Higgilty Piggilty had mentioned Lindsey's condo before she was interrupted, and while it was something to look into, I was also a little embarrassed to be following a lead given to me by a puppet. But after the attack, I wasn't going to get any rest; I was too wired to sleep. And I had a case to work, so I wasn't going to run home. I was following this lead. Besides, it made a certain sort of sense. An empty condo in someone else's name would be the perfect place for Nick to hide out if someone was looking for him. Maybe Lindsey and Nick had a good enough relationship that he asked for a place to crash when he went Downtown and didn't want to drive drunk. Maybe he had the key this whole time and getting the condo had nothing to do with disappearance. And when things got bad, he decided to make use of the free condo. Of course, I still had no evidence of things going bad. I only knew that something strange was going on in the studio and I wasn't the only one who had noticed.
There was also a chance that Nick wasn't there by choice. There was a possibility that I'd head in there and find him tied up in the bedroom Misery style. Between that and my own attack, I pulled my pistol out of my go-case and kept it with me.
I made a quick call to Meredith as I buttoned up a spare, unripped shirt in my car. I was interested to know if she was aware of Lindsey's condo and get her reaction. She knew about the condo, having been there for a small party Lindsey had thrown, but she hadn't thought it was related. She had no idea why Nick would be there or if he even had a key. That was good intel for me, because if Nick had a key and Meredith didn't know, that meant he was keeping secrets from his supposed "best friend".
Meredith wanted to come with me. She was at some fundraiser with her father which was winding down, but she said she could get out of it. I could hear that she was maybe a little drunk, but maybe she was just "festive". I told her not to worry about coming with me, as there was every possibility it might be a dead lead. I had left out the part where I learned of the condo via puppet. Truthfully, I also didn't want her coming with me. If Nick was at the condo, there had to be some reason why he didn't call Meredith. He had made that wall between him and her for a reason. I didn't want to spook him and set him running again.
I still didn't know what to think about the attempt on my life. I was still processing all of that, including the bizarre reasons she gave for why she wanted me dead. Unless she was a far greater liar than I expected, she wasn't alone. Some cult had decided that I was the key to doomsday and my death would stop it. It sounded like the plot of a bad movie or a half-assed novel. I wanted to just dismiss it as bullshit. Except it was my death they wanted, which meant I needed to take it seriously. So much for a laid back life. Now I had to look over my shoulder for daggers for the foreseeable future.
I wanted to believe that the woman, let's call her the Seer, would take my warning and back off. Unfortunately, something told me that wouldn't happen. She was a fanatic connected to a larger group of fanatics, so I expected her to ignore all my words as her compatriots doubled down on their murderous doomsday prophecies. I at least hoped I wouldn't see her for a while. Maybe she'd at least need to take a few days to go get a new fancy knife; I hoped she needed a specific knife and couldn't just go to an army surplus store and buy a machete. After staring at it in the passenger seat for a while, I had finally put the dagger in my glove box, wrapped in my ripped shirt. That seemed a safe place for it, at least for now.
As I drove Downtown, it started to rain. It was light and I only had to put my wipers on low, but enough that Downtown driving was a pain. People in Austin freak out when rain hits the ground. Either they drive too slow and too cautiously, or they decide rain is meaningless, and they drive like they're using a Slip-n-Slide for maximum performance. Rain always turned Downtown into traffic and accidents, skidding and honking.
Parking was of course terrible. The condo building was right next to Downtown and on the lake, so it was a sought after spot that the builders had wanted to maximize. So the building had twenty floors. That's a lot of residents, and therefore a lot of cars. Sure, if you lived Downtown, you might get away with not having a car and getting everything within a few blocks, but generally you need a car in Austin. Public transportation sucks. The condo also had a parking garage, but due to so many residents, the garage was resident permit parking only. Outside the garage there were some regular city spots, but not many, as condo construction had eaten a lot of the space in the area. I counted only a dozen outside parking spots, and those were shared by a nearby bar. I guess the residents either didn't have visitors or they shared their garage spots with them. No spots were empty when I arrived, so I drove around for twenty minutes until I could stalk someone walking to their car and steal their spot. As I pulled in and killed the engine, it was already after eleven at night.
While the parking garage was permit- and card-gated, nothing prevented me from going inside the building. Past the front door was a mostly nondescript room with a huge wall of mailboxes, an office that was locked, and a soda machine. Nothing fancy, just a basic lobby. I passed a twenty-something hipster on his way out who already smelled of alcohol. I stepped into the elevator before the doors closed and headed on up to floor nineteen. The elevator muzak suggested that I have had the time of my life, but as it lurched uncomfortably upward, my stomach turned. The near nausea I had experienced in the morning had returned and it was not happy about my burger.
As I got off the elevator, I realized that these condos were not the glamorous living spaces I had heard about. Someone says "Downtown condo", and you think of something pricey and ritzy, something that said they spent lots of money. Maybe there were luxuriously expensive condos elsewhere in town, but these weren't them. Walking down the hall, I felt I was in a somewhat rundown hotel. A rundown luxury hotel, but rundown nonetheless. It's not like someone had smeared feces on the walls and there were addicts in the stairwells, but the paint was peeling in a bunch of places and people left their trash bags right outside their doors. It looked just like an indoor apartment complex. I wondered if these condos were sought after only because they were walking distance from all of Downtown. I admit there would be some appeal that you could drink your heart away on Sixth and not ever have to worry about driving home, only your ability to stumble back to the condo and stay awake on the elevator ride up.
