by Riley Sager
“Has a camera malfunction ever happened before?” I ask.
“Not on my watch,” Charlie says.
“When did you notice it was out?”
“A little after one a.m.”
My body freezes. That was around the same time I heard the scream and went to check on Ingrid. Five minutes later, she was gone. Which means Ingrid left immediately after I returned to 12A.
The timing seems too convenient to be a coincidence. In fact, the camera being disconnected just as Ingrid left strikes me as being a distraction.
My first thought is that Ingrid did it herself so that she could leave unnoticed—which would make little sense. There’s no rule requiring apartment sitters to remain at the Bartholomew if they don’t want to. And Charlie wouldn’t have stopped her. He probably would have hailed her a cab and wished her well.
Besides, that would have required Ingrid to gather all her belongings, travel to the basement to disconnect the camera, then go back to the eleventh floor so she could then carry her things all the way down to the lobby. That’s a lot of work for something she was well within her right to do, and it surely would have taken more than five minutes. Especially if she arrived at the Bartholomew with a lot of personal belongings.
“Were you on duty when Ingrid moved in?” I say.
Charlie nods.
“How much did she have with her?”
“I can’t really remember,” he says. “Two suitcases, I think. Plus a couple of boxes.”
“Did you see anyone going to the basement before you realized the camera was out?”
“I didn’t. I was outside, attending to another resident.”
“At that hour? Who was it?”
Charlie straightens his spine, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t think Mrs. Evelyn will like that I’m telling you so much. I want to help, but—”
“I know, I know. The building’s big on privacy. But Ingrid’s basically the same age as your daughter. If she were missing, you’d be asking a lot of questions, too.”
“If my daughter was missing, I wouldn’t rest until I found her.”
My father had said the same thing once. He meant it at the time. I’m sure of it. But that’s the thing about searching. It wears you down. Emotional erosion.
“Don’t you think Ingrid deserves the same treatment?” I say. “You don’t have to tell me a name. Just give me a little hint.”
Charlie sighs and looks past me to the flowers on the coffee table. A hint almost as massive as the bouquet itself.
“She took the dog out a little before one,” Charlie says. “I was outside with her the entire time. You know, making sure nothing bad happened. That’s not the hour a woman should be on the street alone. Once Rufus did his business, we went back inside. She took the elevator to the seventh floor, and I peeked at the security monitors. That’s when I saw the camera in the basement was out.”
This means Marianne was in the elevator at roughly the same time Ingrid supposedly left her apartment.
“Thank you, Charlie.” I snap off a rosebud from the bouquet and place it in the button hole on his lapel. “You’ve been a huge help.”
“Please don’t tell Mrs. Evelyn I said anything,” Charlie begs as he adjusts his makeshift boutonniere.
“I won’t. I got the feeling from Leslie that it’s a sore subject around here.”
“Considering the way Ingrid departed, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Evelyn regrets ever letting her stay here in the first place.”
With a tip of his cap, Charlie opens the door to leave. Before he can make it all the way out of the apartment, I toss him one last question.
“What apartment does Marianne Duncan live in?”
“Why?”
I flash him an innocent smile. “So I can send her a thank-you note, of course.”
I’m certain Charlie doesn’t believe me. He looks away, gazing into the hallway. Still, he tosses an answer over his shoulder.
“7A,” he says.
26
The seventh floor is as busy now as it was last night. Only instead of firefighters, it’s contractors moving through the smoke-stained halls. The door to Mr. Leonard’s apartment has been removed and now leans against a hallway wall stippled with smoke damage. Next to it is a section of kitchen counter, its surface covered with burn marks. On the floor, soot spreads across the tile like black mold.
Blasting out of the apartment itself is a cacophony of construction noise. Emerging from the racket are two workers carrying a wooden cupboard with a charred door. They drop it next to the countertop. Before returning to the apartment, one of the workers looks my way and winks.
