by Jan Burke
“Thanks,” I said, taking them from him. Determined to redeem myself with Rachel, I added, “Listen, you two haven’t seen each other in a long time, and it’s bound to take me awhile to even figure out how I want to tackle this job, so maybe you’d like to grab a cup of coffee somewhere.”
“I’d love to do some catching up,” McCain said, “but why don’t you come with us?”
“Yeah, come along,” Rachel said meaningfully. “I’ll drive.”
“Okay,” McCain said. He went over to the patrol car, said something to the officer in it.
While McCain was out of earshot, I started to apologize to her, but she said, “Thanks for coming along. I know you’re anxious to get started on your aunt’s place.”
Nothing was further from the truth than this last, but I didn’t argue with her. I looked up to see the black-and-white driving off. McCain was walking back.
“You’re still a suspicious bastard, Mac,” Rachel said when he was nearer. “What the hell was that guy guarding? We’re here to take everything we can out of the place anyway.”
“As I recall, you’re good with a set of lock picks. Why risk damage to the door?”
“No damage. Like you said, I’m good with them.”
He didn’t answer, just started to ask her about people in Phoenix. She started asking about people in the LAPD. This continued even after we were at the coffee shop, Rachel and I on one side of a booth, McCain on the other. He tried to bring me into the conversation by talking about Frank’s time as a hostage, focusing on the efforts to free him. It was still difficult to talk about.
“That whole experience was awful,” Rachel said. “It’s still with all of us, Mac. It’s affected everybody who cares about Frank. Out on the job, I don’t think Pete can stand to go more than a couple of hours without knowing where Frank is. Drives Frank nuts.”
“That’s right,” McCain said. “I forgot he was Harriman’s partner.” He smiled a little and said to me, “I think your husband was kind of angry with me last night.”
Kind of angry? I decided I wouldn’t tell him all the choice things Frank had said about him on the drive home.
“In fact,” he went on, “I think he was seriously considering kicking my ass.
“Then you’re lucky he didn’t try,” Rachel said.
“Your husband as big as Harriman?” he asked.
“You don’t need to worry about whether my husband can kick your ass,” she said, leaning across the table.
“Why not?”
“Because we both know I can.”
He laughed until he was wiping tears from his face, but didn’t contradict her.
She dropped him off at his car, telling him she wanted his parking spot—which, of course, ensured that he had to drive off. He was no sooner out of sight than Rachel said, “Be careful around him. He suspects you—if not of murder, of—well, I don’t know what.”
“How can you tell that? He never talked about the case this morning.”
“I know him. He doesn’t trust anybody.”
This time, when we came up the porch steps, I could hear the noise of neighbors at home. The parrot in apartment one was calling out “Stick ‘em up!” The phone was ringing in apartment four, but this time it was answered after two rings. Briana’s apartment was silent.
I reached into my jeans pocket and took out the key ring; it had three keys and the medallion on it. I used the smallest key to open mailbox number four, the one with nothing but a sticky rectangle where “B. Maguire” ought to have been. The mailbox was empty. Now that we weren’t being watched by the LAPD, I took out my notebook and wrote down the other occupants’ names and their apartment numbers. Rachel watched me, but didn’t say anything.
“Is that a Christopher medal?” she asked, as I moved to the door of apartment number four.
“Yes. I was sad when Christopher got taken off the A-list. All the surfers used to wear the medals anyway.”
“I never did any surfing, but maybe he deserved to get ousted. He was supposed to protect travelers, right?”
“Right.”
“Your aunt couldn’t make it from here to the store.”
I shrugged and put the key in the lock.
Above us, a door opened and an elderly woman stepped out on the landing. She was wearing a thin housecoat and a pair of slippers; her white hair was in wild disarray. “Just hold it right there!” she called, coming down the stairs at such a fast clip, I feared for her safety.
She pointed a finger at me. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m Briana’s niece—”
“Hah!”
“She is!” Rachel protested.
“Let’s see some identification,” the woman said.
“All right, Mrs. Woolrich,” I said, using the name from the tag on the mailbox. I pulled out my wallet as she continued to eye me suspiciously.
I showed her my driver’s license. She pulled a pair of reading glasses out of the pocket of the housecoat and put them on. She looked between me and the license. “Irene Kelly… you’re Mary Kelly’s grandniece?”
“Yes. And this is my friend, Rachel Giocopazzi.”
“I’m Esther Woolrich. Miss Woolrich, by the way, which is something no mailbox can tell you,” she said with a wink. More solemnly, she said, “Mary told me she’d be sending you by for Briana’s things. I’m sorry for your loss, although from what Mary tells me…”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
She didn’t move. “Sorry if I was a little brusque, but twice in the last few weeks, someone has tried to rob this apartment. Now that the cops are going away, we don’t want anyone to start trying to break in again.”
