Free The Pawnbroker by Aimée Thurlo

angle.
    â€œExcuse me, Mrs.…”
    â€œTodd,” the woman said, standing out and extending her hand. “Madeline Todd. How can I help you, Mr.?…”
    â€œCharles Henry,” he said, shaking her hand, something many Navajos were reluctant to do with a stranger. “I’m working for the Valley Associates law firm, representing Gina Sinclair, attorney-at-law.”
    He brought out Gina’s card and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Madeline, I’m trying to locate an ex-husband who owes a substantial amount of child support. I’m here to serve a court order.
    â€œOur client needs that money to help pay for her child’s corrective surgery,” he added, hoping to seal the deal.
    â€œThat’s terrible. How could a man hold out on his own child? I wish I could help you, but we’re not allowed to give out the names or apartment numbers of our tenants without some kind of court order or an obvious emergency,” the lady said, sounding apologetic. “Are you sure he lives here?”
    Charlie had known he might need a plan B, and already had it ready. “Yes, but the problem is that he’s apparently using a fake identity, so if I told you his name that wouldn’t help anyway. But I do have a photo. If he’s not a resident, all you will have to do, Mrs. Todd, is shake your head no. Any conclusion I’d reach after that would be strictly on my own,” Charlie said, then paused for a few seconds. “Will you help me do the right thing, Madeline? If not for me, for his daughter?”
    The woman sat there for several seconds, then she glanced around. They were the only ones in the office. “Let me take a look at this lowlife SOB.”
    Charlie placed Baza’s photo in front of Mrs. Todd, watching her eyes. The pupils shrunk immediately, a sure sign to him what the answer was.
    She looked at it for a mere five seconds, then slid the photo back to him. “Bastard,” she muttered, then sat back in her chair and pointed to apartment 108 on the building diagram beneath the glass on her desk.
    â€œThere won’t be any trouble, will there?” she asked. “Our tenants want to feel safe and know that their privacy is being respected.”
    â€œI guarantee that this man will not be creating any problems for you or the residents,” Charlie said, putting the photo back into his pocket. “Also rest assured that your name will never come up in my workplace. Good morning,” he added, walking to the door.
    Should I enter apartment 108 before or after I call Nancy? he thought as he walked back to his rental car. Rejecting the first alternative almost as quickly as it occurred to him, he also knew he’d need some kind of probable cause.
    Instead of using the voice command this time, he entered Gordon’s cell number while walking down the sidewalk past the apartment entrances. Each was set back behind a tiny, open porch, some containing planters, flower boxes, or a small round table and a couple of metal chairs. He also noted that each door had a tag on it that listed a first initial and name.
    Gordon didn’t answer right away, and Charlie was already approaching 108 when he heard Gordon’s voice.
    â€œChuck, you find Baza’s place?”
    â€œThink so. And if this is Baza’s place, he’s going under the name D. Tyler.”
    â€œWish I was there. Gonna call Nancy? She’ll be off duty now,” Gordon reminded him.
    â€œLonger I wait, the more time the shooter has to cover his tracks,” Charlie replied, turning to the left and walking over to a bench beneath the shade of a locust tree. “I’ll make the call.”
    â€œCopy. Just watch your back. Someone knew when and where Baza was meeting Gina yesterday, and we have no idea where the shooter got the intel.”
    â€œSo he might have followed Baza from here,” Charlie said, looking around, seeing only a