The top of Bathmore’s building was flat and had a four foot parapet around the perimeter. In the center was a four by six foot enclosed space with a door and a steeply raked roof. It had to be where a set of stairs terminated, giving access from inside the building. I tried the door but it was locked. I had a set of picks in my wallet. I kept them in a thin metal business card case behind a few of my cards. The TSA hadn’t found them yet and were not likely to in the future given their almost total failure rate at detecting hidden items in tests carried out by federal agents. They weren’t the best picks but would do in a pinch. I took them out and worked the lock for a few minutes. The sun was hot on my back and I started to sweat. Finally, the tumbler turned and I pushed the door open. As I had suspected, a set of stairs led down, switched back, and down again, all the way to the ground level. At the second floor landing I could see a door probably leading to the main hallway.
I climbed quietly down to the landing and listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, I pushed the door open and strode out into a corridor carpeted in green with a burgundy floral motif. Frosted glass sconces threw light up at the ceiling and the doors to the apartments were dark wood. Each door was recessed about two feet to create a little entryway. Two doors down I came to number fourteen. It had a bolt lock and a knob set lock. I tried the door and could tell by the give in it that only the knob was locked. I crouched, fitted my tension wrench into the lock, raked the pins, and almost immediately felt the cheap lock give way. I heard a door open down the hall just as I pulled Bathmore’s closed behind me. A man’s deep voice, muffled through the walls. Footsteps. Then the door to the stairwell swinging closed.
I locked both the knob and bolt locks then turned and surveyed the apartment. The place smelled stale, like unwashed clothing and linens and trash in need of emptying. I was in a short entry hall. A door led into a bathroom on my left. To the right a doorway opened into the kitchen. I poked my head in and saw dishes piled in the sink and take out containers on the counters. A bit farther and the hallway opened into a living room with windows facing out toward the apartment complex I had cut through from the next street over. There was one more door on the left which I imagined must lead to the bedroom. The best place to start looking would be wherever Bathmore kept his papers. Most people had a desk or a filing cabinet. If he had Wolhardt’s notes, the most obvious place would be with his other papers. I doubted I would be that lucky, but it was worth looking.
I walked forward and checked the living room. Sofa, coffee table, armchair, television, sand colored wall to wall carpet in need of vacuuming. No art on the walls. A green tiled breakfast bar and a pass through to the kitchen. Across the room a sliding door led out to a small balcony. I opened the door and looked down. Below was an identical balcony and then, farther down, the narrow walkway behind the building and the wall I had climbed. I turned, leaving the door open. If Bathmore returned I could be out the door and over the balcony railing before he had the bolt unlocked. Crossing the room again, I opened the bedroom door. The stale smell was stronger here. The blinds were drawn. I couldn’t see much so I flipped a switch on the wall. A ceiling light glowed then brightened, revealing an unmade bed with gray flannel sheets and, against the wall under the window, a desk with a decrepit looking PC, a file cabinet, and a pile of papers next to the keyboard. I crossed the room and started with the pile of papers. They were mostly bank statements and bills: utilities, credit cards, the usual. One bill caught my eye and I paused on it. It was for a leased office space. The cost was £248 per month and the bill was for the current month plus two months past due. A handwritten note was scrawled at the bottom of the page:
Mr. Bathmore, You must pay the past due amount at once. Otherwise, we will be forced to begin eviction proceedings.
I snapped a photo of the page and put it back in the pile. I tapped the keyboard on the computer and its hard drive whined as it spun up. The screen flickered, then showed a windows login screen. I didn’t want to spend time trying to hack into the computer so I clicked the sleep icon and the computer fell back into its idle state. Next I went through the file cabinet quickly. There was a file folder marked ‘employment’. Inside I found a signed contract for a position as personal assistant at a company called Greenbriar Industries dated from several years before. I took a picture of the document and returned it. I found a copy of Bathmore’s diploma for a bachelor’s degree with a dual
