Oren seemed sharp enough to trust. Gannon reached for his wallet, showed him his World Press Alliance ID and dropped his voice.
“I’m a reporter with the wire service. I won’t tell you where I got the picture, but I can tell you that it is extremely important that I locate this man. We were supposed to meet a few days ago, but he vanished and he never gave me his name. Naturally, I’m concerned. He may be tied to something bad. If you help me locate him confidentially, I will share all the information I can.”
Oren weighed Gannon’s request, excused himself, then went to a female clerk organizing DVDs in the horror-supernatural section, showing her Gannon’s photo. They both shot looks at him before she came to the counter. Her name was Greta. She stood about five-three, had pierced eyebrows and a black Cleopatra-helmet of hair.
“Is this matter connected to our store in any way?” Greta asked.
“Not at all, I’m just trying to locate him.”
“And what does it concern?”
“He’s vanished. He was supposed to meet me, but never gave me his name or address. He had information on something very important. It’s not a police matter.”
“How come you don’t have his address?”
“Because he indicated he was hiding. I’m a reporter and he called me for help anonymously. Now I need your help.”
“How did you get this picture?” Greta asked, handing it back.
“Look, no one needs to know how I found him. I’ve come this far to you, and you don’t know who has helped me along the way. I will keep it that way. I protect sources.”
She moved to the keyboard and started typing, staring at her monitor.
“You’ll keep the store’s name out of any stories?” Greta asked.
“Yes. I need to find him.”
While looking at her monitor, Greta tapped her fingers on the counter. Gannon noticed she had little flowers painted on her red-glossed nails. She tapped for several moments before coming to a decision.
“His name is Harlee Shaw,” she said.
“Harlee Shaw, okay.”
“He likes classic war and Westerns.” She consulted her monitor. “He’s got
“I see.” Gannon knew she was on the brink of sharing what he needed. “And you’ve got his address there?”
“Uh-huh.” She blinked thoughtfully.
Greta reached for a notepad, clicked her ballpoint pen and jotted down an address, tore the sheet and gave it to Gannon.
“It’s about four blocks,” she said.
“Thank you.” Gannon tucked the information in his pocket.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Why?”
“He’s very strange.”
Oren nodded in wholehearted agreement.
“That’s why we’re helping you,” Greta said. “We think he needs help.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once I heard him in the store arguing with disturbing intensity.”
“Who was he arguing with?”
“No one.”
Gannon’s heart sank as he started walking to the address.
In minutes he’d gone from the high of finding his source, to the low of finding out that he was a whack job. Taking stock of all the energy he’d invested exhausted him, but he would see this through. Like a losing team, Gannon would play out the clock, he thought as he came to Shaw’s building. It was an eighteen-story apartment complex built in the 1970s with blond brick in the vintage of industrial eastern European blandness. To Gannon it bordered on Section 8 housing.
In the secure glass-walled lobby he went to the tenant directory and pressed the intercom button for number 1021, Shaw’s apartment, according to the video-store information.
No response.
He tried two more times without success. When two white-haired women arrived from the elevator to exit, Gannon inquired about Harlee Shaw.
“Never heard of him,” one of them snapped.
The women eyed Gannon from head to toe and were careful to ensure the security door locked behind them before they left. Gannon didn’t care. He’d come too far to give up. He returned to the directory, pressed number 402—the button for the super. Within ten seconds the intercom speaker came to life.
“Yes?” A woman’s hurried voice.
“I’m Jack Gannon—”
“Are you here for a rental?” The woman cut him off.
“No. I’m concerned about a tenant.” Gannon glanced up at the camera recording him.
“Which one?”
“Harlee Shaw, in 1021. I have business with him and I’m concerned for his safety. I haven’t heard from him. He doesn’t answer his phone. It’s been a few days. I really need to check on his welfare.”
Gannon counted the seconds passing and got to five.
“Who are you?”
“Jack Gannon. I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance.” Gannon held up his photo ID to the camera.
“Step inside, please, and wait. I’ll be right there.”
The lock on the interior glass door buzzed and Gannon stepped into the lobby. A few minutes later, to the jangle of keys, a fast-walking woman of about fifty, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, arrived.
She looked Gannon over after they’d stepped into the elevator.
“A reporter, huh?”
“What do you know about Harlee?” Gannon asked.
“He lives alone and keeps to himself. Bet you hear that a lot.” As the car rose, she picked her way along her key ring. “I’m sure you know there are a ton of laws and policies about entering an apartment without permission.”
“I know.”
“But I have discretion if I think it’s an emergency,” she said. “Mr. Shaw’s late with his rent. He’s never late and I ain’t seen him. He hasn’t answered my calls on the phone and at his door, or picked up his mail. And now you’re here with a concern. I’m likely wrong, but I consider that an emergency and reason to check on his welfare. My name’s Shelly.”
“Jack Gannon.”
“Yeah, I saw that on your ID.”
The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Shelly led the way to unit 1021 and knocked hard on the door.
“Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, are you okay?” Shelly called.
Again, she rapped loudly then pressed her ear to the door. She turned to Gannon, shook her head, then inserted her key. As the door cracked, Gannon detected an odor. Then saw the security chain.
Shelly surprised Gannon when she produced a telescopic metal hook. She extended it, and with one expert move, used it to unfasten the chain, as though she’d done this before.
“Mr. Shaw!”
Noise from near and distant units, TVs and voices, filled the hallway, but inside everything was silent. The
