Текст книги "The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Rising, he carried his suitcase into the bedroom, pausing by the bathroom door just to verify that it was body free.

Everything looked spick-and-span.

Depositing his suitcase on the bed, something caught his eye. Something lay on his pillow. A bird. A brown dove, dead.

Hand shaking, Perry picked it up. It felt soft in his hand, and cold. Its neck hung brokenly.

Chapter Three

Nick knew what the pounding on his door meant before he peered out the peephole. He swore and opened the door.

Perry Foster stood there cradling a bird in both hands. “It’s…dead,” he got out.

A dead bird. Nick processed the news. Assess and respond, that was the program, and he had best respond fast because more alarming than the dead bird was the fact that the Foster kid was blue in the face and gulping for air.

Why me? he thought. I’ve got my own problems. He took the dead bird in one hand and hauled the kid inside with the other.

“Sit.”

Foster collapsed on the sofa, braced his hands on his knees, and struggled to breathe. It was not pleasant to watch. Nick felt helpless, which made him angry.

“Where’s your…what do you call it? Inhaler?”

Foster ignored him, gulping like a landed fish.

“Shit!”

The boy’s eyes shot up toward Nick’s face, and he realized he was probably making it worse. Did people die from asthma nowadays? He didn’t know anything about it. He took a turn around the living room and paused by the couch. Awkwardly, he patted the kid between his bony shoulder blades.

“Calm down, kiddo. You’re fine now.”

Foster nodded. Courteous to the last breath.

The attack went on for what seemed like forever to Nick. Absently he smoothed his hand up and down Foster’s back, feeling the links of spine through the soft cotton of his T-shirt – and why the hell was he running around wearing a T-shirt in this kind of weather?

“Try to breathe slowly,” Nick ordered, half-remembered TV shows flitting through his mind.

Eventually Foster’s breathing calmed. “It…was on my pillow,” he managed at last.

Nick had forgotten the dead bird that lay on his coffee table. He stared at the small, broken body. His head pounded with anger.

He was mad about the dumb bird, he was mad about the dumb kid, and he was mad that he was being dragged into this mess.

“Think hard,” he instructed. “Is there anybody who has a grudge against you?”

“Me?” panted Foster. “This…isn’t about…me!”

“Never mind what you think it’s about. Do you have any enemies?”

“Of course not!”

“Have you had any run-ins with anybody lately? Maybe something insignificant? Playing your stereo too loud or something.”

Foster shook his head.

“Any arguments over parking spaces? Cut anyone off driving to work?”

Another shake.

“Revoke any library cards?”

Amazingly, Foster laughed. It was a weak laugh, but it was a real laugh.

“You cut your vacation short. Why?”

Those wide, fawn brown eyes gazed at Nick woundedly. “My friend…changed his mind.”

“Your… Oh.” He thought that over. “No hard feelings on his side?”

“None.” One husky word full of heartbreak. It was embarrassing. But then, prosaically, Foster added, “Anyway, he lives in San Francisco.”

“Okay, anyone else you’re fucking?”

The Bambi look again. Nick had the urge to smash it into pieces.

“Kid, you’re queer, right? Problems come with the lifestyle.”

Foster whispered, “I have a problem-free lifestyle. I had one friend. That’s over.”

“Well, don’t cry about it.” His brusque tone brought the color creeping back into Foster’s white face, and that was a good sign in Nick’s opinion. Foster was kind of cute in a Christopher Robin way, and unwillingly, Nick was curious about the friend who had changed his mind. “No arguments with anyone at all?”

Wearily, Foster shook his head.

“Then I guess we can assume that this has to do with the dead man you found. Someone is warning you off.”

“Why? The cops didn’t believe me.”

Nick squeezed his shoulder – he wasn’t sure why – and rose. “No, and they won’t believe you this time, either.”

Foster nodded at the coffee table at the broken dove. “What about that?”

Nick shook his head. “Can you prove where you found this dead bird? It could have flown against the house last night and broken its neck. It happens. The cops might think you’re doing this for attention. Or that you’re not right in the head.”