I roll my eyes and move in the opposite direction, toward the front of the building. At 7A, I give two short raps on the door.
Marianne answers it in a rush of perfume-scented air that floats past me and mixes with the smoke smell still lingering in the hall.
“Darling!” she says, pulling me in for a half hug and an air kiss on both cheeks. “I was hoping I’d see you today. I can’t thank you enough for rescuing my Rufus.”
I’m not surprised to see Marianne carrying Rufus in her arms. What is a surprise is that both of them are wearing hats. Hers is black with a wide, floppy brim tilted so that it casts a shadow over her entire face. His is a tiny top hat held in place with an elastic band.
“I just stopped by to thank you for the flowers,” I say.
“Don’t you just love them? Tell me you love them.”
“They’re beautiful. But you really didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”
“Of course I did. You were a complete angel last night. That’s what I’m going to start calling you. The Angel of St. Bart’s.”
“And how’s Rufus doing?” I say. “All better after last night, I hope.”
“He’s fine. Just a little scared. Isn’t that right, Rufus?”
The dog nuzzles the crook of her arm, trying in vain to free himself of the tiny top hat. He stops when a sudden bang echoes up the hallway from 7C.
“Horrible, isn’t it?” Marianne says of the noise. “It’s been like this all morning. I’m sorry about what happened to poor Mr. Leonard, and I wish him a speedy recovery. I truly do. But it’s quite an inconvenience for the rest of us.”
“It’s been an eventful few days. What with the fire and that apartment sitter leaving so suddenly.”
I hope the mention of Ingrid sounds less calculated to Marianne than it does to me. To my ears, it clangs with obviousness.
“What apartment sitter?”
Marianne’s face remains obscured by her hat, making her expression unreadable. She reminds me a femme fatale from the film noirs my father used to watch on lazy Saturdays. Elegant and inscrutable.
“Ingrid Gallagher. She was in 11A. Then two nights ago, she suddenly left without telling anyone.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Marianne’s voice isn’t unkind. On the surface, her tone hasn’t changed. Yet I detect a slight cold streak running through her words. She’s now on guard.
“I just assumed the two of you had met. After all, you were the first person I met after I arrived.” I offer her a shy smile. “You made me feel very welcome here.”
Marianne peeks into the hallway, checking to see if anyone else is around. Only one other person is—a workman just outside Mr. Leonard’s door, blowing his nose into a red handkerchief.
“I mean, I knew who she was,” Marianne says, her voice going so quiet it flirts with being a whisper. “And I knew that she left. But we weren’t formally introduced.”
“So the two of you never spoke?”
“Never. I think I saw her only a few times, when I was taking Rufus for his morning walk.”
“I heard you and Rufus went to the lobby the night she left.” Again, it’s not the subtlest of transitions. But there’s no telling how long Marianne’s sharing mood is going to last. “Did you see or hear her go? Or maybe saw someone else up and about at that
hour?”
“I—” Marianne stops herself, changing course. “No. I didn’t.”
Being here gives me déjà vu. Marianne has the same say-one-thing-mean-another demeanor Ingrid displayed the night she disappeared. When she answers me with a simple “Yes,” the word slides uncertainly off her tongue. She hears how it sounds and tries again, mustering more force. “Yes. I’m sure I saw nothing that night.”
Marianne’s got one hand on the door now, her gloved fingers flexing against the wood. When she raises her other hand to the brim of her hat, I see that it’s trembling. She gives the hallway another up-and-down glance and says, “I need to go. I’m sorry.”
“Marianne, wait—”
She tries to close the door, but I desperately slide my foot against the frame, blocking it. I peer at her through the six-inch gap that remains.
“What aren’t you telling me, Marianne?”
“Please,” she hisses, her face still hidden in shadow. “Please stop asking questions. No one here is going to answer them.”
