invitation to any caller who might be inclined to commit burglary.
The Warricks had left before anyone was able to notify them that their eldest daughter was dead. I wondered if they would have postponed their trip had they heard.
No sooner had I ended the call than Inspector Fast phoned. I told him I had been hired by Caro Warrick and asked if it was okay with him if I continued the investigation for her publisher. As I’d expected, he had no problem with that, and we made an appointment to discuss the case that evening, since he was working a late shift.
The day before, Rob Warrick had given me a set of spare keys to Caro’s apartment and signed a permission slip to allow me to visit the premises in case the landlord objected. I decided to see if there was anything revealing in Caro’s former home.
11:50 a.m.
Caro’s apartment smelled even mustier on this morning than it had on my previous visit. I left the door open—the rain had eased up, leaving the air warmish—and opened a couple of windows. Then I sat down on the sofa, closed my eyes, and tapped into the feeling of the place.
It’s long been my opinion that, even after a person has vacated a given location, an aura of them and what they did there remains. It’s mystical and New Agey and I wouldn’t admit it to my clients or in court, but it works for me. And in my profession, you use any tool that’s effective.
As my breathing grew deeper, my hearing became keener. Bird sounds in the backyard, the creaking of an old joist in the ceiling. A TV mumbling somewhere, muted traffic sounds. Someone bouncing a basketball on the next block. The smell of mildew and aromatic wax was stronger. Under it a scent—flowery perfume, old-fashioned. Another scent—cleanser from the kitchen. I licked my lips: they tasted dusty, like the air around me.
My skin was tingling now. I felt a sudden chill from the open door and windows, then a rush of heat. My own heat. It faded, and I kept my eyes closed and let the impressions flood over me.
Unhappiness, yes—that was to be expected—but it was leavened with hope. And something else. Fear—just a little, such as one might feel when embarking upon a new enterprise. And another emotion… It eluded me.
Something I hadn’t experienced, perhaps?
I slumped farther back on the sofa. The emotion became stronger. Anxiety…something hidden…something that somebody might find out…
I opened my eyes, stood up, and started searching.
Caro’s possessions were few and orderly. Neatly folded underwear, neatly hung clothing. Her bed was made with tight corners. The bathroom was sparkling clean and smelled of shampoo. There was a grocery list tacked to the refrigerator by a magnet: cereal, bananas, chicken, veggies. Only milk and eggs and condiments were inside. She’d been due for a shop. In a low drawer I found files: rent receipts, tax returns, a copy of her lease for the apartment.
What interested me was the lack of truly personal items: photographs, letters, mementoes. The past didn’t exist here. Nor did the future except in the presence of the will. And the feeling of hope.
I closed the windows, made sure the door was locked, and went to talk with the landlord.
12:47 p.m.
Mrs. Cleary must have been nearly eighty, with wispy white hair and deep vertical facial wrinkles. She hadn’t been informed of her tenant’s death and when I told her, her smile crumpled and her eyes sheened with tears.
“That poor girl,” she said, clasping her heavily veined hands to her breasts. “She had such a tragic life.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Two or three days ago. I can’t remember exactly. She was taking her mail from the box that’s attached to the side of the garage.”
“How did she seem?”
“Her voice was pleasant as always. I don’t see so well any more, and the sun was in my eyes, so I’m not sure how she looked. But she sounded fine. After that I heard her—or
The Warricks had left before anyone was able to notify them that their eldest daughter was dead. I wondered if they would have postponed their trip had they heard.
No sooner had I ended the call than Inspector Fast phoned. I told him I had been hired by Caro Warrick and asked if it was okay with him if I continued the investigation for her publisher. As I’d expected, he had no problem with that, and we made an appointment to discuss the case that evening, since he was working a late shift.
The day before, Rob Warrick had given me a set of spare keys to Caro’s apartment and signed a permission slip to allow me to visit the premises in case the landlord objected. I decided to see if there was anything revealing in Caro’s former home.
11:50 a.m.
Caro’s apartment smelled even mustier on this morning than it had on my previous visit. I left the door open—the rain had eased up, leaving the air warmish—and opened a couple of windows. Then I sat down on the sofa, closed my eyes, and tapped into the feeling of the place.
It’s long been my opinion that, even after a person has vacated a given location, an aura of them and what they did there remains. It’s mystical and New Agey and I wouldn’t admit it to my clients or in court, but it works for me. And in my profession, you use any tool that’s effective.
As my breathing grew deeper, my hearing became keener. Bird sounds in the backyard, the creaking of an old joist in the ceiling. A TV mumbling somewhere, muted traffic sounds. Someone bouncing a basketball on the next block. The smell of mildew and aromatic wax was stronger. Under it a scent—flowery perfume, old-fashioned. Another scent—cleanser from the kitchen. I licked my lips: they tasted dusty, like the air around me.
My skin was tingling now. I felt a sudden chill from the open door and windows, then a rush of heat. My own heat. It faded, and I kept my eyes closed and let the impressions flood over me.
Unhappiness, yes—that was to be expected—but it was leavened with hope. And something else. Fear—just a little, such as one might feel when embarking upon a new enterprise. And another emotion… It eluded me.
Something I hadn’t experienced, perhaps?
I slumped farther back on the sofa. The emotion became stronger. Anxiety…something hidden…something that somebody might find out…
I opened my eyes, stood up, and started searching.
Caro’s possessions were few and orderly. Neatly folded underwear, neatly hung clothing. Her bed was made with tight corners. The bathroom was sparkling clean and smelled of shampoo. There was a grocery list tacked to the refrigerator by a magnet: cereal, bananas, chicken, veggies. Only milk and eggs and condiments were inside. She’d been due for a shop. In a low drawer I found files: rent receipts, tax returns, a copy of her lease for the apartment.
What interested me was the lack of truly personal items: photographs, letters, mementoes. The past didn’t exist here. Nor did the future except in the presence of the will. And the feeling of hope.
I closed the windows, made sure the door was locked, and went to talk with the landlord.
12:47 p.m.
Mrs. Cleary must have been nearly eighty, with wispy white hair and deep vertical facial wrinkles. She hadn’t been informed of her tenant’s death and when I told her, her smile crumpled and her eyes sheened with tears.
“That poor girl,” she said, clasping her heavily veined hands to her breasts. “She had such a tragic life.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Two or three days ago. I can’t remember exactly. She was taking her mail from the box that’s attached to the side of the garage.”
“How did she seem?”
“Her voice was pleasant as always. I don’t see so well any more, and the sun was in my eyes, so I’m not sure how she looked. But she sounded fine. After that I heard her—or
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