Lindsey's condo was number 1906. I knocked, but I didn't expect a response. Nick wasn't answering the door if he was there. Neither would a possible kidnapper. Lindsey wouldn't be there unless Boulder had gone really badly really quick. I guessed the condo empty, and if not, someone was about to get a real huge surprise. After turning the knob and feeling resistance, I pulled out my lock picks.
Yes, I know picking someone's door lock is not legal. There are a few parts of a private detective's job that skew the legality line, but they need to be done if progress is to be made. I try to make my "uninvited investigations" as harmless as possible; most of my illegal entries were nothing like a full fledged B&E charge. I didn't break the door, I didn't trash the place, I didn't steal stuff. I pop the lock, take a look inside, and then I leave. If anyone asked, I say the door was open when I got there and I just wanted to make sure everyone was ok. Apartment/condo door locks aren't really that complicated, they just may take time and privacy - both of which I didn't have at Nick's apartment. These simple locks are more a symbolic deterrent to stop crimes of opportunity. Anyone who really wants to get in no matter the risks will get the tools and open the door. And the skills aren't even hard to find. Go on the internet. You can find tutorials to open all sorts of locks. For purely educational purposes, of course.
As I knelt down at the door, I tried to focus on the lock, but as any lock picker can tell you, you're always really conscious of the environment around you. In this case I was crouched in front of a long hall of doors, the space only broken by a few trash bags. While I was not in view of the elevator, anyone who turned the corner would see me crouched at the door and know I was up to no good. I couldn't pick the lock standing. S
o like any time I finessed a lock, I was apprehensive and nervous. Which are both terrible things when engaging in an act that calls for patience, steadiness, and a light touch. I admittedly flubbed the first few pins, my picks slipping out of place. I almost had it when I heard the elevator ding around the corner. Someone was stopping on the floor and would be turning the corner in moments.
Panic would have fucked up the pick. So I held it together, keeping my hand from shaking. I turned the picks and the door unlocked. I pushed myself through quickly, the door closing just as I heard someone coming around the corner.
I flipped the lights on and paused to catch my breath. Only then did I look around the condo, in no hurry to get out of it. If either Lindsey or Nick came home while I was there, each would be a new lead. The only awkwardness would be if Lindsey had instead given the key to someone totally unrelated to Nick's disappearance, in which I'd just make an awkward rush out of the place. Thankfully, nobody was home, something I learned quickly. But someone had been here. Besides still being furnished, there was less dust than I'd expect.
I'll admit the inside of the condo was much better than the hallway and lobby. Lindsey had decorated her apartment in a very posh way, blending expense and comfort. She had big leather couches, eclectic but fitting wall furnishings, a 55" flat screen television, and a kitchen stuffed to the gills with fancy Crate & Barrel gadgetry. I bet hardly any of it was from IKEA, as it was in my apartment.
When searching a home, particularly one I'm not supposed to be in, I prefer to perform first what I call a White Glove Pass. Some go straight to ransacking, throwing everything around. Let me ask: do you ever see anyone on CSI do that? Does NCIS break in and start upending the place? No, because clues are more than physical items. The placement and orientation of objects are as important as what they are. In my White Glove Pass, I just walk through the home, trying to touch as little as possible. I use my eyes, only barely touching things to look past them and see more. I do this because often just how the person has left their home tells its own story. Food left out, discarded television remote, empty key hook, hairs in the sink, the shape of dust around a missing wallet. Use your eyes and you can start putting together not only a story of the person, but what they were last doing. If I get enough in the White Glove Pass, that's all I do. I leave, having entered and left like a ghost in the night, the owner none the wiser, but I walk away with new leads and clues. It is only when there's an indication of something more or if the owner is a clean freak that I need to start rifling through stuff, opening drawers, upending trash, moving pictures. That almost always will leave traces of my visit to a skilled eye, if not inadvertent fingerprints. Usually if I need to do that, I wear actual white gloves.
In Lindsey's condo, I put my hands in my pockets and walked from room to room. As a Downtown condo, the place was far smaller than you'd expect for how much it went for. It had a good sized living room, which the front door opened into. There was even a built in dry bar, though it was starved for liquor; I guess Lindsey had drank or donated it all before leaving town. There was only a single bathroom, but it had a garden tub and a shower. The kitchen was small, having just room for appliances, two small counters, and a tiny dinner table ringed by two bar chairs. The bedroom was small too, not much larger than the bed and closets. This place was designed around the living room and bathroom; everything else was afterthought.
I crossed back and forth, looking and examining, collecting data. I was trying to put it together into a narrative. The story of who had been here recently, of what they were doing here. But as I returned to the living room and tried to put it all together, I was coming up with inconsistencies. It kept adding up wrong. Something was off about this, or at least it wasn't fitting the stories I'd expect. What if he -
I didn't get to finish that though as the unlocked front door was thrown open behind me, a hoarse voice shouting at me.