Marianne pushes the door against my foot, forcing me to pull it away. Then the door slams shut in another perfume-soaked rush. I stumble backward, suddenly aware of someone else in the hallway with me. Twisting away from Marianne’s door, I see Leslie Evelyn standing a few yards down the hall. She’s just returned from a yoga class. Lululemon tights. Rolled-up mat under her arm. Thin line of sweat sparkling along her hairline.
“Is there a problem here?”
“No,” I say, even though she clearly saw Marianne slam the door in my face. “No problem at all.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks to me like you’re bothering one of the tenants, which you know is strictly against the rules.”
“Yes, but—”
Leslie silences me with a raised hand. “There aren’t exceptions to these rules. We thoroughly discussed them when you moved in.”
“We did. I was just—”
“Breaking them,” Leslie says. “Honestly, I expected more from you, Jules. You were such a well-behaved temporary tenant.”
Her use of the past tense stops my heart a moment.
“Are—are you kicking me out?”
Leslie says nothing at first, making me wait for the answer. When it arrives—“No, Jules, I’m not”—I let out grateful sigh.
“Normally I would,” she adds. “But I’m taking your past behavior into account. I saw how you helped both Greta and Rufus get out of the building last night. So did the newspapers, apparently. I’d be a cruel person if I made you leave after such a good deed. But what I am is strict. So if I see you bothering Marianne or any of the residents again—about anything—I’m afraid you’ll have to go. Apartment sitters who don’t follow the rules seldom get a second chance. And they never get a third.”
“I understand,” I say. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that I still haven’t heard from Ingrid, and I’m worried something bad happened.”
“Nothing bad happened to her,” Leslie says. “At least not within these walls. She left willingly.”
“How do you know that for sure?”
“Because I was in her apartment. There were no signs of a struggle. Nor was anything left behind.”
Only she’s wrong about that. Ingrid did leave without something—a Glock that’s now stowed under the kitchen sink in 12A. Which means Leslie could also be wrong about Ingrid not leaving other things behind. Even though she didn’t arrive with much—two suitcases and a couple of boxes, according to Charlie—it was more than what Ingrid could handle on her own. It would take me at least three trips to move my own meager belongings from 12A.
I apologize to Leslie once more and hurry away, suddenly seized with the idea that some of Ingrid’s things could still be in 11A. Shoved in the back of a closet. Under a bed. Someplace where Leslie wouldn’t immediately notice them. And among those possibly hidden items could be something indicating not only where Ingrid went but who she was running from.
I won’t know with certainty unless I look for myself. Not an easy task. I can think of only one other way inside, and even that requires the help of someone else. Adding to the difficulty is that it needs to be done quickly and quietly.
Because now I have another, unexpected worry to contend with.
Leslie is watching my every move.
27
I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Nick says.
“You said you wanted to help me.”
The two of us are in the kitchen of 12A, standing shoulder to shoulder as we stare into the open dumbwaiter. Nick scratches the back of his neck, charmingly uncertain.
“This,” he says, “isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“You know of a better way to get into Ingrid’s apartment?”
“You could—and I know this might sound crazy—just ask Leslie to let you in. She’s got a key.”
“I’m on her bad side at the moment. She says I was bothering Marianne Duncan.”
“And were you?”
I give him a quick rundown of the past hour, from Charlie’s flower delivery to Marianne’s skittishness to the idea that 11A might still contain some kind of clue regarding what happened to Ingrid.
“With Leslie highly unlikely to cooperate, it’s the dumbwaiter or nothing,” I say. “You lower me down, I take a look around, you pull me back up.”
Nick continues to eye the dumbwaiter with skepticism. “There are, like, a hundred ways in which your plan can go wrong.”
“Name one.”
“I could drop you.”
“I’m not that heavy, and you’re not that weak,” I counter. “Besides, it’s only one floor down.”
“Which is far enough to cause serious damage if you fall,” Nick says. “Trust me, Jules, this isn’t something you should take lightly, even though your bravery is admirable.”
