‘Who is it?’ a tired, probably just-out-of-bed female voice called from behind the door.
Before Hunter could reply, Garcia stopped him with a gesture and pointed to the door, indicating that it had no peephole. He then took over.
‘It’s the postman,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘I have a letter for a Miss Angela Wood that requires a signature.’
‘A letter?’ The female voice took a somewhat skeptical and defensive tone.
‘That’s correct, ma’am,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘It’s from . . .’ He looked at Hunter with a question in his eyes.
‘Pocatello, Idaho,’ Hunter mouthed the words. He remembered her birthplace from her rap sheet.
‘Pocatello, in Idaho,’ Garcia called out.
The next ten seconds went by in complete silence. Clearly, Angela Wood wasn’t expecting any mail from her hometown.
‘Ummm . . .’ she finally called from behind the door. ‘Give me just a minute, I need to put on some clothes. I was in the shower.’ Her tone was still skeptical.
Hunter and Garcia once again moved closer to the door to try to hear what was going on inside. They heard what sounded like someone urgently hurrying around.
They moved their ears closer still – that was when they heard an odd squeaking noise, as if something was being dragged on unoiled wheels.
Hunter looked at his partner.
‘Window,’ he said.
‘Window?’ Garcia questioned. ‘We’re on the third floor and there’s no fire escape. Is she nuts?’
Without waiting for a reply, Garcia took off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs.
Hunter turned toward the door and knocked again. The postman trick obviously hadn’t worked. ‘Miss Wood, this is the LAPD, please open the door.’
Three seconds – no reply.
He knocked again. ‘Miss Wood, please open the door. This is the LAPD. We need to talk to you.’
Nothing.
‘Miss Wood, this is your last warning. If you don’t open the door, I’ll be forced to kick it in.’
Another three seconds. Still nothing.
Hunter took a step back from the door and sent the heel of his right boot flying against the door handle. The loud noise of his kick echoed down the corridor, the door shook, but it remained locked. Hunter hit it again, putting more power into his kick.
Almost, but not quite.
Once again, with everything he had.
This time the doorframe cracked and split, sending the door flying back and wood splinters flying in the air. Hunter immediately stepped inside to find Angela Wood with a back-pack strapped to her, sitting at the window ledge, her legs hanging outside.
‘Wait!’ he shouted, standing at the door to her apartment, his hands coming up in a surrender gesture. ‘What are you doing? We just want to talk to you. Nothing else.’
‘Yeah, right.’ She grabbed the ledge with both hands, ready to push herself off.
‘Please don’t,’ Hunter pleaded, keeping his distance so he wouldn’t come across as a threat. ‘Miss Wood, please listen to me. That’s a very bad idea,’ he said in the calmest voice he could muster. ‘The drop from that window to the ground below is around forty-five feet, maybe a little more. If you’re lucky, and that’s saying something, you’ll end up with a broken leg. Probably two. Probably exposed fractures. We’re talking wheelchairs and crutches for at least the next six to nine months. I’m sure you don’t want that.’ Hunter sensed Angela’s hesitation. ‘Listen, we’re not here to take you in. I give you my word. We really just want to talk to you. We need your help. Please, come back inside.’
Angela peeked over her right shoulder back at Hunter. To her, the man standing at her door sounded sincere, but she had been fooled before and she wasn’t about to take any chances.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ A half-surprised, half-concerned voice called from just a few feet behind Hunter.
Hunter turned to find a 250-pound bald-headed man standing in the corridor just outside the door to Angela Wood’s apartment. He was menacingly holding a baseball bat. Clearly a neighbor who had heard the commotion and was trying to help.
‘It’s all right, sir,’ Hunter said, flashing the man his badge. ‘I’m a detective with the LAPD. Everything is under control here. Please put down the bat and go back to your apartment.’
The man relaxed his grip on the bat and angled his head to have a better look at Hunter’s badge. All of a sudden, the man’s eyes widened in surprise and shock at something he saw just past Hunter’s shoulder.
‘Jesus!’ he gasped.
Hunter immediately spun around.
There was nobody at the window anymore. Angela Wood was gone.
Hunter looked back at the man, who shrugged at him.
‘She jumped.’
Twelve
Garcia got to the end of the corridor and, instead of running down the stairs, he leaped over the entire first flight. As his feet touched the landing, he heard a loud thumping noise echo through the hallway he had just come from. He figured that was Hunter trying to break into Angela Wood’s apartment.
Garcia turned the corner and once again leaped down the next flight of stairs . . . and the next . . . and the next . . . all the way down to the ground floor.
An old and clearly fragile lady was closing the entry door behind her just as Garcia hit the lobby landing. She hadn’t seen the detective until he jumped right in front of her.
‘Oh dear Lord!’ the lady cried in a weak voice, dropping her cane before taking a step back and placing a hand over her heart. Her mouth opened in a gasp that was half fright, half panic. A split second later, she looked like she was having difficulty breathing. Her legs weakened under her, forcing the old lady to lean against the glass door behind her for support.
Garcia saw her already pale face lose even more color and immediately moved to her.
‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he said, gently placing his hands on both of her shoulders to comfort her. The old lady seemed to be more bone than flesh. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
She looked back at him with unfocused eyes, still struggling to breathe.
Garcia was unsure of what to do. He needed to run. He needed to get to the back of that building before something unthinkable happened, and this situation wasn’t helping. He tried to calm the old lady down.
‘Just breathe,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘Nice and slowly. Don’t try to rush it.’ He began breathing in a sturdy rhythm to demonstrate, while at the same time softly placing two fingers over her wrist to assess her pulse – faster than it should’ve been, but not life-threateningly so. ‘I am so sorry,’ Garcia tried again, before explaining. ‘I’m a police officer with the LAPD . . . and I need to get going.’ The urgency in his voice brought some focus back into the old lady’s eyes. ‘Just keep on breathing, nice and slowly like you’re doing now, and you’ll be all right.’ He picked up her cane and placed it in her right hand before moving her away from the door and shooting past her like a bullet.
Five seconds later he’d made it to the back of the building, just in time to see Angela Wood leap from a third-floor window.