Free Wolfman - Art Bourgeau by Art Bourgeau Page B

file he could see that homicide had not
had a chance to go over it yet.
    As he drove he thought about how good it felt to be
back in plainclothes again. He parked in front of the Athenaeum and
walked across the square to the highrise on the South Side near the
Hopkinson House. The desk clerk directed him to the thirtieth floor.
    He stopped in front of the door and took a deep
breath. Even though he had plenty of experience working undercover
this was the first time he had ever investigated a murder, and a
great deal was riding on it, especially for him. He had no illusions
about Sloan. One false step, one missed clue and Detective Sloan
would be on his back.
    He put the key in the lock and turned it. The door
came open with a soft click. For a moment he wanted to call out,
announce himself, but he felt foolish. No one, of course, was there.
He pushed the door and it swung back, coming to rest against the
stop. Down the hall a woman with a load of dry cleaning got off the
elevator. Somehow her presence made him feel like an invader. He
moved inside and closed the door behind him.
    A few steps brought him from the foyer to the living
room, which had floor to ceiling windows on two sides. One side faced
south, the other Cast toward the Delaware River. The floors were a
blue black tile in four-foot squares whose mirrorlike shine reflected
the furniture on it and the sky and buildings outside, giving
everything a ballroom's shadow depth. In the center was a
black-and-beige Oriental rug with a busy design that resembled a maze
of flowers and plants. Sofa and chairs were like he imagined people
in California would have, snow white in color. At each end of the
sofa was a large pillow covered in the same fabric. Facing them were
two uncomfortable looking chairs with dark wood frames and seat
cushions. The coffee table was a polished dark square with books and
magazines underneath. In the east windows was a ficus tree . . . he
recognized it from the time he had dated a woman who owned a plant
store. A black grand piano filled most of the southem windows. The
room, in a word, looked like something out of a glossy magazine.
    He took off his trenchcoat and began to walk through
the apartment. The blue black tile floors were throughout. The
kitchen was small, functional, with white cabinets and counters. He
opened the refrigerator. On the top shelf was Beck’s beer and
Perrier. On the bottom several bottles of white wine. Between were
appetizers like cheese, pate, even caviar. He picked up the caviar
and took off the top. The fish eggs were a golden translucence, not
black or red like the ones he occasionally bought himself for a
treat. He put the tip of his finger to them and touched it to his
tongue.
    "Stanley Hightower, you sure knew how to live,"
he said, as he put the caviar back in the refrigerator.
    The dining room was as spectacular as the living
room, with a chandelier and a round table for six made of the same
blue black tile as the floor. The bedroom was in white too, a sofa
against one window and a king-size bed. The second bedroom looked
like an office. The tour did not give him much of a feeling for the
man who had lived there. The apartment was too impersonal, too
professionally decorated for that. It was like a mask.
    "Stanley, who are you? Were you?"
    He went back to the kitchen and opened the cabinets.
They were mostly bare except for nuts, chips and the like to go with
the appetizers in the refrigerator. He looked in the coffee, sugar
and flour cans. Nothing hidden there. He checked the freezer and gave
everything in the refrigerator a going-over. Under the stove he found
a copper-bottom set of pots and pans, but from the shine of the
copper he could tell they had never been used.
    "Stanley, why do you have all this stuff, that
dining room, if you’re not going to use it?"
    In the living room he looked at the magazines under
the coffee table. Architectural Digest, Vanity Fair, Philadelphia
Magazine, and stuck among them