Free Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant Page A

a peek of the mess inside.”
    I press on. “And you didn’t notice if Mr. Chino seemed depressed or angry over the last few days?”
    â€œNo, he seemed his usual self. Quiet, you know? I don’t think he had many friends, poor dear. I kept inviting him for tea, but he was always working on a painting.”
    I wasn’t getting anywhere. “Would you mind if I looked at the apartment?”
    Millie wrinkles her nose. “It’s an awful tip up there …”
    â€œThat’s OK,” I assure her. “I was here with the police last night.”
    She nods. “Let me get ma key.”
    _____
    At the door to Diego’s apartment, Millie hands over the key.
    â€œI hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but it’s too sad to look at. Would you just lock up when you’re through? I’ll go down and refill the kettle.”
    I nod, feeling a twinge inside as Millie wipes a tear from her powdered cheek before retreating.
    With no crime scene tape or other official encumbrance to bar the way, I unlock the apartment and enter.
    The smell of death is strong; air, musty and stale, warmed by sunlight streaming through the large picture windows. If Diego had ever felt like catching a movie, all he had to do was take a few steps to the window and read the Metro’s marquee across the street to discover what was playing.
    The apartment is empty—eerily so. No paintings or partially finished canvasses; no television or radio; no dining room table or even a comfortable couch. The only pieces of furniture are an antique armchair with Queen Anne legs and oak arms, plus a matching coffee table that appears too delicate to be of much use.
    It’s a home made for a ghost to glide through, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine. I glance over at the blood-spattered wall with its ominous clean rectangle where the canvas had blocked the spray and will myself to ignore the movement of shadow in the play of light.
    I pace the room, aware of every footfall, trying to get a feel for the hollow space. Suicide? Murder? I can’t help but think of the last moment’s of Diego’s life in this room. Was he afraid? If so, was he afraid of someone ?
    If Diego, or his ghost, popped out now to shout “Boo,” I expect the whole city would be deafened by my scream.
    Repressing my unhelpful imagination, I focus on the search for clues to the story behind Diego’s death and find a small tin case in one of the corners, abandoned and forgotten. I pry it open with a thumbnail to find eight tiny tubes of used earth-tone oils and a thin sable brush, its tip hardened into a stiff point from years of use. It’s the kind of beginner’s paint set that one buys for a child.
    For a reason I can’t explain, I close the lid again and slip the tin into my pocket.
    With a sigh, I survey the desolate space again.
    Strange. This isn’t like any artist I’ve ever met. In my admittedly limited experience, an artist’s home is usually cluttered with half-realized ideas, rough sketches of beginning works and failed experiments; magazine clippings of shapes and colors that took their fancy; paint splatters from late-night trials in shade and texture; pencils, paper, charcoal, pastels, anything that will leave a mark on paper, cardboard, or canvas. Inspiration is fleeting—no artist ever wants an idea to leave without trying to capture its essence.
    Diego may have lived here, but it doesn’t seem like he ever actually worked here.
    I return to the window. The view is a yuppie’s dream: cappuccino bars, art galleries, wine boutiques, all mixed with a scattering of cozy, ethnic restaurants that serve mostly white, wealthy professionals. If you climbed to the roof and stretched your neck, you may even be able to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Who could ask for more?
    Millie’s tea is starting to weigh on my bladder. I head into the bathroom and poke through