blotch in the outline of what might have been another “1” next to it. After a full morning of using my knee, the joint seemed okay going upstairs, wobbling only on the way down them, but I still took it easy. At the first landing were three doors marked in brass 21, 22, and 23. Climbing to the second landing I could see only a 32 and a 33, because the door to 31 was swung in.
I knocked on the jamb of the open door.
From somewhere inside, the trilling voice said, “That’s why I left it o-pen,” a lift to the last syllable.
The apartment had a short corridor beyond the door, which I closed behind me.
The voice said, “Just throw that bolt, o-kay?”
There was a deadbolt, and I turned it.
“Find me if you can,” again with the last syllable rising.
I found myself not looking forward to spending time with a Flipper impersonator.
At the end of the short corridor, the apartment branched right and left. To the right was another short, darker corridor with two doors, both closed, that I assumed led to bedroom and bath. To the left was brighter, a gift of sunshine from the front of the building having southern exposure.
Walking left, I entered a living room/dining area. A small gateleg table and one straight-backed chair stood outside a kitchen barely big enough for the appliances in it. The scent of potpourri wafted from the stovetop, the gas on underneath it even though the outside temperature was pushing seventy-five. The living area had framed, artsy photos of women in aerobic tights on the walls and sectional furniture upholstered in what looked like the hide from Tonto’s pinto pony. The furniture was arranged in no apparent pattern, with a corner piece facing me, two side pieces together against a wall, and a second corner piece literally facing the corner, a plush dunce chair.
In the center of the room, on another side piece, a petite woman sat Indian-style, her ankles under the opposite thighs and a small computer on what there was of her lap. She had kinky hair that ran to strawberry blond, barely shoulder length but tousled like she’d just gotten out of bed. Her clothing consisted of blue jeans with tears through the knees and a green flannel shirt so many sizes too big that she had to roll the sleeves twice for them to end at her wrists. The woman inclined her head downward, consulting a spiral notebook that lay folded over next to the little computer.
“Ms. Wickmire?”
She looked up, big eyes and a broad nose over a coy smile on thin lips. “Found me.”
“I had a lot of hints.”
The smile lost some of its coyness, then regained it. “You’re the detective, right?”
“Private investigator.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Detectives are on police forces. I don’t have any official status.”
“Is that like a Miranda warning?”
“Is what?”
“Your telling me you don’t have any … ‘official status.’ ”
“No. As long as I didn’t show any hoked-up ID or misrepresent myself, I could let you go on with whatever false impression you drew yourself.”
“Wild Bill told me your name was Cuddy.”
“John Cuddy.”
“Does that mean that I get to call you by your first name?”
More coyness, but without any body language to go with it, as though she were trying to act out a Magnum, PI or Rockford Files but had been given only her dialogue, not any stage directions. “Ms. Wickmire, you can call me anything you like.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not flirting with me?”
“Maybe because neither of us is.”
Wickmire lost the smile entirely, then hit a few keys on the computer and a switch on its side. “Since it looks like you’ll be here awhile, I’ll conserve the battery.”
I took her comment as an invitation to sit, which I did in the corner piece in front of me. “That a laptop?”
She shook her head. “Next generation. A ‘notebook,’ though I’m told there’re now ‘subnotebooks’ for the executive who’s really on the go.”
The
I knocked on the jamb of the open door.
From somewhere inside, the trilling voice said, “That’s why I left it o-pen,” a lift to the last syllable.
The apartment had a short corridor beyond the door, which I closed behind me.
The voice said, “Just throw that bolt, o-kay?”
There was a deadbolt, and I turned it.
“Find me if you can,” again with the last syllable rising.
I found myself not looking forward to spending time with a Flipper impersonator.
At the end of the short corridor, the apartment branched right and left. To the right was another short, darker corridor with two doors, both closed, that I assumed led to bedroom and bath. To the left was brighter, a gift of sunshine from the front of the building having southern exposure.
Walking left, I entered a living room/dining area. A small gateleg table and one straight-backed chair stood outside a kitchen barely big enough for the appliances in it. The scent of potpourri wafted from the stovetop, the gas on underneath it even though the outside temperature was pushing seventy-five. The living area had framed, artsy photos of women in aerobic tights on the walls and sectional furniture upholstered in what looked like the hide from Tonto’s pinto pony. The furniture was arranged in no apparent pattern, with a corner piece facing me, two side pieces together against a wall, and a second corner piece literally facing the corner, a plush dunce chair.
In the center of the room, on another side piece, a petite woman sat Indian-style, her ankles under the opposite thighs and a small computer on what there was of her lap. She had kinky hair that ran to strawberry blond, barely shoulder length but tousled like she’d just gotten out of bed. Her clothing consisted of blue jeans with tears through the knees and a green flannel shirt so many sizes too big that she had to roll the sleeves twice for them to end at her wrists. The woman inclined her head downward, consulting a spiral notebook that lay folded over next to the little computer.
“Ms. Wickmire?”
She looked up, big eyes and a broad nose over a coy smile on thin lips. “Found me.”
“I had a lot of hints.”
The smile lost some of its coyness, then regained it. “You’re the detective, right?”
“Private investigator.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Detectives are on police forces. I don’t have any official status.”
“Is that like a Miranda warning?”
“Is what?”
“Your telling me you don’t have any … ‘official status.’ ”
“No. As long as I didn’t show any hoked-up ID or misrepresent myself, I could let you go on with whatever false impression you drew yourself.”
“Wild Bill told me your name was Cuddy.”
“John Cuddy.”
“Does that mean that I get to call you by your first name?”
More coyness, but without any body language to go with it, as though she were trying to act out a Magnum, PI or Rockford Files but had been given only her dialogue, not any stage directions. “Ms. Wickmire, you can call me anything you like.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not flirting with me?”
“Maybe because neither of us is.”
Wickmire lost the smile entirely, then hit a few keys on the computer and a switch on its side. “Since it looks like you’ll be here awhile, I’ll conserve the battery.”
I took her comment as an invitation to sit, which I did in the corner piece in front of me. “That a laptop?”
She shook her head. “Next generation. A ‘notebook,’ though I’m told there’re now ‘subnotebooks’ for the executive who’s really on the go.”
The
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