"Freeze! Hands in the air!"
Eight
Nobody likes having a gun pointed at them, myself included. The hands in the air request told me he was either cop or someone with a permit that loved their procedural television shows. Both told me the smarter answer was to be cool and do what they said. In both cases, they would have a nervous trigger finger, but to my advantage both would probably be willing to talk. Someone trying to kill me would have just fired, or knocked me to the ground before questioning me. So if I played it cool, I wouldn't get shot, but a breaking and entering charge still wasn't pretty.
I put up my hands, straightening my posture. I paused a long moment. "Can I turn around?"
There was a pause, which made me wonder if they had nodded first. "Yes."
I turned - slowly - and looked into the face of a Glock pistol that was so popular with law enforcement. One hand held the pistol, the other held a badge. The man behind the gun wasn't wearing a police uniform - in fact, if not for the badge and gun, I might not have pegged him for an officer at a quick look. He was wearing cargo shorts and a yellow-and-orange T-shirt for a resort in Cabo. I figured the serious-faced man who enjoyed Cabo to be in his forties by the gray flecks in his hair and wrinkles just starting to form around his eyes. He was Hispanic, his short hair and close cropped. He kept his facial hair in a bushy black mustache that was flecked with more gray than his hair.
"I can explain," I said calmly. As a general rule, I go with the sentiment that if I don't give the police a reason to be anxious, they won't be anxious. So my go-to phrase is always, "I can explain." Reasons are calming - stuttering, spluttering avoidances are not. Of course, my usual go-to strategy is to not get accosted by an officer in the first place. But when you're a stalker wielding a camera for money, you end up in weird places, loitering in your car suspiciously, and doing other eye raising actions. If you're a detective and even follow the law to the letter, the style of your work means it's inevitable that one day an officer's going to tap on the window of your car to find out what you're doing. You just have to stay cool.
"I'd love to hear this one," said the cop. "Are you going to try to bullshit me and say you're Nick's friend? I'm not buying that."
"Oh, why's that?" I said out of curiosity.
"If you actually knew Nick, you'd know how laughably strange it would be to have a friend in his home without him. So tell me some truth."
"What if I'm a friend of Lindsey's?" I suggested.
"Lindsey moved," said the cop. "And my patience is running slim."
"So you do know Nick, though," I said. "Interesting. Have you seen him recently?"
"I'm asking the questions here," he said. "Why are you here?"
"I'm looking for Nick!" I said. "Have you seen him?"
"I don't know what your deal is, but I'm not letting you at him. He's a good kid, no matter what he's messed up in. Turn around," he said, gesturing with the gun. I knew this movement well enough that the cuffs were about to come out.
"I'm not trying to hurt him, I'm just trying to find him!" I need to stall here before it went bad.
"Yeah, so he can come home and find you waiting for him. Turn around."
"Come home?" I said with confusion. "What?"
"You're in his home, dumbass."
"So you've seen him recently?" I said.
"Every damn day!" said the cop, stepping into my space and spinning me around, so I was now bent over the couch in a compromising position. I knew not to resist. "I see Nick every day. I live next door, moron." I heard the jingle of cuffs and my pulse spiked. The gun was pulled out of my pocket.
"A pistol? You better have a permit for this. And you said you didn't mean him harm."
"I don't!"
"Yeah, whatever."
Things were getting bad, but I saw my opening. If this guy was the next door neighbor, that means he was off duty and must have just heard me at the door. If he wasn't on the clock, that would give me some leeway to talk my way out of this. "Tell me one thing."
"I don't care," said the cop as he pulled my wrists together.
"Tell me this!" I said, my tension now in my voice. "If you see him every day, maybe you can explain why nobody has been living here!"
The hands behind me paused. "What?"
"And explain why Nick also rents an apartment in Hyde Park as well. An apartment he hasn't been back to in weeks." I could have paused there, but I decided to overload this guy with information. "Explain why he's staying at a condo that isn't even his! It's still owned by Lindsey."
"That I know the answer to," said the cop, his hands falling from my wrists, an involuntary step back on his part. "Lindsey moved to Boulder. Her brother Nick is staying here."
"Right and wrong," I said. "Nick and Lindsey aren't related! Friends and former coworkers, sure, but no blood relation. Nick's last name is Cavalos. Lindsey's is Hubert."
There was silence. I twisted my head to see the cop chewing on his lip, making it seem like his mustache was devouring his chin. "Can I turn around?" I went ahead and did it anyway, otherwise not making any fast movements.
"When Nick gets home, we'll ask him about all that," said the cop. He no longer had the gun or the badge out, and the cuffs were now dangling at his side. I still wasn't going to succeed if I made a break for it. Maybe I could still salvage this without running.
"He's not coming home, he doesn't live here. Nobody lives here."
"You keep saying that, and I'm telling you, it's bullshit," he said. "I see Nick walking down the hall nearly every day, carrying his laptop."
"Evidence in this condo disagrees with that," I said.
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