Four tarnished black mailboxes hung by the door, one dangling sideways where it had fallen, or from the look of it, been ripped from the wall.
Across the street, Max noticed the Skeleton Crew Bar, a squat windowless brick structure. He could imagine the dark, smoky interior, country music blaring from the jukebox on most nights, a room of regulars slamming beers and dragging each other into the street for fistfights.
The neighborhood left something to be desired, that was for sure.
He tried to envision a kid growing up in one of those apartments. Where did he play? In the brown weeds that grew along the gravel parking lot?
Beyond the bar and apartment building, a series of warehouses and industrial businesses stood. He noticed a storage lot, a salvage yard, and further down a liquor store that boasted beer and lotto.
He found the front door to the apartment building unlocked and likely broken since the knob didn’t turn at all when he pulled on the door. He started up the stairway, narrow, dark, and smelling of vomit.
At the top of the stairs, he found two doors, but only one was labeled.
According to his notes, Nicholas Watts lived in Apartment B.
Max knocked on the scratched door, and noticed a splintered indent in the lower right corner, as if someone had kicked it.
From across the hall he heard rhythmic thumping, and moments later, the undeniable sounds of moans and grunts as someone neared their climax.
He knocked a second time, leaned close to the door, and listened.
He heard a man’s voice low.
“Don’t fucking touch it,” the man growled, and Max took an automatic step back, his blood chilling in an instant.
The door didn’t open, and Max forced himself close a second time, pressing his ear to the flimsy plywood.
From inside, he heard a whimper and the soft whoosh of “Please,” spoken by a woman. The word was cut off so quickly, Max knew the man had either clamped a hand over her mouth or tightened his hold on her throat.
“Fuck all,” Max whispered.
He slipped down the steps, light on his feet, and hurried to his saddlebags, all too aware that whoever was occupying the second floor apartment was likely watching him through the window above. He rifled through his bag and made like he was pulling out documents while quickly sliding his tonfa into his pants.
His tonfa were two narrow, but strong, wooden sticks with small handles jutting from the sides.
He didn’t have other weapons, and he usually didn’t carry the tonfa, but he’d been practicing with them at the martial arts studio the night before and had forgotten them in his saddlebag.
The handles of the sticks poked him painfully in the stomach when he moved, but he tried to appear official as he organized the papers and walked determinedly back into the building.
When he reached the second floor, the moans across the across the hall had subsided.
He pounded on the door.
“I’m here about your missing son,” he called.
To his surprise, the door jerked open and a thin woman with red-rimmed eyes gazed out at him. A red welt showed on her cheek in the distinct shape of an open hand.
“Mrs. Watts?”
The woman blinked at him, her hand lifting toward her face, and then quickly dropping back to her side. Her hair had been pulled into a bun, but looked as if someone had grabbed the side of her head and yanked fiercely, wrenching half of her hair loose.
“Can you come out and speak with me for a minute?” he asked.
“No!”
It wasn’t the woman who answered, but a man who stepped from behind the door. He stood as tall as Max’s own six-feet-three inches, but outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Thick arms and a muscular chest hovered over a round belly. In his younger days, the man could have been a bodybuilder, but he’d gone soft and Max smelled why. The man reeked of beer.
On the table behind them, Max spotted twenty or more beer cans scattered across the cheap plastic surface. More empties littered the counter.
“It’s okay, Denny,” the woman said, reaching out a trembling hand and patting one of the man’s meaty forearms. “This man is here about Nicholas.”
“That little shit for brains?” Denny snapped.
The woman jumped and her eyes darted to Denny’s large hands.
“Are you Nicholas’s father?” Max asked, feeling his blood pressure rise at the man’s insensitive comment.
Max didn’t want to talk about Nicholas. He wanted to pull out his sticks and beat the man bloody. Denny outweighed the woman by two hundred pounds. He was the worst kind of bully.
“Wish I wasn’t.” Denny made a grotesque sound as he cleared his throat and walked to the counter, hocking a ball of spit and snot into the sink with a metallic thud. “Run off is what he did and took my five bucks with him.”
“Will you come in?” The woman cast hopeful, almost desperate eyes on Max, and he knew he’d never get her outside. Denny would slam the door in his face before he let her leave the apartment.
“Sure, yeah.” He walked stiffly, the sticks jabbing his belly.
“Can I get ya something?” she asked, pushing several beer cans aside. “We have beer or orange juice? Or tap water?”
Max shook his head.
“No, nothing for me, Mrs. Watts, thanks. I hoped to ask you a few questions about the day Nicholas went missing.”
Denny lumbered to a kitchen chair, yanked it out, and plopped down. His eyes narrowed on his wife, and she hurried to the refrigerator, grabbing him a can of beer, wiping the condensation on her skirt before popping the top and handing it to her husband.
He guzzled half of it one gulp, burped loudly, and slapped the can on the table.
“You can call me Joan,” she said.
She lifted a self-conscious hand to her head and winced, confirming Max’s theory that Denny had pulled her hair. She didn’t bother fixing it, likely to tender to touch.
“It happened in March. Denny gave Nicholas some money and asked him to run down to the corner store for beer.”
Max frowned. “He’s twelve, right?”
She laughed, embarrassed, and shot a quick glance at her husband who glared at Max.
“Denny’s friend owns the store, so…” she shrugged. “But he didn’t come home. After about a half hour, I walked down there and Brody, the store owner, said he never saw him.”
“Little fucker took my money and ran,” Denny snarled, finishing the beer and crumpling the can in his hand.
He kept his eyes trained on Max’s face as if daring him to challenge his statement.
Denny threw the can behind him in the vague direction of the sink, but it bounced off the counter and landed on the floor.
He didn’t even have to look at his wife this time, Joan had already seized another beer from the refrigerator and set it in front of him.
“Five dollars isn’t much to run away with,” Max said.
“He didn’t run away,” Joan whispered so low Max barely heard her.
Denny leaned forward on his elbows. “What d'you say?” he demanded.
Color rose in her face, making the bruise burn scarlet. “I just… I don’t think he ran away, Denny. I think… umm…” But she didn’t finish.
Denny’s hands turned into fists, and his eyes bore into her.
“There have been other kids who have gone missing,” Max said, directing his words at Denny. “There’s a chance he was abducted.”
Denny snorted. “Who’d want him?”
Joan’s face fell, and her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes welled, and she turned sideways so her husband wouldn’t see her tears. She cried silently, her bony shoulders hitching beneath her threadbare blue dress.