Chapter Twenty-Four
Ronan
I rode over to Blair Sanchuk’s last known address, where technically he still rented an apartment, even though he wasn’t living in it.
I found the old apartment block on the edge of the Downtown Eastside. It was a real dive, though I’d hardly expected anything more.
I parked my bike up the block, because if there was any chance Sanchuk was actually here, I didn’t want him to hear me coming. Then I walked up to the building. It had once been white, but the peeling paint and dirt had turned it a mottled gray. It was three stories, and as I walked around the perimeter, it just got worse.
Trash was strewn all over the alley, which reeked of piss and rotten garbage. I saw a used hypodermic needle next to the dumpster. The fire escape was rusted and looked like it might break if I tried to climb it. All the windows were crooked and/or cracked, with mismatched old towels and shirts and whatever tacked up in place of curtains.
One of those buildings that should’ve probably been condemned, but I supposed someone had to live in it. Like maybe if you were new in town and dealing meth, and needed somewhere to lay low a while… Yup. This place fit the bill.
I considered breaking in, because fuck him. He tried to break into Summer’s home. I planned to tear his place apart if I had to.
I had to find something, because this waiting and not knowing shit had gone on long enough.
I wasn’t gonna ask any of my guys to break in for me, though, so here I was.
But… it was broad daylight. There was an old lady across the street, sitting on a stoop and staring at me. Too good a chance of someone seeing me and calling the police. Even in a neighborhood like this.
So I walked right up to the front door. There was an old security panel with a buzzer system, but no intercom. Just a bunch of faded labels next to worn buttons. One of them actually said Caretaker.
As if anyone actually took care of this dump?
I pressed the button. I couldn’t hear anything, but I waited.
Eventually, a rail-thin guy who could’ve been anywhere from mid-twenties to late thirties came to the door. His clothes were stained and worn, and he looked like neither his skin or his soul had ever seen the sun.
“What?” he barked as he opened the door.
I cut right to it, because obviously there was no need finessing this guy. “How much is it gonna cost me to get access to apartment two-ten?”
He stared at me for a long moment, sizing me up.
“You’re not a cop,” he said.
“I didn’t say I was a cop. I said I want access to apartment two-ten.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got a drug dealer on the lease, and he owes me something.”
The guy stared at me.
True enough, Sanchuk did owe me something—namely assurance that Summer was safe from his ass—but I’d spare this guy the details.
“And who are you?” he asked.
I was getting impatient with the Twenty Questions routine, so I decided to move things along. “I’m the guy who’s gonna ruin your otherwise peachy day if you don’t open that door for me. How much?”
“Two hundred.”
“I’ll give you fifty and I promise not to accidentally burn this shit hole down.” I pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet, and handed it to him. “Let’s go.”
He took it, because clearly morals were not of his concern, and grudgingly let me in.
He got the key from his apartment, and as I followed him down the hall and up a flight of stairs, he grumbled at me. “I haven’t seen him in weeks. He slips the rent check under my door. I don’t have anything to do with him.”