Foster looked scared and stricken.

With a gentleness that surprised him, Nick said, “Even if they believe you, what can they do? Seriously. The most they could do is charge someone – and who would they charge? – with breaking and entering. Leaving a dead bird is not even a specific threat.”

Finally Foster nodded.

Nick took it as permission to get rid of the bird. When he came back to the front room, Foster said, “What should I do?”

You’re an adult. Do what you want. Nick opened his mouth to say it. He had done some violent things in his time, but that would have been punching a baby in the face; instead, he said, “Let’s scope out your apartment. You can pack some things.”

“And go where? I can’t afford to move; I told you that. Anyway, I can’t break my lease.”

Not exactly outlaw material, young Foster.

Nick said, “I’d say someone getting into your apartment is pretty good grounds for breaking your lease. Make MacQueen give you Watson’s rooms. She can have his gear moved out, and I’ll help you move your gear in.”

Foster gazed up at Nick like Nick was his hero, and Nick felt an uncomfortable tightening in his gut. Foster had nice bones, clear skin, and honey-colored hair that fell in his eyes. His eyelids were blue-veined eggshell and a pulse was visible in the vulnerable hollow at the base of his throat. Nick cleared his own throat.

* * * * *

Outside Foster’s apartment they found Mr. Teagle energetically banging on the door.

A big, raw-boned man, Teagle greeted them in his booming voice. “Why, there you are! I wondered where you were, son.”

Despite the smile he looked tired, grayer than usual around the edges – and every one of his seventy-something years.

“Hey there, Mr. Teagle,” Foster said. “When did you get home? How was your trip?”

He was a friendly tyke, no doubt about it.

Teagle’s voice rose in the manner of the hard-of-hearing. “This morning. Wish I’d never gone. Waste of time. People say the economy’s improving, but I can’t see it,” He shook his head. “These damn Democrats.” He peered skeptically at Nick. “You a Democrat?”

“I’m an Independent,” Nick said shortly.

Teagle appeared unconvinced. “You’re that ex-marine, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

Maybe Teagle had been army. He shook his head again and turned back to Foster. “Son, they said you had a terrible experience last night. Someone broke into your apartment?”

“Someone did,” Foster replied lamely, apparently having trouble putting into words the whole unvarnished truth.

“These young vandals are everywhere,” Mr. Teagle said. “There’s no discipline, no control. It’s this permissive society. Why in my day…”

He treated them to a dissertation of the good old days while Foster unlocked the door and let them inside his rooms.

Nick wished Foster would get rid of the garrulous old fool, but he was as useless at repelling social invaders as burglars.

“Did you want some tea, Mr. Teagle? Nick?”

“No,” said Nick.

“I’d love a cup,” Teagle lowered his girth onto one of the chairs, apparently settling in.

“Hadn’t you better pack?” Nick asked Foster woodenly.

Mr. Teagle stared at Nick over the top of his horn-rims although he spoke to Perry. “Pack? Are you going somewhere, son?”

Foster gave Nick one of those uncomfortable looks. “Maybe. Till I can sort out what’s happening with my apartment.”

Teagle turned the horn-rims on the kid. “Does this have to do with that burglar last night?”

“Sort of. He wasn’t exactly a burglar.”

“But where will you go, son? You can’t break your lease.” He studied Nick once more, as though suspecting he was behind it all. “This your idea, young man?”

“Yep,” Nick said cheerfully.

Foster made himself scarce in the kitchen, returning finally with Teagle’s tea. He said deprecatingly, “I’m just going to throw some things in a bag,” and moved to hightail it down the hallway.

Mr. Teagle set his mug down on the drop cloth and said heartily, “I know! What do you say to staying with me awhile, Perry? Just till you sort out this little mix-up.”

Foster halted midflight. “That’s…really kind of you,” he said reluctantly.

“Then it’s settled!”

“Foster’s staying with me for the time being,” Nick said curtly, amazing himself yet again. Foster shot him one of those meltingly grateful looks that irritated and gratified Nick at the same time.

