Trill Hampton affected the deadbeat, too-cool-to-get-excited deputy marshal role whenever possible. So when Hampton interrupted Larson’s call in an animated voice, Larson immediately took note.
“Good timing!” Hampton said. “We just got a tac alert from Homeland that an air marshal may have IDed a guy with a bow tie scar on his forearm. Someone actually reads the alerts we put out there, if you can believe that. If it’s our cutter, he was seen on a morning flight, NWA, from Minneapolis to St. Louis. Flying under the name Rodriguez.”
“It’s why I called,” Larson said. “It is him: the guy who did Benny; I’d put money on it. And my best guess is I’m only a few minutes behind him. A half hour, at most,” Larson explained. He weaved his Explorer through traffic. “I was calling in for backup.”
“Gimme your ten-twenty,” Hampton said.
“It’s a Jefferson Square address.” Larson recited the exact street and number.
“Me and Stubby have made some progress on Markowitz. We’ll catch you up. We’re probably ten minutes behind you. We’ll stay on com.”
For Larson, the air marshal’s spotting the tattoo connected the passenger to the Romeros. Homeland Security could now interface with the Bureau and perhaps even Interpol to track the suspect’s travel, his true identity, his route, his finances; everything that could be generated and gathered.
Larson ran two red lights, narrowly avoiding a collision as he raced through the second intersection, a not-so-subtle reminder for him not to lose focus.
By the time he reached the apartment complex off Jefferson Square, he first heard and then spotted a squad car a block behind him and closing fast, siren blazing. Larson pulled over and hurried out of the Explorer. The sirens grew steadily louder and more shrill. With his third kick, he dislodged the door from the jamb and he shouldered his way through. The siren wound down-they’d reached the curb.
Larson had not seen a listing for any Stevenson or Stevens on the buzzer board. But 202 had held a blank card, and it won Larson’s attention. He sprinted for the EXIT sign and the stairs he knew he’d find behind it, avoiding the slower elevator and hoping the cops might sucker into it.
He had his weapon out and at the ready by the time he nudged open the door to the second-floor hallway. The corridor was empty and quiet. He worked his way past one apartment-204-and reversed directions. 203… 202…
He braced himself. Hope might be dead, murdered only moments before; or the cutter might be inside the apartment with her, prepared to use her as a hostage, the sirens having alerted him; it might be empty; it might be lit on fire.
He placed his ear to the cool door. The gun’s grip warmed in his hand.
Silence.
A trickle of sweat escaped down his face. A syncopated, jolting rhythm occupied the space below his rib cage.
Into the mix he now added the sound of hurried footsteps as the cops followed up the stairs.
Larson reeled back and drove his heel into the door. With the second blow, it tore open, banging against the interior wall and rebounding.
“PUT DOWN THE WEAPON!” a male voice screeched from behind him.
“Federal officer!” Larson roared as he charged into 202. He wasn’t waiting around to share a moment with the two patrolmen.
Larson hurried from one interior door to the next, his weapon held in both hands at the ready. A loft apartment with an open floor plan, the wood planks creaked with his every step.
“PUT THE WEAPON DOWN! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” shouted one of the cops from behind him in the doorway.
If Larson failed to answer, he knew the man would enter without further warning and might shoot him out of a bad case of nerves. Nonetheless, Larson headed down a narrow hallway, now facing two closed doors to his left, and two to his right. Bedrooms and closets, he thought.
“ U.S. marshal,” Larson called back, intentionally engaging them even though it would reveal his position to anyone else inside. “You’re interfering with a federal fugitive apprehension. Stay where you are and guard the door.”
“Not happening, buddy. I’m coming inside, and if that gun is not on the floor…”
“It’s not!” Larson called out as he moved down the dimly lit hallway. He reached for the doorknob of the first door.
“Drop it!”
Very close behind him now.
The tension in the cop’s voice cut like a knife blade. Larson shot a glance back there, far enough to see the toe of a polished shoe.
He shouldered his way through the door and swept his weapon corner to corner, beads of sweat now trickling down from his temples and armpits.
A little girl’s room. Larson felt a pang of dread. A jolt of connection. Stuffed animals. A low bookshelf crammed with thin, colorful books.
The cop was suddenly right there behind him. Larson could feel him.
He chose his words carefully. “Listen, Officer… we have one more room to clear. The apartment isn’t safe until we clear that room.”
“Drop the weapon.”
“Guard your backside… Don’t get yourself killed out of stupidity.”
A second cop now entered the apartment, calling out now for his partner.
“Guard the door!” Larson shouted. “The suspect is considered armed and dangerous. He may have two hostages: a woman and a child.”
“What the fuck is going on here?” the cop behind him asked.
Larson squatted and gently placed his weapon on the floor. These guys were too green and uptight for him to take any more chances.
Larson ordered, “Whatever you do, clear that room behind you, Officer. Now!” He turned slowly, to reveal his credential wallet hanging from his coat pocket.
“Fed… er… al off… i… cer…” Larson repeated syllabically. “Clear that fucking room, and both closets, before somebody throws shots!”
The banter increased between the two cops. The one guarding Larson collected his weapon and required him to kneel with his hands behind his head. His partner abandoned the front door and cleared the remaining room and closets.
A minute later, weapons drawn, the two carefully followed Larson out into the hallway.
Then he heard a woman’s voice. A familiar voice.
“You?” She was panting from having run the stairs.
He saw her first in a dreamlike blur-a rush of memories, love, lust, and confusion overtaking him. His only thought: It can’t be. But it was. She was. Right there. Not twenty feet away.
Six years compressed into that singular moment as they met eyes.
And he froze.
“Where’s my daughter?”