Jenkins had gotten the call and driven over immediately. He'd flown across town, sirens blaring, drawing a nasty look from Bronner when his cup full of tobacco spit sloshed over onto a knee.
Bronner stood by the curb, scrubbing at the Kodiak stain with a thumbnail. Jenkins broke through the crowd of press, shoving roughly and dodging questions, and bolted up the stairs. A crime-scene technician tried to stop him in the hall, but Jenkins straight-armed him into the wall. Yale met him at the shattered door of Clyde's apartment and placed a splayed hand on his chest, walking backward as Jenkins continued to advance. "We're sweeping for evidence. Watch your step. SID doesn't want us all through here. We don't know if he's-back the fuck off, Jenkins."
Five heads snapped to attention. Then, the Scientific Investigation Division went back to work, dusting and marking. One held a jar of urine to the light; another flipped the pages of the DSM-IV with gloved hands.
Dalton shuffled over from his position at the window, stepping between Yale and Jenkins, resting his hand lightly on Jenkins's stomach and walking him a few steps back.
"You listen," Yale said. "I'm keeping you in the loop on this as a favor. Calm the hell down or you're gonna blow leads. Is that what you want?" He took a step forward, glaring at Jenkins over Dalton's shoulder. "Is that what you want?"
"No," Jenkins said.
"All right. Me neither. But save your bull-in-a-china-shop routine for speeders and jaywalkers. This is my case. And I'm gonna bust the POS, for your sake and your sister's, but don't you fuck it up by being such a hard-on, or I'll make a few calls and you'll be shoveling out stables for the mounted unit."
Jenkins's eyes narrowed. "Sorry," he managed.
"We missed him. Dr. Spier tracked him here and called in the address. We came over with SWAT to serve the warrant, but by the time we got here… " He gestured to the broken door. "No sign of Clyde C. Slade. We have units out around the area, but nothing yet."
One of the cops popped the locks on the footlocker and raised the lid, revealing a container of DrainEze nestled among syringes, Pyrex beakers, and other medical paraphernalia. When Jenkins caught sight of the alkali, his lips pressed together until the pink left them.
"Place is a fucking monkey house," Dalton grumbled. "Jars of scabs and shit. That reek we're all relishing-it's from a rotting cat in the kitchen."
A technician snapped a photo, and Jenkins tensed up at the flash.
"Don't worry," Yale said. "By the time we're through with this place, we'll know at what grocery store he buys his TV dinners."
A technician sifting through the contents of a vacuum-cleaner bag paused to sneeze. Yale grimaced at him. "Great. That's just great."
"So what's the call?" Jenkins said. "What now?"
Dalton flipped open his notepad. "DMV came back with expired registration to an old address. A '92 Crown Vic, bought at a sheriff's auction."
"Irony," Yale said. "Rich." Hands on his hips, he turned and gazed at the half-open window. A shard of glass had been carefully balanced on the sill.
"He had citations and parking violations up the yin-yang, but the car was never impounded. I assume he still has it, but we've found no sign of car keys." Dalton surveyed the wreck of the apartment. One of the technicians, on his hands and knees picking through dirty clothes, stopped to fan himself. "Though you could lose a refrigerator in this joint. But I think he bolted, took his car. We already called it in."
"The good doctor sticking his nose in again," Jenkins said. "Fucking things up."
"His ass is covered, though," Dalton said. He sighed, irritated. "It's within his rights to walk around, ask questions."
"Unless he broke in here," Jenkins said.
"He knows better," Dalton said.
Yale walked over and lifted the shard of glass from the windowsill. He slid the pane down, revealing the hole the displaced shard had left, just above the latch. "Does he?" he asked.