Free MURDER ON A DESIGNER DIET by Shawn Reilly Simmons Page A

first floor housed a bookstore, which wasn’t yet open for the day. To the left of the store’s display window was a black metal doorway with an antique lantern hanging above it and an unmarked brass buzzer panel next to the door. Penelope saw a red indicator light hidden in the entryway, what she assumed was a camera, tiny and round, tucked up in the corner. There was no indication from the outside that this was where the sons and daughters of various celebrities shared a home and filmed a popular reality show.
    Penelope pressed the bottom button, hearing a faint buzz past the door in the lobby. She waited a few seconds with no response then pressed the buzzer again. A faint click and pop came through the speaker and a deep male voice said, “Can I help you?”
    Penelope pressed the button again. “I’m here to see Max Madison. I’m a friend of his.” She glanced up at the camera, assuming the man on the other end would be able to see her face.
    â€œOne moment, please,” he said.
    Penelope took a step back and peered through the window of the door into the white marble foyer. She was just able to see the outer edge of a small reception desk. A short, square-shaped man appeared from behind it and made his way toward her, opening the door and leaning out to speak with her. He had on a dark blue blazer that strained against his thick shoulders and a clear plastic earpiece attached to a tiny spiral cord that disappeared under his collar.
    â€œHi,” Penelope said. “Is Max here?”
    The large man looked her up and down, his green eyes set wide apart on his face. “What’s your name?”
    â€œPenelope Sutherland. I’m a close friend of the family. We haven’t been able to get in touch with Max since last night and we’re a little worried about him. Have you seen him this morning?”
    The man glanced behind her as someone blared their horn on the street and then back down at Penelope. “Come in,” he said, ushering her into the lobby and pulling the door closed behind them. He motioned her over to the reception desk and stepped back behind it, taking his seat and tapping on a computer keyboard. “Okay, Penelope Sutherland…” He squinted at his computer monitor. “Yep, you’re on the list of known contacts for Mr. Max.”
    â€œKnown contacts?” Penelope asked.
    â€œResidents provide us a list of family and friends who they allow access to the building. They’re allowed five names, and your name checks out. Can I see your ID?” he asked with a small smile.
    Penelope dug in her handbag and pulled out her license. The security guard glanced at it and nodded.
    â€œNow let’s see, Mr. Max…” He tapped his keyboard again. “I do not have him logged in this morning. He left yesterday afternoon around three, but he has not returned according to our records.” He leaned back in his armless rolling chair, which groaned in protest against his weight.
    â€œHe has to check in and out with you?” Penelope asked.
    â€œNo,” the man said, still smiling and shaking his head. “They’re free to come and go, they don’t have to sign out. The security team just makes a notation when the actors pass through the lobby. All guests of the residents have to sign in, of course.”
    â€œDo they have a curfew?” Penelope asked, a bit confused by the security procedures. It sounded less like a luxury building and more like a penitentiary.
    â€œNo, ma’am. We keep just keep track of them as a safety precaution. The company asks us to.” His voice took on a placating tone. “Some of our tenants are young, on their own for the first time in the city. Their parents and the producers like us to keep an eye on them, discreetly, know their whereabouts. They’re like employees, insured by the producers.”
    Penelope pushed her judgmental feelings aside for the moment.