Twenty minutes into their search, Cole struck gold — a stack of printouts from Taco Rojo payroll records for September and October. Eleven employees were on the report for September, ten for October. The extra name in September was Mansur Amir Khan. His last day on the job was September 6, probably about the time the FBI came looking for him. The Social Security number was probably bogus, but Steve wrote it down. There was no phone number, but there was a Baltimore address on Gough Street, in care of a Consuelo Reyes.
“Whaddya think?” Steve asked. “Strike while the iron is hot?”
“Sure. But maybe this time we should try a different approach.”
“Keep that sheet handy, with his name and address. I’ve got an idea.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Steve went into the Walmart and bought a business envelope with a plastic window. He folded the payroll report inside it so that Mansur’s name and address showed through the window. Then they headed for Gough Street.
No gentrification there. There were more boarded-up windows than Christmas lights. So many houses were empty that there was plenty of on-street parking. To be on the safe side Steve pulled into a space around the corner. He rubbed his hands together in the cold, then held aloft the envelope as if it was their ticket to the Promised Land.
“This time I’ll do the talking. You watch our backs.”
The sky was clearing, the temperature dropping. Fallen sleet filled sidewalk cracks in glowing white seams. At the address on Gough Street the outside door was unlocked. A mailbox in the foyer showed a Reyes on the second floor. The door to the stairwell was ajar, so they went on up. Reyes was the middle apartment. A television blared from the place on the left, shouts and laughter from the one on the right. Steve’s knock was answered by the bark of a dog — it sounded big — followed by shuffling footsteps. A deadbolt shot back and the door opened to the limit of a security chain, spilling a yellow band of light onto the landing. A middle-aged woman in a bathrobe eyed him suspiciously. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand.
“Qué?”
Steve showed her the envelope just long enough for her to read the name and address.
“I have a check for Mansur Amir Khan. Does he still live here?”
A thin arm darted through the opening like a striking cobra. Steve barely kept her from snatching the envelope.
“The check is mine!” she said. She unleashed an agitated burst of Spanish.
“Does Mansur still live here?” Steve asked again.
“Who are you?” she asked in English. Same question as at Taco Rojo. Same narrowed eyes and tilted head.
“Unless I see Mansur, I can’t leave this.”
She switched back to Spanish and pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her robe. Another trip wire, another alarm.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cole whispered. Steve nodded, and they took the stairs two at a time, pursued by shouts all the way to the ground floor, where an arriving tenant stood by an open mailbox.
“She’s nuts,” he said, circling a finger by his ear.
“You got that right.” They brushed past him toward the door.
“Did I hear you say you were looking for Mansur?”
Steve turned in the open doorway. The guy was mid-twenties, T-shirt and jeans, a white hard hat tucked under his right arm.
“We’ve got a check for him,” Cole said. Steve showed the envelope. “She wanted us to leave it with her, but, well, like you said. Nuts.”
“Never knew why he put up with her. Screaming, taking his money. I saw him over on Broadway a few days ago.” He shook his head. “Clueless as ever.”
“Mansur?” Steve said. “Where?”
“One of those Latino bodegas, buying a candy bar. Almost jumped out of his skin when I called his name. Like somebody was after him. Of course, maybe somebody was.” He nodded upstairs, where the woman was still muttering on the landing. Then he paused, as if he’d already said too much, and eyed them with renewed scrutiny.
“Maybe you could find a way to get this check to him?” Cole said, hoping to establish some trust. The man’s expression softened.
“No need. He’s living on Pickard now, not far from here. Being Mansur, he didn’t remember the address — you know how he is, and his English still sucks. But he said you couldn’t miss it. Called it the tall house, whatever that means.”
“Pickard?”
“Right off Fayette.”
“Thanks,” Steve said. “The tall house?”
“That’s what he said.”
The woman upstairs was still making noise, speaking into her phone now. Her enforcers might be only minutes from arrival. Steve and Cole shoved through the door and ran toward the Honda.
Pickard was less than a mile away, and even drearier than Gough. It ended at Fayette, which made hunting for Mansur’s house easier. It was immediately apparent what he must have meant by “the tall house.” Just down the block was a three-story row house that towered over its two-story neighbors.
Steve parked at a metered spot on Fayette that offered a view of the front door around the corner. It was almost ten. He got on his cell phone. Cole heard Barb pick up.
“We’re outside what we think is Mansur’s new address. We’ve already raised alarms at two other locations, so we’ll probably sit tight awhile.” He looked questioningly at Cole, who nodded in approval. “Anyhow, this could take some time, so don’t wait up for us.”
“We’ll leave a light on,” Barb said. “Call if you need reinforcements. Where are you, exactly?”
“Pickard Street, at East Fayette.”
“Quaint digs in a salubrious location. If you’re not back by sundown I’ll alert the desk sergeant for the Eastern district. Don’t step on any needles.”
They decided to stake out the house until midnight. If no one came or went by then, they’d return in the morning. They were both a little puzzled by the tenant’s description of Mansur. Cole had expected to find a rough-and-ready tribal type, not easily intimidated. He instead sounded like an object of pity. Bickell had implied Mansur wasn’t exactly a bright light. So had this guy. Maybe here he was at an even greater disadvantage. But hadn’t he brought his family with him? That’s certainly what Bickell had implied.
Steve and Cole had little to keep them busy, and almost no one was out on the sidewalks in the bitter cold. By ten thirty they were stamping their feet to stay warm and wishing they had coffee.
“You do a lot of this kind of stuff?” Cole asked.
“Stakeouts? Almost never. Last time was years ago, down in Arnold, waiting to see if a governor would show up at his mistress’s apartment. Which, come to think of it, was also the last time I went through anybody’s garbage.”
“Find anything?”
“The gov was a no-show. But there were some pretty good credit card receipts. That was the story that was supposed to get me a foreign bureau. Barb got it instead.”
“Hard feelings?”
He shook his head.
“I was slated for the next opening. Then they closed all the bureaus, hers included. All those jobs are gone now. Newspapers. Equal opportunity unemployers.”
“So that would’ve been you instead of her with those two kids, getting brains all over your shoes?”
“Yeah, there’s that, too. Barb doesn’t always sleep so well.”
“Firsthand knowledge?”
Steve smiled and shook his head.
“Our lives are already too complicated. But you’ve seen the house. Not much happens that the other two don’t know about. Barb can get pretty restless late at night, moving around in the dark. Her and the cat. So what about you? No stakeouts in your Infowar training?”
“Not much call for that in a fighter wing.”