“I see,” Mr. Teagle said slowly after a moment, disapproval vibrating in his tone.

Nick felt himself changing color at what the old man obviously thought. Well, let him think it; it wasn’t true, and anyway…Nick didn’t trust him.

“Who has keys to these apartments?” he asked Teagle. “Besides MacQueen?”

“Tiny, of course. You know. The maintenance man.”

Nick blinked. How the hell had they forgotten about Tiny? Not only did he live on the premises, he was big and strong enough to tote bodies up and down ladders all day long.

“Anyone else?”

“Let me think…Hmm. I think Miss Bridger may have a copy. Mrs. MacQueen relies on her to keep an eye on things when she goes away.”

He glanced at Foster who was carrying his suitcase out of the bedroom. “Son, do you think I might have a word with you in private?”

“Uh, sure.” Foster glanced uncertainly at Nick.

Nick said, “I’ll be down the hall.”

He was shaking his head as he walked back to his rooms, wondering what the hell he’d let himself in for.

* * * * *

Mr. Teagle cleared his throat and said, “Sit down for a minute, son.”

Perry sat down. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he didn’t know how to head it off without being rude or hurting the old man’s feelings. Mr. Teagle had always been kind to him, though he was kind of a pain in the butt, checking out Perry’s mail and dropping by to scope out Perry’s visitors – not that Perry had many visitors.

“Son, you know I don’t like to pry. It’s only…Fox Run is a small town, and despite what some legislators might think, Vermont is a conservative state. You’ve always been discreet about your friends, which is wise. Very wise.”

“It’s not like you think,” Perry objected stiffly. “Nick’s just offering me a place to stay while I figure out what to do.”

“You know how these things look, Perry. People will talk, and that kind of talk could do you a lot of harm.”

Perry said, “Mr. Teagle, Nick isn’t even gay. He’s just…being kind.”

Mr. Teagle winced at the G word, and said kindly, “Who’s going to believe that, son?”

“Well, that’s their problem,” Perry said finally, politely.

“Now I’m not trying to tell you what to do, although I’ve lived a lot longer than you, and I know just how mean and spiteful folks can be. I think you should be very careful about making any decisions right away.”

“I can’t stay here,” Perry said flatly. “There was a dead body in my apartment.”

“You’re a sensitive boy,” Mr. Teagle admitted. “Are you sure you’re not letting your imagination run away with you?” His rheumy brown eyes studied Perry.

“I’m sure.”

“Of course, it’s up to you.”

“It is, yeah.”

Mr. Teagle mopped his suddenly sweaty face with a handkerchief. “I think mebbe I’ll go lie down; this traveling takes it out of me. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

He looked the color of wallpaper glue, and Perry said, “Are you all right? Do you need help getting downstairs?”

“No, no. Promise me at least you’ll think about what I’ve said. If you need a place to stay, my door is always open.”

The old man rose and lumbered out. Perry followed him into the hall, locking the door. He waited until Mr. Teagle had disappeared down the staircase before heading straight for Nick’s apartment.

He knocked on the half-open door, and Nick called from inside, “It’s open.”

Perry walked in. “Did you mean what you said about staying here, or should I go talk to Mrs. Mac now?”

Nick’s face twisted. “I figured you didn’t want to be roomies with the old coot. If MacQueen won’t let you take the Watson place, you can bunk here till you figure out what to do. But don’t worry. MacQueen will let you move in there; she’s got a legal obligation to make sure her tenants are safe.”

Perry concealed his disappointment. He didn’t want to stay in Watson’s apartment surrounded by a dead man’s belongings; he wanted to stay with Nick, who came off so hard and cold, but who was unexpectedly kind.

They walked down to the lobby, and Perry knocked on MacQueen’s door. From inside came the never-ending accompaniment of TV.

They waited.

Nick pounded loudly on the door. Down the hall, Miss Dembecki’s door opened a crack and then closed again hastily.

“Maybe she’s not here,” Nick said.

“She’s always here.”