“Mary mentioned something about break-ins, but—only this apartment?”
“Yes. I’ve told the police about it, but they don’t do a thing.”
“You told the homicide detective?” Rachel asked.
“No, no. As I said, this was before we knew what had happened to poor Briana. Started not long before she died. I called the regular number, not homicide. They think I’m some old crackpot. You’d think I’d have to wait until the thieves actually broke in.”
“You came down those stairs thinking we were burglars?” Rachel asked. “Miss Woolrich, next time, it might be better to call the police. If we had been here to commit a burglary—”
“You probably would have run off. That’s what the others did.”
“What others?” I asked.
“First time, it was a man. Come right up to the front door, bold as brass. I’d seen him here before—parked out front. Casing the joint, that’s what he was up to then. That was before Briana died.”
“I’m confused—did he try to rob Briana’s apartment while she was still alive?”
“Yes. He parked out front and watched her leave, then came up and read the mailboxes, just like you did.”
“You couldn’t see that from your apartment,” I said.
She sighed, then startled us by calling out, “Open the door, Ruby.”
Behind us, the door to apartment number one opened a crack, and a short, stout woman who appeared to be near Esther Woolrich’s age peered out.
“Put the gun away and come out and meet Mary’s grandniece,” Esther said.
Rachel and I quickly exchanged horrified looks.
“Oh, don’t worry! She’s trained to use it,” Esther said.
We were not entirely reassured. Anyone with a parrot that had learned to say “Stick ‘em up” might be a little trigger-happy. But when Ruby stepped out into the hall, she greeted us warmly, with no sign of any intention of shooting us.
“You ever ridden with Mary in that car of hers?” she asked me as she shook my hand.
“Several times,” I said.
Rachel looked at me questioningly.
“A cherry ‘68 Mustang convertible,” I said, getting nods of agreement from Esther and Ruby.
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br /> “I’ve got to meet this woman,” Rachel said.
“Who lives in the other apartment?” I asked, pointing to the one across the hall from Esther’s.
“Oh, that guy. He’s spending a month back east with his grandkids,” Esther said, then added with a note of disapproval, “He’s like your aunt was—he keeps to himself.”
“But I take it you all keep an eye on one another?” I said to Ruby.
“Yes. That’s how we caught the burglars. Esther scared them off— didn’t have to use my little semiautomatic. Only a twenty-two, not much stopping power. But it will do in a pinch. I must say I’m relieved to have you take Briana’s belongings away from this place.”
“Tell us more about these attempted burglaries,” Rachel said. “The first time you saw him, he parked out front, came up to look at the mailboxes, then left?”
“Yes,” Ruby said. “Esther spotted him first, and called me. We watched him while he was watching the place. But he didn’t try to get in that time. Later, we sat down and figured out that it had been just before the accident.” She shook her head. “I feel so terrible about that! Briana kept to herself more than most, so we didn’t always know what she was up to, if you know what I mean. We knew she wasn’t home, but recently she’d taken to leaving for a few days at a time, and we just thought she might have gone visiting some friends or relatives. But then to find out…” Her voice trailed off as she caught Esther’s censorious glare.
“To answer your question,” Esther said, “the man showed up just before Briana died, and watched the place. Then he came by again, after the accident, but before we knew what had become of her. He had a set of lock picks with him.”
“Lock picks?” Rachel said. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Ruby said. “Saw them plain as day through the peephole.” She pointed out a small opening in her apartment door.
“I scared him off,” Esther said. “And I got a good look at him, too.”
“Mind describing him for me?” I asked.
“He’s tall,” Esther said, “about six foot, I’d say, and handsome enough, I guess.”
“Hoo!” Ruby exclaimed. “A regular silver fox!”
“Control yourself,” Esther said, but added, “To be fair, he was a somewhat attractive man. I’d put him in his mid-to-late fifties. Broad shoulders. He must have been dark-haired at one time, but mostly gray now. Cut short. And he was clean-shaven.”
“I smelled booze on him,” Ruby added.
“Oh, now, Ruby!”
“I was right down here near him, Esther, and I tell you I smelled booze.” She turned to us. “Do you know him?”
“Now Ruby Hambly, why on earth would they know a drunken burglar?” Esther exclaimed. “Of course they don’t.”
“You said there were two attempts?” I asked.
“Yes,” Esther said. “The second time was just a day or two ago. Didn’t get as good a look that time—slender fellow, trying to break in through a back window.”
“How tall?” Rachel asked.
“That’s hard to say, too. I only saw him at night, and from my upstairs window. Saw someone in dark clothes and a knit cap, which was an odd thing to be wearing on a spring evening. Heard him trying to pry the bars off. Stupid thing to try. I shouted down at him and he ran off. I’d guess him to be younger than the fellow who was at the door, and definitely not as tall.”
