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“Well, I have to be right eventually, right?” she said with a grin.
Michael didn’t find that funny.
***
Darla’s eyes widened in surprise when she saw the two agents return. This time, there was no tough-girl act. “Did you catch him?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Faith said. “Kevin wasn’t our guy.”
Darla’s eyes widened further. “He wasn’t?”
“No,” Faith said. “We need your help.”
“I mean, I don’t know what else …” Darla began.
“Is there anyone else who matches the description I gave you?” Faith said. “Anyone at all. Employee, visitor, someone you saw out of your window?”
“Umm, I wouldn’t know about the visitors,” she said. “Half of Tucson comes here. For employees, there really isn’t anyone. I mean, Henry, I guess, but Henry’s not the killing type.”
“Tell me about Henry,” Faith said.
Darla shook her head. “You don’t want Henry. He’s not your man. He’s … how do I put this? He’s soft. If you slapped him in the face, he’d be more likely to cry than slap you back.”
“Can you give me his address, please?”
“Sure, but I’m telling you …”
“Yes, thank you, I heard you,” Faith said. “Can you give me his address, please?”
Darla sighed, and a little of her earlier tough façade came back, possibly out of irritation at Faith’s demanding tone. “All right, if you want to waste your time,” she said, miffed.
Faith didn’t respond. She didn’t care if Darla liked her or not. She just needed the address.
“Okay,” she said after a moment. “1820 Montclair Drive.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Wow. That’s in the Foothills. He must have inherited it from a great-aunt or something. God knowswedon’t pay him enough to afford that.”
“Thank you,” Faith said. “Keep your phone on. We might need more from you.”
“I live to serve,” Darla said sarcastically.
The three of them raced back to the car and punched the address into the GPS. The GPS said twenty minutes to their destination. With the lights and sirens, they could cut that to fifteen. Faith glanced at the clock on the dash. Four-thirty. Three-and-a-half hours since she had seen the killer on the street. More than enough time for him to have gotten away if running was his plan. She could only hope that he hadn’t already disappeared.
They reached the address in twelve minutes thanks to some creative driving on Michael’s part. They leapt out of the car, and the minute Turk caught a whiff of the air in front of the large, two-story house they arrived at, he growled and sprinted toward the house.
Michael and Faith immediately sprinted after him, drawing their weapons. There was no question now. Henry Levinson was their man.
Turk reached the front door and stood, barking and growling. Faith and Michael approached slowly, handguns pointed at the ground.
“FBI!” Michael shouted. “Henry Levinson! Come out with your hands up!”
Faith looked around. The driveway was empty. There were tire marks, fresh ones that led into the garage. She pointed them out to Michael, and Michael nodded. “Henry! We know you’re in there! Come out, or we’re coming in!”
More silence. Faith looked at Michael, and they both nodded again.
“Turk,” Faith called softly. “Come.”
Turk trotted back to stand in front of her, glaring at the door.
Michael stood squarely in front of the door. It was a solid-looking, mahogany wood structure and probably weighed as much as the two of them put together. He shook his head, then took a deep breath, lifted his leg, and slammed it into the door just below the doorknob. The door cracked, a jagged line running from the ceiling to the floor, but it didn’t open.
