Cross Fire - James Patterson [62]
The closest thing to a lead so far had come from an elderly neighbor of Mrs. Talley’s. She’d seen a sedan of some kind parked in front of the house a few nights ago but couldn’t say what kind it was, or what color, or even how long it had been there.
For whatever that was worth, I forwarded the information down to Jerome Thurman, who had been tracking vehicle-related leads on this case for me from the start.
By now, I was beginning to feel like I’d been away from DC for too long. Maybe Talley and Hennessey had no plans to return to Washington, if that’s where they’d even come from in the first place. But I had to assume otherwise. For all I knew, they were already back there and planning their next hit.
The minute I got things wrapped up with Detective Cowen, I was in the car and headed for home. And I was moving fast, using a siren all the way.
Chapter 81
AT EIGHT THIRTY the next morning, Colleen Brophy turned off of E Street and into the churchyard, where I was waiting outside the True Press office. She had a bulging backpack on her shoulders, an armload of newspapers, and a nearly finished cigarette in the corner of her mouth.
“Oh God,” she said when she saw me. “You again. Now what do you want?”
“I wouldn’t come if it wasn’t important, Ms. Brophy. I’m well aware of how you feel about all this,” I said. Still, after my long Sunday on the road, I was in “no mood for ’tude,” as Sampson likes to say.
The True Press editor set down her load of papers and sat on the stone bench where I’d just stood up.
“How can I help you?” she asked, her sarcasm still intact. “As if I have a choice.”
I showed her the picture of Mitchell Talley. “Have you ever seen this man?”
“Oh, come on,” she said right away. “You think this is the guy who sent me those e-mails?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you. When was the last time you saw him?”
She took out a new cigarette and lit it off the last of the old one before she answered.
“Do you really need me to participate in this?” she said. “The trust I have with these people is so tenuous.”
“I’m not trying to bust a shoplifter, Ms. Brophy.”
“I understand, but it’s the shoplifters I’m worried about. A lot of the homeless people I work with have to break the law from time to time just to get by. If any of them see me talking to you —”
“This can stay a private conversation,” I told her. “Nobody has to know about it. That is, assuming we can get on with this. Do you know this man?”
After another long pause and a few more drags, she said, “I guess it was last week. They picked up their papers on Wednesday, like everyone else.”
“‘They’?” I asked.
“Yeah. Mitch and his friend Denny. They’re kind of like a —”
She stopped short then and turned slowly to look at me. It seemed maybe she’d just put two and two together about something. Or maybe I should say one and one.
“Oh God,” she said. “They’re kind of like a team. They’re the ones, aren’t they?”
I could feel that mental click, when something falls into place. Had I just found my Steven Hennessey?
“What’s Denny’s last name?” I asked her.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “He’s white, tall, and thin. He’s got lots of stubble, and kind of a —” She waved her hand under her jaw. “Like a sunken chin, I guess you could call it. He sort of leads Mitch around.”
“And you say they pick up papers on Wednesday?”
She nodded. “Sometimes they come back for more if they sell out, but I haven’t seen them lately. I swear. I know this is serious now.”
“I believe you,” I said. Everything about her demeanor had changed. Now she looked more sad than anything. “Any idea where I might look for the two of them?”
“All over. Denny has this old white Suburban he drives around, when he can get gas. I know they sleep in there sometimes.” The