“Sure it wasn’t the same man?” I asked.
“That much I’m sure of. Different build.”
Rachel asked a few more questions, but the ladies seemed not to be able to recall much more. There was an argument over the make and color of the drunken burglar’s car. It was American, a sedan, dark green or brown.
“I appreciate your watching over things,” I said. “I’m going to try to get everything moved out this weekend, so with any luck this place won’t seem so attractive to thieves.”
They again expressed condolences, then went back to their apartments.
I unlocked Briana’s apartment door, and Rachel followed me in and shut it behind us.
“I’ll open a couple of windows,” she said.
The room we stepped into was warm and close. I felt a mild sensation of claustrophobia, and if Rachel had not hurried to let some air in, I might have stepped back outside. I glanced back at the door and saw a crucifix above it, dried palm leaves from a Palm Sunday Mass placed behind the cross. I turned my attention back to the job at hand.
I reached over a small, tattered sofa and raised the blind on the picture window, filling the room with sunlight. Looking more closely at the sofa, I saw tufts of shredding on the corners and arms; the type that can only be made by a cat who has decided to use the upholstery as a scratching post. For a moment I worried that some feline had been horribly neglected after Briana’s death, but saw no other signs that a cat had been living in the apartment—no scent of a cat or a litter box, no fur, no food dishes, no cat toys.
This front room was a parlor of sorts, a room that could be closed off from the rest of the apartment by pulling two sliding wooden doors shut. The carpet was a faded floral pattern of large, pale roses on a beige background. On one wall, there was a framed print of the Sacred Heart. On top of a set of built-in bookcases, Briana had made up a small shrine to the Blessed Virgin: a little plaster statuette surrounded by five blue-glass candle holders. A pink-glass rosary lay to one side, on top of a holy card with the prayer “Hail Holy Queen” printed on it. One shelf of the bookcase held a dog-eared, leather-bound Bible and a worn St. Joseph’s Sunday Missal, as well as Butler’s Lives of the Saints. There were no other books, only two solemn ceramic angels, one with its guiding hand on a small boy’s shoulder, the other like it, but guiding a little girl. The lower shelves held a few seashells.
If Briana was this religious a couple of decades ago, when we were closer, I didn’t remember it. Devout Catholics though Briana and my mother had been, that devotion hadn’t overwhelmed the decor of their homes.
Rachel had already moved to the rear of the apartment. I continued to walk through rooms, but more slowly. I moved from the front room into a larger room that contained a small dining table and a set of built-in cupboards. The cupboards contained a few pieces of mismatched crockery. On the table, facing the single chair, was a small, black-and-white TV with a crack in its case; a bent hanger did duty as an antennae. In front of the TV was a plastic placemat—a photograph of a meadow blooming with small yellow flowers. Although it was clean, there was an indentation where hot cups of tea had been placed. I caught myself making this supposition of tea and stood remembering that unlike her sister, Briana had never acquired a taste for coffee; that on Sundays after Mass, Briana would come to the house and my mother—who had shopped at special stores to find the type of tea her sister liked to drink—would bake scones. Tea and scones to make Briana feel welcomed in our home. I ran my fingers across the indentation in the plastic mat and wondered if Briana ever thought of those long-ago Sunday mornings.
I went into the small, bright kitchen at the back of the apartment. I opened cupboards, found a can of peaches, two cans of chicken noodle soup, a tin of Hershey’s cocoa, a box of powdered milk, a box of baking soda, a small box of sugar and half a bag of flour. Nothing more. The refrigerator was empty, but Mary had warned me that the landlord was going to clean it out—it belonged to him, along with the stove. In a drawer next to the stove, I found a box of generic-brand tea bags. I felt my throat tighten.
I shut the drawer and moved through another door, which led to a bathroom. Here there was a sink, toilet and claw-foot tub; a small mirror that was losing its silvering; a pink toothbrush in a water-stained glass; three hairpins near the faucet; cracked linoleum; a set of thin towels neatly folded over a single towel rack. I moved on.
I found Rachel sitting at a small rolltop desk in the bedroom, lost in thought. It didn’t look as if she had been searching the contents of the desk, which surprised me—we’re both curious by nature.
“You doing okay?” she asked as I walked in.
“Yes. Sorry to take so long—I guess I’ve been looking for—well, it’s hard to explain.”
“Something to tell you who she was?”
“Yes.”
“This is the room you’ve been looking for.”
As I glanced around the bedroom, I saw that she was right. There were a number of photographs on display on top of a plain wooden dresser. The small bookcase in the room was not filled with religious books but with two types of paperbacks: westerns and Georgette Heyer romances. Near the end of the neatly made twin bed was a rocking chair; a basket of knitting—blue and gray yarn to make an afghan, it seemed—lay on the seat.