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

the medicine cabinet before sitting. The usual contents are accounted for: toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant (both stick and unscented powder), electric shaver, cologne (the same brand I remember), and mouthwash. There is also a small inhaler with a prescription label on the side showing it’s for asthma. There are no other drugs on the glass shelves, not even a bottle of Tylenol or aspirin.
    The absence of painkillers annoys me. Who doesn’t get headaches? If this was a woman’s medicine chest … well, I better not get started on how blatantly unfair it is to be a member of the fairer sex.
    After washing my hands, I head into the bedroom to poke through the closet and a chest-high, four-drawer dresser. Diego’s clothes look perfectly normal, although better quality than I remember. No paint stains on the crisp dry-cleaned shirts, and the feel of a silk-blend suit jacket is expensive. Even the two pairs of jeans (one black, one blue) have been ironed. I sniff the closet, hoping to catch his scent, but the only odor is of dry-cleaning fluid.
    There are no condoms in the nightstand and no dirty magazines under the bed. In fact, there are no magazines, newspapers, or books anywhere.
    Remembering the painting that Frank found sandwiched in the bed, I lift one side of the mattress and look down at the box spring. It looks no different from any other box spring I’ve ever had the pleasure of eyeballing; even the Do Not Remove New Material Only tag is still attached.
    I let the mattress drop, the motion causing the tucked sheets to spill out. When I bend to tuck them back in, I notice they are lightly stained with splotches of paint. I lift the mattress again, but this time I look up. More splotches of dried paint dot the underside of the mattress.
    The only explanation I have, unless Diego often hid paintings under his mattress, was the paint came from the Adamsky. But according to the gallery owners, Adamsky lived in Portugal.
    Why would an artist ship a painting before the oils had completely dried? It makes about as much sense as Diego hiding one under his mattress in the first place.
    The only other thing of note is located outside the bedroom window. A black metal staircase descends at a sharp angle, stopping at a landing in front of each apartment below. Also, a simple metal ladder attached firmly to the outside wall ascends to the roof. The window exit is locked from the inside and a small security sticker indicates it is alarmed.
    Feeling none the wiser but unaccountably sad, I leave the apartment and head back downstairs.
    _____
    Millie’s singsong voice calls me inside when I knock on her door. She clicks off the TV and immediately pours a fresh cup of tea when I join her in the living room to hand back the key.
    â€œIt’s such a shame, isn’t it?” Millie says, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
    I agree it is and take a sip of tea. The strength of it makes my eyelids flutter.
    â€œDo you mind if I ask a few more questions?”
    â€œNot at all.” Millie offers the plate of cookies. “Have another biscuit. A growing lass like yerself needs her energy.”
    I accept, even though the only growing I would find acceptable at this point in my life is perhaps an enhanced bosom. And even that idea lost some of its luster after I stumbled into my thirties.
    â€œDo you know if Diego has a workshop anywhere?” I begin.
    â€œI believe he does,” Millie replies. “He never spends much time at home. An ideal neighbor really.”
    â€œDo you know where it is?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Chino isn’t—wasn’t—much of a bletherer at all. Very quiet.”
    â€œBlether?”
    Millie laughs. “Forgive ma Scots. A bletherer is someone who likes to talk. Get a couple of bletherers together, and it becomes a right natter.” She touches a finger to the side of her nose and winks. “I just love a good natter.” She giggles. “Do you read