I’m not brave. I’m in a hurry. I remember those cops who chastised my family for waiting so long after Jane vanished. They stressed that every minute counts. It’s now been more than forty hours since Ingrid disappeared. The clock is ticking.
“I do trust you.” I grab Nick’s hand and pull him back to the dumbwaiter. “Which is why I asked you to help me with this. Please, Nick. Just a quick look. Down and back.”
“Down and back,” he says, reaching for the dumbwaiter rope and giving it a tug to test its strength. “How much time do you plan on spending between those two steps?”
“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“And you really think this could help you locate Ingrid?”
“I’ve tried everything else,” I say. “I called hospitals. I went to a homeless shelter. I’ve asked around as much as I could. I’m running out of options here.”
“But what do you expect to find?”
I know what I don’t expect—another gun or an even more alarming note written on the back of a poem. But something less sinister and more useful could be lying among the tasteful furnishings of 11A.
“Hopefully something that might hint at where Ingrid has gone,” I say. “A piece of mail. An address book.”
I’m grasping at straws, I know. Not to mention ignoring the likelihood that nothing belonging to Ingrid remains in that apartment. But if something is there, finding it could finally help me locate her, which would put all my questions—and worries—to rest.
“I told you I’d help, so I will,” Nick says, shaking his head, as if he can’t quite believe he’s agreed to this. “What’s the plan?”
The plan is for me to climb into the dumbwaiter with my phone and a flashlight. Nick will then lower me into 11A. As soon as I’m out, he’ll raise it back to 12A, just in case Leslie keeps tabs on this kind of thing.
I’ll then search the apartment while Nick keeps watch on the stairwell landing between the eleventh and twelfth floors. If it looks like someone is approaching, he’ll alert me with a text. I’ll then leave immediately, using the door, making sure it locks behind me.
We hit our first hurdle as soon a
s I try to climb into the dumbwaiter. It’s a tight fit, made possible only by curling into a fetal position. The dumbwaiter itself starts groaning and creaking as soon as I’m inside, and for a fraught, fearful moment I think it’s going to collapse under my weight. When it doesn’t, I give Nick a nervous nod.
“We’re good,” I say.
Nick doesn’t look as optimistic. “You sure you want to go through with this?”
I nod again. I don’t have any other choice.
Nick gives the rope a tug, freeing it from the locking mechanism on the pulleys above. The dumbwaiter immediately drops several inches. Startled, I let out a whimpered half shriek, prompting Nick to say, “Everything’s okay. I’ve still got you.”
“I know,” I say.
Even so, I grip the twin strands of rope running through the dumbwaiter. They’re on the move, sliding through my clenched fists. One goes up, the other down, reminding me of the cables of the Bartholomew’s elevator. I descend farther, the bottom of the cupboard level with my thighs, then my chest, then my shoulders. When it reaches eye level, only a two-inch gap remains. Looking through it, all I can see of Nick is his shirt coming untucked from his jeans as he continues to lower me.
He gives the rope another heave, and the gap closes completely, plunging me into darkness.
Only once I’m cut off from Nick and the rest of 12A do I begin to ponder the foolishness of my plan. Nick was right. This is not a good idea. I’m literally inside the walls of the Bartholomew. Any number of bad things could happen.
The rope could snap, sending me falling like a sack of garbage into a dumpster.
The bottom of the dumbwaiter could fall away—a serious possibility now that it’s started creaking and groaning again.
Worse is the idea that it could get stuck, leaving me trapped in a dark limbo between floors. The very thought floods me with claustrophobia so overwhelming I become convinced the dumbwaiter is getting smaller, shrinking ever so slightly, forcing me into a tighter ball.
I flick on the flashlight. A terrible idea. In the sudden glow, the dumbwaiter’s walls remind me of the inside of a coffin. It certainly has the feel of one. Dark. Confining. Buried.