Down the Dark Streets by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2022-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

John walked beside Doyle, waiting for the man to take a breather. It was obvious his hip was hurting bad. Everyone they passed knew Doyle and said hello, the old crank giving a quick nod in response and moving on.

“I know Ida was upset when I mentioned it, but we should absolutely call the police,” John said. Ida’s house was the next block over.

“We’ll do no such thing,” Doyle huffed. “Whoever these people are already broke her trust. I’m not about to do it, as well. And neither are you.”

With Ida missing, John didn’t expect them to find anyone in her house. He had no idea what Doyle planned to do. For now, John was simply in tagalong mode, though he had to get back to his mother’s house soon.

Doyle didn’t bother knocking or ringing the bell. He simply turned the knob on the front door and pushed. To their surprise, the door opened.

They stepped right into Ida’s living room. Piles of newspapers, cardboard boxes, and bags of bread crumbs covered every surface. It was like walking into one of those hoarder houses, the smell of mildew and, as best as John could guess, pigeon excrement a tad difficult to take in. Now this was exactly what young John expected the Pigeon Lady to live in.

“Hello,” John called out.

Doyle elbowed him in the ribs and whispered, “Quiet. I want to catch these people in the act.”

“In the act of what?”

Doyle didn’t respond. Instead, he crept into the dining room. The table and chairs were hidden beneath mounds of clothes.

John thought if We Care had sent aides to Ida’s to get things in order, they hadn’t done a very good job. Or maybe they had, making him wince at the thought of the interior having been worse.

Both men stopped when the floorboards above them creaked.

Someone was upstairs, slowly walking around.

“Come on,” Doyle hissed.

The stairs were carpeted and mercifully quiet as they made their way to the second floor. Doyle pointed to an open door at the end of the hallway. A shadow passed across the rectangle of light painted on the floor.

Reaching into his pocket, Doyle’s hand came out gripping a pistol.

John tugged at his arm. “What the hell are you doing with that?” he said close to Doyle’s ear.

The man paid him no mind, suddenly striding down the hall. He used the gun to batter the door all the way open, John on his heels.

A young woman in torn-up jeans and a black T-shirt was taking a video of Ida’s bedroom. All of the dresser and night table drawers had been opened, their contents blatantly rifled through.

“Put that phone down right now, missy,” Doyle barked, pointing the gun smack at the middle of her forehead.

The woman’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull for a moment. She quickly got control of herself, slipping the phone into her back pocket. She was tall and pale, with angular cheekbones and narrow eyes. When she spoke, John detected an Eastern European accent. “Put the gun down before you hurt yourself.

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