CHAPTER 17, EXCERPT 1
Crossing the avenue his trick knee was hurting and the other one felt weak. He was dizzy, adrenaline had his hands shaking and his gut jumping, and his head was emerging from a dull gray cloud.
Asiata Apartments was carved in stone above the building’s entrance. There was a double glass door with four concrete steps leading up to it and Frank could see a vestibule area with mail slots on the wall and a warm inviting light. But he didn’t feel warm or invited as he stepped in out of the mist and checked the names on the mailboxes, all eight of them.
J. Burton, it said next to #8.
Burton—Bruton. J—Judy. Close enough. Who did she think she was fooling?
Frank grabbed the curved brass handle on the heavy wood and glass inside door, pushed down the little thumb tab and pulled. Door didn’t budge. What the hell? Shit, his brain wasn’t working right. It was one of those systems where you buzzed the apartment and talked on an intercom and the tenant pushed a button to unlock the door. A complicated process not guaranteed to achieve the desired result, but what choice did he have? So he stood there looking around and searching for another way in. But goddamnit, the security building seemed secure. With reluctance he pushed the button for #8, hoping J. Burton/Bruton felt like a visitor at two-A-goddamn-M in the misty fucking morning.
No response.
Frank felt the muscles in his shoulders letting go. No one was home and he was off the hook. But then the winged beast weighed in with a different opinion, digging in its talons until he pushed the damn intercom button one more time.
Still nothing.
He was turning to leave when the metallic voice came through. “Yes? Who’s there? Is someone there?”
Frank put his mouth close to the speaker and tried hard not to slur his words. “Judy, this is Frank Ford. Sorry to bother you this late, but I really need to talk to you about Ray. Something’s come up and I—”
“Well, big brother Frank has finally come around. But what if I don’t want to talk about Ray at two-thirty in the morning, big brother Frank?”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to nestle into a corner of your vestibule here and wait until you come out.”
“Suppose I call the police and tell them there’s a drunk passed out in the entry.”
“Then they’ll haul me in and I’ll have to tell Detective Moore that you were the last person to see Ray alive. I’ve got two witnesses who saw you walking out of The Cottage with Ray on your arm. You and one of your new hubby’s goons.” It was actually only one witness but she didn’t need to know that. Cops went to The Cottage and started asking questions, no telling how many witnesses they’d find.
“My husband is a businessman. The owner of several pharmacies—in three states—why would he need these so-called goons?”
“You tell me. I’m sure you’re privy to the inside info.” Silence on the intercom. “So you gonna let me in or not?”
More silence.
Frank waited, his gut roiling like waves on Lake Superior. Then the door clicked and he grabbed the brass handle, pushed down the thumb flap and pulled the door open. Going inside to an olfactory mixture of cooking odors, cleaning fluids and old carpeting imbedded with the smell of years of bodily functions, he was reminded why he didn’t like apartment buildings.
Going up the gold-carpeted stairs, his legs were like lead and the goddamn winged thing was cooing in his ear like a pigeon as big as a beer truck. An image was forming in the foggy reaches of his mind. An image of him in a rowboat without any oars, cold, lonely and vulnerable as the boat washed out to sea.
At the top of the stairs he pushed back the vision. The hallway had numbered doors along both sides. And judging by the location of the high window, Frank figured Judy was all the way down on the right. He moved unsteadily along the worn carpet until he was in front of door number eight. He lifted the horseshoe shaped knocker and tapped it down, lifted, repeated, and then repeated again.
Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me…
(To be continued)
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