At the sound of a sliding bolt, Perry stepped back hastily. A gust of cigarette smoke and stale air escaped the vacuum, followed by a little dog so fat it could hardly waddle its frantic escape. Perry coughed nervously and glanced apologetically at Nick.

“Get that mutt!” Mrs. MacQueen’s voice grated from inside the cloud of cigarette smoke.

Nick bent and grabbed the dog; its overlong nails skittered on the wood floor. He slid it back into the room like he was sliding a mug down a tap rail.

Mrs. MacQueen appeared in the mist, cigarette wagging in her pudgy face. “What is it now?”

Perry explained what it was now.

Mrs. MacQueen looked from one man to the other. Her expression grew, if possible, more unpleasant.

“You can’t be serious, Mr. Foster,” she said. She glanced at Nick as though wondering what he had to do with this sudden insurgency. “That room is already rented out.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Nick said. “Your tenant is dead.”

“His possessions are still there. We haven’t been able to arrange matters with his…er…heirs yet.”

We? Her and the dogs?

“I’m not going to mess with his stuff,” Perry said. “I just want to stay someplace where no one can break in any moment. Someone’s been in my apartment twice.”

Mrs. MacQueen cackled, “Twice! Now it’s twice!” She shook her head. “Sorry, sonny, you can tell Tiny you want the locks changed on your place. I’ll go that far.”

“I’m not sure they’re coming through the door.” Perry heard himself and turned pink, but he stood his ground.

Mrs. MacQueen glowered at Nick. “Did you put him up to this?”

“Look, ma’am,” Nick said, “I’m not the imaginative type, and I saw enough to convince me someone is getting into Foster’s rooms.”

“That ain’t here nor there,” Mrs. MacQueen said. “The Watson apartment is a bigger place. It costs another hundred dollars a month.”

Perry’s heart began to pound hard, shaking his thin frame. He said, “There’s such a thing as renter’s rights, Mrs. MacQueen. If you can’t provide adequate security, I can break my lease. Then you’ll be out my rent and Mr. Watson’s rent.”

“I’ll sue you,” Mrs. MacQueen threatened.

“I’ll sue you back. And I’ll win. People have been in my rooms. Twice. At least. Mr. Reno is a witness to that. And if you do take me to court, I’ll sue you for damages too.”

“I’ve seen screwier cases than this win in court,” Nick supplied dryly.

MacQueen’s eyes darted from one to the other of them as she thought this over. The dogs were scratching at the bottom of the half-closed door, their tiny paws flashing in and out from under the door.

“Okay, whatever. It’s your choice,” Perry said, turning away.

“Now wait a minute,” Mrs. MacQueen protested. “Don’t be so hasty. Young folks are always so hasty. I didn’t say you couldn’t rent Watson’s. I said it was more than your rooms, but it’s paid through the end of the month, so you could stay there, and maybe these matters will clear themselves up by then.”

Battle over. Perry was all riled up and nowhere to go. He felt almost let down as he stared at her.

“But if there are any problems, if the…er…heirs claim anything’s missing, it’ll be on your head, sonny.”

“Great,” Nick said. “That’s settled. Come on, Foster.”

MacQueen’s door slammed shut so hard the chandelier high above them chinked like broken glass. But then like most things around there, it didn’t work anyway and hadn’t for years. Nick strode off toward the grand staircase.

“I can’t believe it was that easy,” Perry admitted to Nick’s wide shoulders.

“You amaze me, sonny,” Nick threw back.

They started up the stairs and he said briskly, “We’ll get you settled in, and then we’ll go talk to Tiny.” He was feeling more cheerful. He could stow the kid in a safe environment, and then get back to his own problems, like the fact he couldn’t get a damn job because he was “overqualified.”

They rounded the banister on the second landing, and Nick stopped short. Perry reached out to steady himself, touching muscles that felt like rocks beneath Nick’s flannel shirt.

David Center stood before them, tall and thin in a purple dressing gown. Nick didn’t think highly of men who drifted around in purple dressing gowns, although in that house nothing was surprising.

“So you’ve seen him,” Center announced.

