He pounded on the door and stood to the side. The call appeared to be straightforward, but too many cops had been shot or attacked on calls just like this.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A security chain scraped out of its latch, and the dead bolt turned seconds before the door opened. The man standing in the doorway was midsize and stocky, with a full black beard and thinning long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. A plaid shirt skimmed over a full belly and was tucked into worn jeans. In the background, the television light glowed from a back bedroom and softly broadcast what sounded like an old western.
“Mr. Victor Oswald?” Gideon asked.
“That’s right.” His gaze settled on the seven-pointed gold star pinned to his brown overcoat. “Detective Bailey?”
“That’s right. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Oswald.”
What should have been the living room of his apartment had been set up as a leasing office. A pizza box, a couple of dirty blue ceramic plates, and a few beer cans lined the breakfast bar attached to the kitchen.
Following Gideon’s line of sight, Mr. Oswald cleared his throat as he moved toward the kitchen and gathered the beer cans and dumped them into the trash.
He sniffed as he tucked in his shirt more securely. “You had a question about one of my residents?”
“That’s right. Her name is Lana Long?”
“Long.” He shook his head. “I know Lana. She moved in about nine months ago. We don’t get that many move-ins in the winter, so I remember her. Pretty little thing. She all right?”
“Her purse was found in town. This is more of a wellness visit to make sure she is.”
“The ladies do not like being separated from their purses.”
“No, sir, they do not. That’s why I’m concerned.”
“Did you call her?”
“I was hoping you could give me her phone number.”
“Sure. Let me check her records.”
The manager went to a computer resting on a desk shoved in a corner and typed several keys. “Ready?”
Gideon opened his phone. “Shoot.”
The manager rattled off the number, which Gideon typed into his phone. It rang twice and then, “This is Lana. You know the drill.”
Gideon left Lana a message instructing her to call him. Next step would be to check with the phone carrier to see if they could locate her cell. “She’s not answering. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, it’s been a couple of weeks. She’s a hairdresser and works long hours.”
“Has she had any trouble or complaints?”
“No.”
“Can you direct me to her apartment?”
Mr. Oswald scratched the back of his head. “You’re going to a lot of trouble over a purse.”
“I just need to confirm she’s all right.”
Mr. Oswald grabbed a lightweight jacket, and as Gideon stepped outside, he closed the door behind him. “She’s in building two. It’s a quick walk.”
The few seconds in the manager’s warm apartment had sharpened the bite of the evening chill as they crossed the lot, full of potholes. The air was crisp and ripe with the scent of moisture. Snow in September was not uncommon, and he would bet money they were in for an early winter.
Mr. Oswald fished a ring of keys from his pocket and walked up to the first-floor unit. He knocked hard on the door several times. “Management,” he said in a clear, practiced voice. “Ms. Long, are you in there?”
They stood in silence, waiting outside the darkened door. If she was inside, she was either a heavy sleeper or passed out.
“Can you open it?” Gideon asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t you need a search warrant?”
“I’m just looking for the lady so I can give her back her purse.”
A fierce independence ran through Montana residents, as Gideon knew well; they were not fond of the law poking around. “You know exactly what you’re looking for?”
“One Ms. Long.”
“All right.” He selected a key from his ring and unlocked the door. He knocked harder, announced it was management again, and then, after no response, opened the door and switched on the light.
The apartment’s interior was dark and silent. The living room was similar to Mr. Oswald’s layout, though it appeared this unit had only one bedroom. The living room was furnished with a couple of lawn chairs, a folding table, and several boxes of books that lined the wall. A few of the books dealt with arson and the mindset of an arsonist. Could Lana Long have set the fire at the shop? If she had, she would not be the first arsonist to have underestimated the power of a fire and be consumed by their own blaze.
Gideon unholstered his sidearm. “Ms. Long, police!”
No response.
Mr. Oswald turned on the lights in the kitchen and hallway, calling out as he stayed behind Gideon while they walked toward the bedroom.
Another flip of the switch and they were staring at a single mattress on the floor, covered with a rumpled purple comforter twisted around gray sheets. Butted against the wall was an open suitcase neatly packed with clothes. Either Lana lived out of her suitcase or she was ready to leave town.
There were no pictures on the walls, and the bathroom was cleaned out except for a nearly empty bottle of lavender shampoo in the shower stall. The towels lay in a damp pile in the sink.
“Did she mention she would be moving soon?” Gideon asked.
“No. She signed a year’s lease. Said she was going to make a home here. A fresh start. But she wouldn’t be the first to skip out on rent.”
Gideon wondered how many folks planning on a new start in Big Sky Country ended up in his jail. These people figured moving to the edge of nowhere would solve their problems, until they realized their problems knew no zip code. As tempted as he was to search the open suitcase, he would wait. Better to have a search warrant.
“I should have known she was going to skip on the rent. Too positive and too cheery.”
“What makes
