some thing gold, partially covered in potting soil on the floor. She takes her flashlight close for a better look. In the light I can see that the stain on the carpet is glistening moist, and red, matched by a similar flow that has not yet entirely congealed on the sharp metal corner of the coffee table.
In an hour, maybe less, there will be evidence techs crawling over this place like locusts. I tell Lenore this.
"Right," she says. "I had a hunch it happened here." "Clairvoyance is a wonderful thing," I tell her. "Now let's go." "See if there's anything down the hallway," she says.
"I think we should go."
"Just take a look. Whoever did this is long gone," she says.
It is easier to comply, and less likely to attract the attention of a neighbor, than to argue with her. So I do it.
The hall is dark, lit only by a small night-light plugged into an outlet near the floor. There are two open doors at the end, one on each side, with a bathroom in between through which some light shines. I step quickly but carefully down the hall.
Halfway down there's a door open about an inch. I peer around and look inside through the open crack, just enough to light a shelf high on the wall. It's a closet of some kind, dark and small. I leave it and move on.
The first room I look in faces on the street at the front of the apartment. It appears to be Hall's bedroom. The bed is stripped to the sheets, but except for the tossed pillows and the missing blanket, everything here seems in its place. There's a closet in the corner, the door closed.
I turn to look at the other room across the hall. This is a different story. There is another, smaller bed, the clutter of a little child.
There are dolls and the plastic parts of toys, little snap-on things a child can build with, and a set of wooden blocks. A pink coverlet is on the bed. A little girl's room. But there is no sign other. I ease around to check the other side of the bed. No one.
I'm back down the hall. Lenore is still canvassing the living room, stepping carefully to avoid the evidence.
"I didn't know she had a kid." "Little girl," she says.
"Where is she?" Being baby-sat," she says. "Grandparents." "How do you know?"
"Saw a note in the kitchen." She's been nosing around while I've been down the hall.
"Fine. Then let's get the hell out of here."
"Back out the way we came," she tells me. "Check to make sure we didn't touch anything." As I start to go back suddenly I am without light.
Lenore has gone the other way, toward the dining room and the kitchen beyond.
"Where are you going?"
"Meet you at the door," she says.
Arguing with Lenore is fruitless. I figure anything that will get us to the front door and back to the car in a hurry is fine by me. I retrace my steps. This takes me all of three seconds. When I get to the kitchen I see Lenore, who has barely made it through the door at the opposite end.
She is studying a large calendar hanging on the wall just inside the door, her back to me.
"Let's go." My voice jogs her from some reverie. In a moment such as this it is like Lenore to be checking the victim's social calendar.
She does a delicate dance over the yogurt, avoiding the blitz of papers, and puts her hankied hand on the back of the chair that is blocking the way. She slides this gently out of the way and then repositions it as accurately as she can. With this, I'm to the door and out, Lenore right behind me. She closes it and we hoof it to the street and my car on the other side. Once inside, I waste no time putting two blocks behind us, before I utter a word.
"If any of the neighbors saw us I just hope to hell they have a good clock," I tell her. Two people skulking about in the apartment of a murder victim while her body lies in an alley surrounded by the cops.
Then the question that is gnawing at my mind: "What the hell was that all about?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean going to her apartment like that?"
"Tony had a suspicion she
In an hour, maybe less, there will be evidence techs crawling over this place like locusts. I tell Lenore this.
"Right," she says. "I had a hunch it happened here." "Clairvoyance is a wonderful thing," I tell her. "Now let's go." "See if there's anything down the hallway," she says.
"I think we should go."
"Just take a look. Whoever did this is long gone," she says.
It is easier to comply, and less likely to attract the attention of a neighbor, than to argue with her. So I do it.
The hall is dark, lit only by a small night-light plugged into an outlet near the floor. There are two open doors at the end, one on each side, with a bathroom in between through which some light shines. I step quickly but carefully down the hall.
Halfway down there's a door open about an inch. I peer around and look inside through the open crack, just enough to light a shelf high on the wall. It's a closet of some kind, dark and small. I leave it and move on.
The first room I look in faces on the street at the front of the apartment. It appears to be Hall's bedroom. The bed is stripped to the sheets, but except for the tossed pillows and the missing blanket, everything here seems in its place. There's a closet in the corner, the door closed.
I turn to look at the other room across the hall. This is a different story. There is another, smaller bed, the clutter of a little child.
There are dolls and the plastic parts of toys, little snap-on things a child can build with, and a set of wooden blocks. A pink coverlet is on the bed. A little girl's room. But there is no sign other. I ease around to check the other side of the bed. No one.
I'm back down the hall. Lenore is still canvassing the living room, stepping carefully to avoid the evidence.
"I didn't know she had a kid." "Little girl," she says.
"Where is she?" Being baby-sat," she says. "Grandparents." "How do you know?"
"Saw a note in the kitchen." She's been nosing around while I've been down the hall.
"Fine. Then let's get the hell out of here."
"Back out the way we came," she tells me. "Check to make sure we didn't touch anything." As I start to go back suddenly I am without light.
Lenore has gone the other way, toward the dining room and the kitchen beyond.
"Where are you going?"
"Meet you at the door," she says.
Arguing with Lenore is fruitless. I figure anything that will get us to the front door and back to the car in a hurry is fine by me. I retrace my steps. This takes me all of three seconds. When I get to the kitchen I see Lenore, who has barely made it through the door at the opposite end.
She is studying a large calendar hanging on the wall just inside the door, her back to me.
"Let's go." My voice jogs her from some reverie. In a moment such as this it is like Lenore to be checking the victim's social calendar.
She does a delicate dance over the yogurt, avoiding the blitz of papers, and puts her hankied hand on the back of the chair that is blocking the way. She slides this gently out of the way and then repositions it as accurately as she can. With this, I'm to the door and out, Lenore right behind me. She closes it and we hoof it to the street and my car on the other side. Once inside, I waste no time putting two blocks behind us, before I utter a word.
"If any of the neighbors saw us I just hope to hell they have a good clock," I tell her. Two people skulking about in the apartment of a murder victim while her body lies in an alley surrounded by the cops.
Then the question that is gnawing at my mind: "What the hell was that all about?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean going to her apartment like that?"
"Tony had a suspicion she
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