Nick was crisp. “Seen who?”

“The ghost of Witch Hollow.”

Chapter Four

“And which hollow would that be?” inquired Nick.

Center ignored this. “Contact with the supernatural can be an alarming experience if you’re not prepared. The first time I –”

Nick opened his mouth, but catching his expression, Perry forestalled him by saying apologetically, “I don’t think what I saw was a ghost.”

In Nick’s opinion, the kid seemed to spend a lot of time making excuses for other people’s lunatic expectations.

“But of course it was a ghost!” exclaimed Center, turning in the direction of Perry’s voice. “You don’t truly believe one of the living dead appeared and disappeared in your tub?”

Speaking of one of the living dead…Center looked like the villain in a 1940s movie. Pencil thin mustache and hair black and smooth as a raven’s wing. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Everything about him bugged Nick – and that was just on general principles.

“When you put it like that, a ghost does make more sense,” he said sardonically. Catching Foster’s gaze, he realized the kid was struggling to keep a straight face.

Which was a huge relief. For a moment Nick had pictured Foster swallowing this pap the way he ate up the pulp fiction from the library.

“I suppose you are a nonbeliever,” Center said to Nick’s forehead.

“I believe in plenty of things,” Nick said. “But spooks aren’t one of them.”

Center turned away from Nick, groping for Foster’s hand. Nick felt Foster go rigid beside him and wondered why he put up with this kind of crap.

“Come, you must tell me what you saw,” Center breathed. “Every detail. We must determine why the specter chose to manifest itself to you.”

“Can it wait?” Perry asked. “Nick is helping me move my stuff.”

“Move?” Center was horrified. “You’re not leaving?”

“Only out of the tower room.”

“But you can’t! That would be a great error. The spirits have chosen to contact you there. You mustn’t reject them. The consequences could be grave.”

“No pun intended?” Nick’s tone caused the color to rush into Center’s pale face. “Foster, I don’t have all day.”

As he continued up the staircase, he noticed one of the doors down the hall, Stein’s door, closing. The guy must have been listening to their conversation. Good luck to him if he could make sense of that gobbledygook.

Perry caught him up on the third landing.

“Man, that was pretty cold,” he said.

“The guy’s a screwball.”

Silence.

“If you feel like spending the day chatting on the astral plane, be my guest. I’ve got things to do.”

Foster had no response to that, either.

There was more silence in Nick’s apartment. He went to check his phone messages, and Roscoe had actually called.

Nick dialed the number Roscoe had left. His palms felt sweaty and cold, his heart was thumping – all unfamiliar sensations.

A receptionist put him through to Roscoe without delay.

“You asshole,” Roscoe greeted him. “You better not have taken a job with somebody else!”

It was all Nick could do to say calmly, “Why? What have you got?”

“Lousy pay, lousy benefits, long hours, and a bunch of assholes to work with.”

“What’s the downside?”

Roscoe chuckled. “Hey, listen, the job’s yours if you want it. There is a catch, though.”

“Shoot.”

“You need to interview with the partners. It won’t be a problem, I’ve already vouched for you. It’s a formality, that’s all.”

“When?”

“That’s the catch. Rick is leaving for South America on the eighth, and he won’t be back for a month. We could wait till then, or if you’re willing, we can get you booked on a flight to the West Coast this evening. We can interview tomorrow morning, do lunch and show you around the town, and you can get a flight out the following morning. Hell, you could stay a few days and hang out, catch up on old times, scope the operation.”

“I’m just treading water here,” Nick said. “I’ll take the plane ticket.”

“That’s my boy,” Roscoe crowed. He said to someone offline, “What did I tell you? He’s in.”

Roscoe gave him the details, and Nick rang off. He realized he was grinning at the receiver, and he headed for the bedroom to throw some things into a bag.

He’d clean forgotten about Foster who was sitting on the sofa, staring at the rain trickling down the window.

“Something’s come up,” Nick told him shortly, because – although there was no reason to – he felt guilty. “I’ve got a job interview in Los Angeles, and I have to catch a plane this evening.”

