tried the handle. Nothing.
‘Smith, c’mon . . .’ He shoved his shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time. Solid as stone. He took two steps back and sent his boot straight onto the door handle. Once, twice, three times. The door rattled a little but that was all. He knew it was pointless carrying on. The door probably had surface-mounted deadbolt locks on the other side. Hunter could shoot the hinges off, but that would be overkill, and way too hard to justify in a report.
‘Smith, c’mon, open up.’
Chances were he was already halfway down the fire ladder.
‘Fuck!’
Hunter backtracked down the corridor to the next room along on the right, which was on the same side as the room James had locked himself in. The door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was in almost complete darkness. Hunter didn’t look for a light switch – no time – and dashed towards the window on the far wall, almost tripping over something on the floor. Just like the room James had gone into, the window faced the building’s back alley. There were no curtains, but the glass had been sprayed with black paint. It was an old-style window. Two panels. The bottom one had slots for fingers at the bottom. No locks, just a single rotating latch. Hunter undid it and pushed the bottom panel up. Stuck.
‘Shit.’
With his fingers in the slots he shook the window so vigorously the entire frame rattled. He tried again. The panel slid up a couple of inches, enough for him to get his hands under the frame. Much better grip. With one big push, the panel creaked and slid all the way up. Hunter craned forward and looked out. James was rushing down the last rungs of the metal fire escape ladder.
‘Goddamnit.’
Smith didn’t look back. He jumped from the ladder and hit the ground running. He was fast and agile.
Hunter searched the alley for Garcia. He saw Smith zigzag between a few large trash cans and then dive through an open door about twenty yards ahead.
Garcia finally appeared, coming from the alley’s entrance on the right, sprinting like an Olympic champion.
‘The Chinese restaurant’s back door,’ Hunter called from the window. ‘Past those trash cans on the right. He got in through the kitchen.’
Garcia hesitated for a beat, considering if he should run back the way he came in and try to cut James off at the front of the shops. Going back and around would take too long. By the time he got there James would be gone. He carried on forward, sidestepping the trash cans and disappearing through the same door James had done seconds earlier.
Hunter turned around and hurried back out of the room. If he was fast and lucky enough, he could cut Smith off at the top of the street. He’d taken only two steps away from the window when his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the walls.
The light that now poured in through the open window had erased the darkness.
What he saw made him stop dead.
Thirty-Six
Garcia rushed through the back door of the Chinese restaurant and found himself inside a crowded kitchen. Lunchtime was in full swing. Three chefs were standing by a large ten-burner cooker where several woks were sizzling away. One of the woks seemed to have caught on fire and flames were shooting up from its bowl at least a foot and a half high. Two sous chefs were by a long metal workstation covered with freshly cut vegetables along with three waitresses. One of them had her back flat against the wall next to the double swinging doors that led to the restaurant’s dining room, as if she’d just been pushed out of the way. On the floor directly in front of her was an overturned metal tray. Several bowls of noodles and soup were scattered on the ground. All eight of them were yelling loudly in Mandarin. Garcia didn’t have to understand them to know that they weren’t yelling at each other, or about the spilled food. It was a nervous reaction.
Garcia figured from their reaction that he was about ten to fifteen seconds behind Smith.
All eyes were on Garcia as he came through the alley door. Everyone took a step back. A fraction of a second later they were all yelling and gesticulating at him. Garcia didn’t even miss a step. As he skipped over the dishes on the floor and burst through the swinging doors, he could understand only one word – asshole.
The shocked expression from the kitchen staff was mirrored on the faces of every customer in the main dining room. Some had turned to look at this new crazy man who’d blasted out of the kitchen, and some were still staring at the restaurant’s front door, where the previous one had just exited.
Garcia ran through the restaurant, expertly avoiding the manager and a waitress on the way.
Outside, the street was full of people coming and going in both directions. Garcia looked left, then right. No one was running. No one looked surprised. There was no commotion. Garcia took two steps forward, lifted himself onto the tips of his toes and looked both ways again. He cursed under his breath as he realized that he didn’t even know what Smith was wearing. Only his eyes had been visible when he opened the door to his apartment. From the exhibition picture, he knew what Smith looked like, but not from the back. Any tall male walking away from him could be Smith.
Garcia searched the street for Hunter. He was certain that while he followed Smith in through the restaurant, Hunter would be trying to cut him off at the top end of the street, but he was nowhere in sight.
‘Shit, Robert, where are you?’
He approached a group of three guys standing just a few yards away. ‘Did any of you see a tall guy come running out of that restaurant just a few seconds ago?’