Free Drowning in Amber (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 2) by E.C. Bell Page A

names below the intercom, I pulled off the shoe that was pinching the worst and rubbed my poor poor toes, one last time.
    “Let’s get you some sneakers tomorrow,” he said. “Heels really aren’t your style, are they?”
    “All right,” I replied, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “Fine. But you don’t need to act like that.”
    “Like what?” he asked. He pressed a button a third of the way down the list of names.
    “Like a smart ass,” I said. I stretched my toes and sighed.
    “I’m not,” he said. Then he grinned. “Well, maybe. Just a bit.”
    “Yeah, you were,” I said, ramming the shoe back on, and trying to ignore my screeching toes. Then I frowned. “Why isn’t she answering?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did you push the right button?”
    “Yes!”
    He gave me a look that told me not to be a smart ass, and I shrugged. Two can play that game. He pressed the right button on the intercom—even I could see he’d chosen the right one—again.
    It crackled to life, and a man’s voice answered. It didn’t sound happy. “Yeah?”
    “I’m looking for Honoria Lowe,” James said.
    “You got Joey,” the man wheezed.
    “Is this Honoria Lowe’s apartment?”
    “No!” The wheezing voice took on a peeved tone. “I told you, you got Joey.”
    James shook his head. “Can you tell me—”
    “Screw this,” the guy said, and then surprised us both by unlocking the front door.
    “Good enough,” James said, and pulled it open.
    I personally didn’t think it was so good. Anybody could get in. Anybody at all.
    We walked through the front foyer, and James headed for the stairs. I followed, trying not to groan about my feet.
    On the second floor, we found her door, and James knocked. No answer. Knocked again.
    “Maybe she’s out,” I said, not very helpfully.
    James growled, pulled his cell out, and dialed her number. After a moment, a cell phone rang inside the apartment.
    James frowned. “She didn’t take her cell.”
    “Nobody leaves their cell,” I replied, and felt a flutter of nerves.
    “She said she’d be here,” James muttered, pulling a small ring of something that didn’t quite look like keys from his pocket. He played around with the lock on her door. After a very short time, it clicked open.
    “I think we should make sure she’s all right,” he said.
    I stared at the door, and then at him. “How did you do that?”
    “Just something I picked up,” he muttered, having the good grace to look embarrassed.
    “You picked her lock.”
    “Yes,” he said. “Can we just go in, please? Make sure she’s really not here?”
    “I’m impressed.” I gave him a soft punch on the arm. “You got skills.”
    “Thanks,” he said, and looked around the empty hallway as though afraid the police would dive out and arrest us. Again. “Now, get in.”
    I stepped inside and James followed, gently shutting the door.
    We skittered down the short hallway into the apartment proper. It was a tiny affair, not much bigger than my apartment was before it burned down. The kitchen was nothing more than a short line of appliances set against the far wall, with a sink and teeny cupboards. Dirty dishes mouldered in the sink. The rest of the kitchen looked clean enough, though a small TV took up most of the counter space.
    A small table and two chairs sat a few feet away from the line of cupboards. The table was piled high with old mail. A few feet past that was the living area, no couch or arm chairs. Just a motley collection of bookshelves piled high with books and paper. Another television sat in front of them, and in front of it was a desk. On the desk were pens and pencils and stacks of paper. I glanced at the top sheet. It was a pencil sketch of a man’s face.
    “Hmm,” I said. “This looks like you.”
    James glanced at it and shrugged. “Could be.”
    I pointed at two doors in the far wall. “Shall we check?”
    “Yeah.” He walked up to the first one, swung it open, and