“I sort of figured,” said Foster. He grinned. He had an attractive grin, wry and sort of sweet. “Congratulations.”

Nick didn’t like feeling guilty. Especially when there was no reason for it. He said brusquely, “I’ll help you move some things downstairs this afternoon. We can take care of the rest when I get back.”

“Nah,” said Foster. “I can manage with what I’ve got here.” He nudged his holdall. “It’s not like I can’t get into my apartment if I need anything.”

Nick didn’t know what to say.

A heavy knock on the door frame saved him from having to come up with a reply. Tiny stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot in restless unease. He was a big man, simple, as they used to say. He had worked at the Alston Estate for the last thirty years, long before Mrs. MacQueen had bought the isolated farmhouse to turn it into a boarding house.

Nick narrowly sized up the handyman. Tiny made a hulking figure in baggy overalls over a worn red flannel shirt. His gray head was shaved close, and his left eye had a tendency to twitch. He sort of looked like Curly of the Three Stooges, only he had no visible sense of humor.

“Mrs. Mac says you want to see Mr. Watson’s room.”

“Yeah, we want to see the room,” Nick said.

Tiny made a great scooping motion that was evidently to urge them onward. Nick followed Foster out, and they proceeded back to the second floor.

Unlocking the door to the late Mr. Watson’s room and standing back so that Foster could enter, Tiny announced, “Mr. Watson is dead.”

“I know,” Foster said patiently. He seemed to have patience to spare; it encouraged kooks, in Nick’s opinion.

Foster wandered doubtfully around the room while Nick checked the lights, the thermostat, the hot water. Everything looked like it was in working order. The room smelled stale, of cigars and dust. Hopefully the kid’s asthma wouldn’t kick up.

Tiny picked up a comic book and tossed it back down nervously. “He died in the village. In the bakery.”

“I heard that too,” Foster said.

“He bought a cherry pie, and he dropped dead. His things are still here. This is all his.”

“I won’t bother his things,” Foster said.

There were a lot of “things.” A tall wine rack in one corner. Lots of black leather furniture. An expensive home entertainment center took up an entire wall. There were framed pulp art posters on its opposite. Big-breasted women fighting off saber-toothed tigers and one-eyed Nazis. Nice work if you could get it.

Dead fish floated in an expensive aquarium.

“Oh no,” Foster said, dismayed by the tiny colored bodies littering the greenish water like flower petals. “They must have starved.”

Tiny came to stare at the tank with him. He sniffed and pulled out an enormous handkerchief, blowing his nose mightily. Then he scooped his big hand in the tank and ladled out the dead fish, dropping them in an ashtray. “Nobody told me about them,” he told Foster.

Tiny was great with animals, always trying to bring stray cats and dogs home, returning baby birds to nests. Gentle giant stuff.

Nick checked the windows. Watson had invested in his own security measures. No one was getting in that way.

“It seems secure,” Nick told Foster, who watched him with those big brown eyes.

Tiny stared at him too. “Locks don’t stop ghosts,” he said.

“Not you too,” Nick growled. “Is everyone here nuts?”

“I’ve seen him,” Tiny said. “I saw him. The ghost in the yellow socks.”

“Where did you see him?” Foster asked with quick interest.

Tiny’s eyes shifted evasively. He shrugged. “I see him sometimes.”

“Was he dead when you saw him?” Nick asked, always practical.

Tiny looked confused. “He’s a ghost,” he explained.

Foster said with a casualness that would only deceive Simple Simon, “Tiny, I wanted to ask you something. Do you know who has keys to my apartment besides you and Mrs. Mac?”

“You do,” Tiny said helpfully.

Shaking his head, Nick turned away to investigate the bedroom.

“But anyone else?” Foster persisted. “Has anyone ever asked to borrow your keys?”

Tiny looked scared. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

His eyes shifted uneasily back and forth.

“Who borrowed your keys?” Foster pressed.

More recalibrating of the eyes. Tiny licked his mouth and began to hum.

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” Foster said. He smiled encouragingly. “I won’t tell.”

