Free One of Us by Michael Marshall Smith Page A

messages. I'd been away for two days. I'm not an especially popular guy, but people tend to call me at fairly regular intervals to bug me about something trivial. I experimentally banged the side of the machine.
    "Piss off," it said. The answering machine's been sulking since I threw my coffeemaker out. I think they had something going together.
    "Nobody's called?"
    "Since midnight, no. Most people tend to sleep sometimes."
    I stared down at it. "What are you talking about?"
    "Which was the difficult word?"
    "When did you last give messages?" I asked very slowly.
    "11:58 P.M. yesterday."
    " Tonight."
    "I remember it clearly. You pressed the button lightly for once."
    "Problem?" Deck asked.
    I didn't bother to ask the machine if it was sure about the time. If there was any useful cross-breeding that could have taken place in my apartment, it would have been between the answering machine and my alarm clock.
    "Someone's been in the apartment tonight," I told Deck.
    "Has been?"
    It's not a huge apartment. We checked the few remaining spaces. Deck walked carefully into the spare bedroom, tossed the closets and looked under the bed—and came out shrugging. I did the same in the main bedroom.
    "Nearly finished," Woodley said as I passed behind him, expecting me to hassle him. "And for your information, she's an occasional user. Smack—but not for a while—and a little bit of Fresh."
    This didn't surprise me. "What do I need to do now? Recovery-wise?" Nothing appeared to have been stolen. You'd have to have pretty specific needs to want to steal something from my bedroom. The memory receiver was still in the closet, and that was all that really mattered.
    The old guy shrugged. "Don't ask me. Didn't do that bit. Boys I used to operate on were just given a gun and told to go back out again."
    "You're a doctor, Woodley. You must have some idea."
    He shrugged again. "Chicken soup. Keep her off the bottle for a few days. Or give her a stiff scotch. Whatever works. Don't let her go bungee-jumping."
    "Woodley—" I stopped abruptly, staring at the head of the bed. The sheets and cover had been turned back very neatly, as if by a maid. It was so unexpected, so bizarre, I hadn't even noticed it at first. "Did you do that?"
    "Like to think I operate a one-stop service, dear boy, but it doesn't extend to making your bed."
    I paid him off, and waited impatiently while he gathered his stuff together. I ran an eye over the living room, and came up empty. Nothing obvious was missing, and trust me—the decor's so austere, you'd notice if anything was gone.
    When Woodley had left, I grabbed Deck and pulled him into the bedroom. "The bed," I said, pointing at it.
    "We've been friends a long time," he said gently. "But I just don't care for you that way."
    "Someone's turned back the sheets."
    Deck raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
    "Of course I'm sure. Does it seem something I'm likely to do?"
    "Not unless there was money hidden underneath."
    "Exactly."
    "So someone's picked up your messages and turned back the bed. You got an imaginary girlfriend or something?"
    "Not even a real one."
    "Nobody else got a key? The building's super, for instance?"
    "The super is in prison for breaking and entering."
    "That's a no, then. Anything missing?"
    "Not that I can see."
    "Okay, so, to recap: Someone's broken into your apartment and done a bit of tidying. You're twitchier than a pig in a tin, and you're waving your gun around like a flag. There's a woman on the sofa with wrists like a roadmap, and you just paid Woodley quadruple rate to keep his mouth shut. Maybe now would be a good time for you to tell me what's going on."
    I took my bathrobe off the hook on the back of the door and got Laura Reynolds into it. I stuffed the bloody one in the trash where, knowing my housekeeping, it would probably remain for two years. Laura still seemed to be unconscious, but that was probably due to medication: There was a lot more color in her cheeks, and with a