CHAPTER EIGHT
SON OF A bitch.
I don’t want to go back up to the apartment. I want to go home, get away from the river, have a chance to settle down and do some more research, but I can’t stand the thought of Victoria lying there, hurt or worse.
You could call the cops.
Ugh. I really don’t want to engage with them. Plus, I don’t really trust the police. Not anymore. I’d rather do this myself.
I pull a pair of latex gloves over my sweaty fingers and grab my snap gun from the box under the seat, scrambling up the switchback stairs. Up and up, and I’m panting when I reach the top.
The entry to the apartment is partially shielded by the railing around the top landing. I kneel on the welcome mat and thrust the snap gun into the lock to engage the tumblers. It takes only seconds; the lock is old and easily overcome; the deadbolt isn’t fastened, and with a last glance around I open the door and dart inside. I don’t give myself a chance to think about the beach, the hallucination, or whether I’m making a really big mistake. Because, if this turns out to be a crime scene, I’ll be leaving traces all over it.
Plus, breaking and entering.
Calling out is a non-starter because of neighbor George, so I draw my weapon and walk softly. No lights are on. Venetian blinds shade the windows, casting the apartment into twilight. The front hall leads to a small living area. Sofa, chairs, TV, houseplants. Some decorative fabric squares hanging on the wall. Kitchen is clean, no dishes in the sink, but a sour odor wafts from the trash can. The whole place is stale. I don’t linger anywhere, but open doors to find a bedroom with a rumpled bed; a closet full of colorful clothes; a second bedroom set up as an office with a desk and a laptop; a bathroom where the hand soap on the sink is beginning to crack.
Behind me, the refrigerator coughs and hums to life, and I whirl into a half-crouch, weapon at the ready. Almost immediately I realize my mistake and straighten up, taking a moment to steady my nerves with deep, controlled breaths.
Careful now. Someone’s gonna cite you for hunting appliances out of season.
There’s no sign of a struggle, no bloodstains, no mess. I would guess no one’s been here for days. I stand silently and listen. Muted traffic noise drifts up from the street, and the laugh track from a muffled television that probably belongs to George rises through the floor. On the move again, I look for a cell phone, or even a land line, but the only electronic item is the laptop in the office. The screen comes to life when I flip it open, requesting a password. I type in ‘password’ and variations of same. Then I try ‘churchofthespirit’ and ‘spirit’ and ‘Jesus.’ Even ‘Godhelpme.’ Nothing. I close the computer. There’s a pile of paper on the desk and an open notebook. It looks like she was working on a sermon.
You’re pushing your luck, Lake.
I know, I know. Just a few more minutes.
I check the closet in the office. Coats and cardboard boxes and an ironing board. Back in the bedroom, I look under the bed. Suitcases. In the living room, there’s nothing behind the couch but dust bunnies, and nothing under the cushions but a couple of pennies and a paperclip. Satisfied the place is empty, I return my gun to the holster. Then I see it — in plain sight, such a common thing that it didn’t trip my radar. On the dining table is a purse.
In seconds, I’ve got the zipper pulled back and am looking into the cavity. A green leather wallet takes up most of the space. A quick paw-through reveals pens, Kleenex packet, cough drops and other handbag detritus. No keys. Unsnapping the wallet reveals driver’s license, bank cards, a slim wad of cash: several ones and a fifty. I close the billfold and return it to the purse. Wherever she went, she took her keys, but not her wallet. She meant to come back. And since the car is still parked down below, she left on foot.
While my brain is still cataloguing data and drawing conclusions, I hear a noise that sends my heart into a gallop around my rib cage. It’s the sound of footsteps on the landing outside and someone rattling the doorknob.
For a nanosecond, I’m paralyzed, standing with the open purse in my hand. Then I drop it with a thump and skitter down the hall to the bedroom. For surveillance purposes, I leave the door open a crack.
“Hello? Maintenance! Anyone here?” The voice is deep, a man’s voice. Footsteps. “Hello? We got a call to check on this apartment. Hello?”
A tiny slice of hall and kitchen is visible. A figure crosses the room.
The deep voice calls out again. “Everything okay? Your door was unlocked. I’m gonna check the other rooms, okay? Hello?”
Shit. I dart to the far side of the bed and lie down on the floor. I hear the door to the office open, and then footsteps coming down the hall. From where I’m lying I can see the bottom edge of the door beyond the suitcases. It swings open, and a pair of work boots appears.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
I try to keep myself from breathing, willing him to stay out of the room. A fly buzzes against the window, thumping softly. Seconds stretch like hours. Sweat pours down my face and pools on my lower back. The dusty chemical smell
