tire iron, a half-inch steel rod, about eighteen inches long, straight with a chisel point at one end for fitting into the jack, and curved to a forty-five-degree angle with a welded tire lug socket on the other end. This state now has two yammering U.S. senators who would strip every implement of defense from the hands of its citizens. That they haven’t banned lug wrenches and hammers is only a question of time.
I take the documents and files out of my briefcase and lay the iron diagonally inside, the only way it will fit, then close the briefcase and slam the trunk. As I head across the street, I hit the auto-lock button on my key ring and listen as the doors lock. The heat is oppressive, the sun beating down, reflecting up off the street’s fractured concrete.
At the top of the stairs I check the mailbox. Saldado, H. is still listed as residing in apartment G.
I pull open the screen. The front door is still open, so I step inside. It’s cooler here, dark, with a current of air drifting down the hallway from the back of the house.
The apartment at the foot of the stairs directly on my right is lettered “A” in dented brass, screwed into the top cross brace of the old three-panel door.
There is another door directly across the hall to my left; apartment B. Farther on, there are two more doors on that same side, apartments D and E. Apartment G, Saldado’s, has to be upstairs.
I climb the stairs two at time, watching where I step, trying to make as little noise as possible. Near the top, my eyes come level with the floor of the hallway on two. This traverses the second story directly over the hallway below.
I continue my climb until I see the door on the right just beyond the top of the stairs: G.
From the layout of the building, Saldado’s apartment appears to be larger than the other flats. With only a single door on the right because of the open stairwell, his unit spans the entire length of the building, front to back on that side.
I press my ear against the soiled plaster of the wall just above the level of the floor. I am still standing six or seven steps from the top as I listen. What sounds like noises from a television inside, voices followed by canned laughter.
I check my watch, hoping to hear the screeching tires of a patrol unit pulling up out front. Instead what I hear is the cry of a woman, a single wail, followed by a dense thud as something or someone slams up against the wall on the other side. The vibration against the walls causes me to pull my head away. It is followed by a muted scream and what sounds like sobbing.
Quickly I open the attache and take out the tire iron. Feeling the weight of it in my hand, I scramble to come up with a plan, some diversion, a distraction, something that will take Saldado’s mind off of the woman if only for a moment to give the cops time to get here.
Ahead of me down the hallway, past the door to his apartment, a small section of the wall juts out, maybe two feet square. In a larger building this might be the wall covering a steel I-beam, part of the interior structure. In this case, my guess is it’s a plumbing or electrical chase installed when they carved the old house into apartments.
I look at Saldado’s door again. I can’t slip inside his apartment unnoticed, but my business card can. Quickly I jot a note on the back of one of my cards, climb to the top of the stairs, and carefully set the briefcase in the center of the top step, so anybody coming or going can’t miss it.
Quickly, I move down the hall until I’m standing directly in front of Saldado’s apartment door. There is a security hole for viewing, one of those round fish-eye lenses in the door. I can’t be certain, but from the angle I am guessing that anyone looking from inside won’t be able to see far enough down the hall to glimpse the abandoned attache.
I take a deep breath, then slip the business card under the door, and pound as hard as I can on the door, twice.
There is one quick sob from inside. This is instantly muffled. Before it stops, I am ten feet down the corridor moving lightly on the balls of my feet, in the opposite direction from the empty briefcase.
I huddle behind the plaster column formed by the chase, barely deep enough to conceal my body with my back pressed against the wall.
Several seconds pass. I listen.
The voices from the television inside suddenly become more faint until I can no longer hear them. Then, nothing. I stand listening, what seems like an eternity. Beads of sweat form on my forehead and upper lip, while my sweating palm grips the tire iron. I strain to listen. Nothing. Seconds pass to a minute. I check my watch. The cops should be coming.
Then I hear it. The sign of life given up by every old building, the universal groan from one of the aging floor joists as someone walks over it. Someone is moving slowly near the front door just on the other side, probably looking through the peephole. I visualize what is happening inside. A man, tall and wiry, scruffy dark beard peering through the hole, seeing nothing. Then picking up my business card and reading the message.
“Mr. Espinoza: I have a $5,000 cash refund for your unused fees since you hired another lawyer. A friend gave me this address and I’m trying to find you. Paul Madriani”
Saldado may not be welcoming visitors, but five thousand in cash?
Several more seconds pass, then footsteps inside. I hear crying. This time it’s the child. Then hobbled footsteps. A man’s voice, something in Spanish. The sounds getting closer to the door. I tighten my grip on the tire iron in my right hand. The dead bolt is turned on the inside, and the door opens. I press my back against the wall.
“Who’s there?” It’s a woman’s voice, scared, faltering. “Who is out there?”
They listen for a second. Saldado’s probably looking through the peephole, while he holds a pistol to her head.
“See who it is.” A whispered, harsh voice, accented. “And remember I have your baby in here. The door closes for a second. Then I hear the security chain slide off, and it opens again. He pushes her out into the hallway and closes the door behind her quickly. I hear the dead bolt snap closed and the security chain slide back in place.
I peep, one-eyed, around the corner of my hiding place. She doesn’t see me. Robin Watkins already has her back to me as she focuses on the only visible item out of place in the hallway, my abandoned briefcase on the stairs. I had hoped Espinoza would go for this, giving me a one-time shot from behind with the tire iron.
Instead Watkins stands at the top of the stairs looking down. “Hello. Are you there?”
No answer as I hide in the alcove. If she sees me, with her child held by Saldado inside, I’m afraid she will panic and give me up. She starts down the stairs, slowly, calling out as she goes.
As she nears the bottom, I lose the sound of her footfalls, periodically picking her up from the sound of her voice as she calls out. I hear the squeak of the front door, followed by the wooden screen as it opens and slams closed.
If the cops drive up now, there is no telling what she will do; run to them or run back upstairs to the apartment to save her baby.
But it doesn’t happen. I check my watch. The cops are taking their time. A few seconds later I hear the doors down below again, first the screen then the front door closing. Her footsteps moving, not up the stairs but down the hallway below, toward the rear of the building. She is checking carefully, every place I may have gone, calling out. I hear the back door open and close, then silence. I wait and listen, wondering what Saldado is doing inside. Probably looking out the windows. If a patrol car pulls up, all hell could break loose.
For a few seconds, I wonder if perhaps fear hasn’t over-taken maternal instincts, causing Watkins to take off through the backyard. I hear the baby crying inconsolably inside. Watkins can no doubt hear this as well.
Just about the time I think she has taken off, I hear the rattle of the knob at the back door, not down below this time but at the back porch on the second story, five feet away and down the hall to my right. I press back as deep as I can into the shadows as I hear the door open.
She is coming. Back to the apartment. Watkins will have to walk right past me to get there. The door closes behind her. I hear her breathing, sniffling back tears, her feet shuffling on the old wooden-planked floor. Her face is bruised, one eye closed from the swelling. Her nose is bleeding. I can’t tell if it’s broken. Her gaze cast down at the floor, she doesn’t see me until she looks up.
I put a finger to my lips, gesture of silence. Robin looks toward the door down the hall, then back to me. She sees the tire iron in my hand and shakes her head quickly. Robin Watkins knows what lies behind that door.
