unit. They would have to wait. I pushed my thumbs against the front edge of the tin lid. I felt like Charlie opening his Wonka bar. I lifted the lid. The tin was full of photographs.
I sorted through the pictures, holding one at a time under the lamp. Several of photos on top of the pile clearly showed Emily Sue Patterson in various stages of nudity, but most of the others showed nothing more than close-ups of Emily’s apartment interior. At the bottom of the tin were three photographs of a different young woman. Obviously taken without the subject’s knowledge, two of these pictures showed the girl in front of a large building, apparently on a college campus. The other photo showed her in what appeared to be her bedroom. Sandra Collins?
I examined the photographs of Emily closely. She certainly was a piece of work. God had probably taken the rest of the day off after making her. Good thing it was my job to inspect the pictures thoroughly. I scanned every square inch, then moved on to the other things in the pictures. Except for Emily, there was nothing unusual in the photographs. The shots of the empty apartment were definitely the room above the Fuchsia Flamingo. Where had these pictures been taken from? Finding the source seemed to be the next step.
I lit a smoke and stood at the window, looking down at Chandler Avenue. The pictures of Emily had been taken from a vantage point directly opposite the Flamingo. Rusty’s Fun House. I stared down at the vacant novelty shop. All the windows were dark, though the evil-leering Harlequins that adorned the store’s facade were lit up by a street light. An ancient water tower sat atop the building like a dunce cap. I followed the line starting at the Flamingo and passing through the water tower. The closest building behind Rusty’s was a good quarter mile distant. Technically, the shots could have been taken from the far building, but I doubted it. I needed to find a way up to the roof above Rusty’s. Chelsee’s newsstand was closed. It occurred to me that she might have left one of the messages on the answering machine back in my office. I’d forgotten to check them. The door to Rusty’s was locked, and a sign was posted: SFPD crime scene! Authorised personnel only!
It was just after 4:00 am and the street was still dark. I could hear Emily singing “Misty” inside the Fuchsia Flamingo, but there was no one out and about in the street. I stepped back and kicked the door, just under the lock. A white flash of excruciating pain shot up my leg — I’d caught my toe on the knob. I hopped around for a minute, running through a list creative expletives that would have made my grandpa proud. When the searing pain finally subsided to a dull ache, I tried again. This time shoulder first. The door gave way, and I burst inside.
I’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight. I turned it on and flashed it around the shop. Everything looked the same as the last time I’d been there, except for a strip of yellow barrier tape placed across the doorway into Rusty’s back room. A few months ago, I’d tipped Mac Malden off about the location of Rusty’s remains, which I’d discovered over the course of my last big case.
A two-bit crook named Mick Flemm had dumped Rusty, big shoes and all, into a barrel of toxic acid stashed in Rusty’s dark room. Naturally, Mac took all the credit for wrapping up the previously unsolved murder and parlayed it into a promotion. I didn’t care; my contact in the police force was higher up the ladder, and I was privy to better information.
Nothing had changed in the backroom either, except that the barrel of acid had been removed. I started a systematic search. There had to be a way up to the roof somewhere. Half-an-hour later, I found the entrance, on the wall opposite the front door, under a shelf full of rubber masks. The door was small, like an access panel to a crawl space. I pulled the panel off the wall and flashed a light into the
I sorted through the pictures, holding one at a time under the lamp. Several of photos on top of the pile clearly showed Emily Sue Patterson in various stages of nudity, but most of the others showed nothing more than close-ups of Emily’s apartment interior. At the bottom of the tin were three photographs of a different young woman. Obviously taken without the subject’s knowledge, two of these pictures showed the girl in front of a large building, apparently on a college campus. The other photo showed her in what appeared to be her bedroom. Sandra Collins?
I examined the photographs of Emily closely. She certainly was a piece of work. God had probably taken the rest of the day off after making her. Good thing it was my job to inspect the pictures thoroughly. I scanned every square inch, then moved on to the other things in the pictures. Except for Emily, there was nothing unusual in the photographs. The shots of the empty apartment were definitely the room above the Fuchsia Flamingo. Where had these pictures been taken from? Finding the source seemed to be the next step.
I lit a smoke and stood at the window, looking down at Chandler Avenue. The pictures of Emily had been taken from a vantage point directly opposite the Flamingo. Rusty’s Fun House. I stared down at the vacant novelty shop. All the windows were dark, though the evil-leering Harlequins that adorned the store’s facade were lit up by a street light. An ancient water tower sat atop the building like a dunce cap. I followed the line starting at the Flamingo and passing through the water tower. The closest building behind Rusty’s was a good quarter mile distant. Technically, the shots could have been taken from the far building, but I doubted it. I needed to find a way up to the roof above Rusty’s. Chelsee’s newsstand was closed. It occurred to me that she might have left one of the messages on the answering machine back in my office. I’d forgotten to check them. The door to Rusty’s was locked, and a sign was posted: SFPD crime scene! Authorised personnel only!
It was just after 4:00 am and the street was still dark. I could hear Emily singing “Misty” inside the Fuchsia Flamingo, but there was no one out and about in the street. I stepped back and kicked the door, just under the lock. A white flash of excruciating pain shot up my leg — I’d caught my toe on the knob. I hopped around for a minute, running through a list creative expletives that would have made my grandpa proud. When the searing pain finally subsided to a dull ache, I tried again. This time shoulder first. The door gave way, and I burst inside.
I’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight. I turned it on and flashed it around the shop. Everything looked the same as the last time I’d been there, except for a strip of yellow barrier tape placed across the doorway into Rusty’s back room. A few months ago, I’d tipped Mac Malden off about the location of Rusty’s remains, which I’d discovered over the course of my last big case.
A two-bit crook named Mick Flemm had dumped Rusty, big shoes and all, into a barrel of toxic acid stashed in Rusty’s dark room. Naturally, Mac took all the credit for wrapping up the previously unsolved murder and parlayed it into a promotion. I didn’t care; my contact in the police force was higher up the ladder, and I was privy to better information.
Nothing had changed in the backroom either, except that the barrel of acid had been removed. I started a systematic search. There had to be a way up to the roof somewhere. Half-an-hour later, I found the entrance, on the wall opposite the front door, under a shelf full of rubber masks. The door was small, like an access panel to a crawl space. I pulled the panel off the wall and flashed a light into the
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