Free Fall Guy by Carol Lea Benjamin

first door, I explained the deal with the locks, that the upper and lower ones used the same key. As it turned out, all four cylinders used the same key.
    Nick began shaking his head. „No good, lady,“ he said. „Anything you think of, the thieves thought of it two weeks ago. You know those bicycle locks, supposed to be foolproof?“
    „I nodded.
    „Freezing jewelry in the ice tray? Coin collection in a sock? Hollowed out book? Clint Eastwood blew that one in Escape From Alcatraz. No, wait, maybe that was what's-his-face in Shawshank Remdemption. No matter. It was one of them, right?“
    „Tim Robbins,“ I said.
    „Whatever. Emerald ring hidden in a fake light switch? That was a good one, for five minutes. I even had one client built a hidden room. Cost him pile. Did it work?“
    I had the script. I shook my head.
    „I rest my case. Nothing beats good hardware Plus, one of those couldn't hurt none.“ He was pointing at Dashiell.
    Nick had that five-o'clock-shadow look that Don Johnson popularized back when Miami Vice was must-see-TV, having a renaissance now with the under thirty set and gay men of any age. Only Nick's, I was sure, was the real McCoy, even at ten-thirty in the morning.
    „Another thing,“ he said. „These things?“ He held the cylinder from O'Fallon's front door in the palm of his hand, more like a big paw the way I saw it. „Worthless crap.“
    In fact, it looked to be the same kind of worthless crap that had kept the cellar door locked before a homeless woman had decided that sleeping in a town house would be preferable to sleeping in the street.
    O'Fallon's attorney had told me that whatever I spent would be reimbursed by the estate, that all I had to do was to send her the receipts. Much as I didn't want to be frivolous with Maggie O'Fallon's money, given the long line of untrustworthy men who had lived in her brother's apartment, replacing the locks seemed like a good idea.
    „What do you recommend?“ I asked.
    The bill came to $380 before I noticed the jimmied window. Luckily Nick was still there, writing out the bill at O'Fallon's kitchen table. The bathroom door was still closed. I noticed that, too, but I wasn't in a rush to go in there. I was curious, but more than willing to put it on hold.
    The plants and the watering can on the sill had blocked the damage to the kitchen window. Now that the plants were gone and I had just moved the can so that I could open the window and let some air in, I saw the crack in the wood. I had to stand on one of the kitchen chairs to check the lock. There wasn't any. Instead there was a little rectangle with a different color paint, old faded paint, and two holes where the screws had attached it to the top of the bottom window. I called Nick over to have a look-see. He climbed up on the chair with me, then asked if we could go outside. I told him we could. From the garden, the damage was completely clear, pry marks at the bottom of the window, dents in the wood, probably done with a garden tool, impromptu.
    Nick added another thirty-five dollars to the bill and then began to check all the other windows inside and out to be sure the apartment was safe. When he headed toward the bathroom door, I told him to skip that one. He'd checked the window from the garden and it looked pristine. He'd even tried to open it, but the lock held. Plus, I was still postponing that event. I thought I'd function better if I saved it for last, just before I was ready f, to leave. Or until my bladder insisted otherwise, whichever came first.
    The front windows were untouched and had »bars on them anyway, another New York phenomenon. You paid a fortune to live here and then, if you lived on the ground floor, your apartment resembled the primate digs at a politically incorrect zoo.
    „You want I should throw a new lock on that door to the garden? Piece of shit, the one that's on it. Wouldn't keep out a three-year-old. I'll give you a break on that one, seeing as you're