IT HADN’T BEEN hard to find Woodland Avenue in Yonkers and the house where Spencer Owens had sent the
money order to his brother.
During most of the drive over, I had considered worst-case scenarios. What if Thomas Owens was no longer at the
house? That was the question that haunted me. We didn’t have any other significant leads.
I was already considering what we could do in that case. Put out a media release? On the other hand, as far as I
knew, the media might still be claiming that I’d beaten up a man in Queens. If I was listed as the contact, all the
questions at any sort of briefing might end up being about my Internal Affairs investigation, which was technically
still ongoing. Or was it? No one in IA had come to talk to me yet. In any case, my in volvement in that situation
muddied the waters. If we released anything, it would probably have to come from the ATF with Maggie as the
contact.
I’d been thinking of ways to get Owens’s name and face into the media when Maggie said, “Should be on this
block.”
I looked up and noticed some movement ahead, near where Maggie indicated the house should be located. As we
got closer, I saw two men in the front yard of an older home. I blurted out, “Is that Tom Owens on the ground?”
“I think so. Who’s the other dude?” Maggie pulled in directly behind an older pickup truck. Someone with long
blond hair slipped inside from the porch as we parked.
I took a moment to assess the scene as I opened the door to Maggie’s car. It looked like we’d interrupted a
confrontation between the two men in the front yard. I didn’t see any weapons in anyone’s hands, but from
experience, I turned my body as I climbed out of the Impala so that my
right hip—the one with my gun on it—was facing away from the men. I k ept a nervous eye on the house as well.
Maggie walked around to the curb, and we stood on the edge of the lawn, observing the two men for a moment,
until the man on his feet turned his head and noticed us.
The man on the ground also turned his head. I could see it was definitely our man, Thomas Owens. I st epped onto
the lawn.
The man who was standing grabbed a canvas book bag and something else off the ground. He tucked the bag under
his right arm like a football, then sprinted away through the front yard.
Maggie said, “I have Owens.”
I looked at our suspect as he got up off the ground. I was confident Maggie could handle him. And I knew she had
enough sense to ke ep her head on a swivel. We’d both seen the person go inside earlier. I needed to stop the other
guy. As I jogged out of the front yard, I turned my head and saw Maggie tackle Owens.
Now I was in an honest-to-goodness foot chase in Yonkers.