down on the sidewalk, and stepped on it.
The last three customers came out the door, accompanied by the jingling of the bell. She stepped out of their way.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Jose is waiting. I have to close up the front—”
“I’ve got a better idea, Lucinda,” I said. “Let’s take a ride to the station and talk where there’s less distraction.”
“I’m cooperating. I’ve told you everything I know.”
I said, “Do you know if Denny runs girls?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I showed her my phone. I pulled up pictures of Carly and her friends. “Have you ever seen this woman? Or her? Or her? Is Denny pimping these women?”
“No way. Jeez. I don’t know them. I just said I don’t ask Denny his business.”
Funny thing. I believed her and I even felt sorry for her. She showed signs of emotional abuse. She was fearful and pretty clearly lying to herself. But we weren’t done here.
I said to my partner, “Let’s serve the warrant on Mr. Martinez and get the vehicle to the lab.”
“Wait,” Lucinda Drucker said. “You have to understand. If you tell Jose that I let Denny drive the car after hours, I’m going to lose my job.”
“Look, Ms. Drucker. We don’t want you to get fired, but see it from our side. We’re investigating a homicide. A woman was killed. Two more are missing. If Denny has seen something, he has to tell us.”
I thought I saw tears in her eyes, but I turned away from her and called Dale Culver in Impound at the lab. I gave him the location, the warrant number, the description of the vehicle, and the tag number. Culver said, “It’s gonna be twenty-five to thirty minutes to get a flatbed out there.”
I was looking up Twentieth Street as I spoke with Culver, when I saw someone who might be Denny Lopez approaching on foot. He was smaller than I’d pictured him, maybe five seven, narrow shoulders. He had his hands in his pant pockets, head down, apparently deep in thought.
Lucinda saw him at the same time.
That was Denny. That was him.
I turned to Conklin, and that’s when Lucinda yelled, “Denny! Cops! Run!”
CHAPTER 55
Lopez looked up, saw us, and split, turning on his heel and running back the way he’d come.
I yelled, “Stop! Police!”
He kept going. I was the law, and by running, he’d crossed a legal line right into a gray area called reasonable suspicion.
I yelled again for him to stop. He didn’t even turn his head. Conklin and I ran behind him, and then after streaking along Twentieth, he ditched down Lexington. Although Conklin had a couple of inches on me, my legs were as long as his, and I was fit from running with Joe and Martha.
But I knew we couldn’t risk Drucker or Martinez disappearing with the possible evidence inside that vehicle. I had enough air to yell to Conklin, “Rich. Here. Take the warrant and wait for the lab.”
Conklin faded back and I picked up speed.
I was fast, and on a straightaway I would have had the advantage, but Denny Lopez could pivot like a quarter horse. One minute he was pounding the asphalt ahead of me, and then he was just gone.
He seemed to have slipped into another dimension.
Did he live on this block? I thought about Susan and Adele. Where had he stashed them? Were they only yards away?
I checked out the back doors on Lexington Street. Some were gated with iron grilles, some were wood, one was a roll-up garage door. Next to that one was a pair of double doors with metal studs, and beside that was a slim metal grille with peeling green paint and a dead bolt. Behind the grille was a matching green-painted wooden door.
But the dead bolt was unlocked, the grille slightly ajar—as if someone had run through and hadn’t had time to throw the bolt.
I pulled my gun, yanked open the grille, and kicked in the wooden door.
I was expecting anything. A gun pointed at me. A room full of naked men weighing heroin, packing glassine envelopes. But it was nothing like that. I was inside a basement room lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It looked like something between a knickknack shop and a hoarder’s lair.
I called out, “Lopez. This is the police. Come out with your hands up.”
Something stirred from behind a six-foot-tall stack of newspapers. I had a two-handed grip on my Glock, hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to use