“No one,” Tiny said, and shrugged his big shoulders.

Nick watched this mild-mannered interrogation with increasing exasperation. It was obvious the big man was lying. He knew his own instinct to shove the guy against a wall was not a good one, but he felt pressured leaving town with this still unresolved.

“I lost them,” Tiny announced suddenly. “Mrs. MacQueen yelled at me.”

“You lost them?”

Tiny’s left eye started twitching in response to Nick’s tone.

“When did you lose them?” Foster persisted.

Tiny shrugged. “I don’t remember. “A while back.”

“Yesterday? The day before yesterday?” Nick couldn’t conceal his impatience with the pair of them.

Tiny shook his head. “Mrs. Mac found them again.”

“When?”

Tiny looked at Nick like he was the moron. “I don’t remember,” he said slowly and clearly.

* * * * *

“Do you need a ride to the airport?” Foster asked after Nick insisted on helping him carry a couple of boxes of his belongings downstairs.

“Nah.” Nick set Foster’s keys where he couldn’t miss them on top of the dining room table. “I’m flying out of Burlington International. I’ll leave my truck at the airport.”

Foster nodded. He looked a little forlorn, more so because he was trying hard to keep a stiff upper lip.

Nick hesitated. “You’ll be fine, kid. When I get back…” He didn’t finish it because really his responsibility was finished here. He did not want to develop this acquaintanceship; the kid was not his type. In more ways than one.

Foster said quickly, “Oh, I’m set now. Thanks for all your help.”

“One thing for damn sure, MacQueen needs to change the locks on all these rooms. Those missing keys mean anybody could get into these rooms anytime.”

“Maybe Tiny just misplaced them,” Foster offered hopefully.

Nick shook his head. People could be so naive. “It’s kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?” He considered it and said abruptly, “Let’s go talk to MacQueen now.”

“I don’t think I should press my luck,” Foster said. “It kind of undermines my argument for taking Watson’s rooms if they’re not any more secure than my own.”

The unexpected logic of this surprised Nick. He said, “Well, I’m going to talk to her. I don’t like the idea of someone waltzing into my place while I’m gone.”

He started downstairs and found Foster with him. “I thought you weren’t going to press your luck?”

Foster grinned that funny little grin. “I’m lending moral support.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Sure.”

A tinny voice drifted up to them.

“U.S. District Judge Frank Facey found Mickey ‘The Chop’ Cimbelli, alleged head of the Martinelli crime family, competent to stand trial. Defense attorneys argued that Cimbelli, who is charged with four murders, as well as conspiracy, extortion, and various other crimes related to labor payoffs, is mentally unfit to stand trial…”

In the lobby, Jane Bridger was pacing the hardwood floors and scowling at the news blaring from the old-fashioned radio. The oversize, defiantly orange sweater she wore made for an interesting contrast with her red hair and brightened the dark room with its faded furnishings.

Spotting them, she demanded, “Have you two any idea where Tiny is? There’s a monsoon coming our way, and my windows are already leaking.”

“He was headed downstairs fifteen minutes ago,” Foster said. “Maybe you missed him.”

“Not possible. I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes trying to catch him.”

“That’s weird,” Foster said. “He showed us Watson’s rooms and then…”

He looked at Nick, who said, “It wasn’t my turn to watch him.”

Jane protested, “But where could he be? You’re sure he’s not still up there?”

“We’ve been back and forth between floors about a dozen times. We’d have seen him.”

“He probably took off early,” Nick said.

“He didn’t leave through the front door, then,” Jane Bridger said.

“So he went out the back.”

“If that’s the case, he’s going to drag his butt back again,” Jane said. “The wallpaper in my apartment is starting to peel.”

“Maybe he’s downstairs,” Foster suggested.

Talk about a tempest in a teapot, as Nick’s granny used to say. Foster seemed content to stand there with the Bridger dame discussing all the possible places Tiny could have disappeared; Nick lost patience and peeled off, heading for MacQueen’s fortress. He relieved his general annoyance by pounding heavily on the scratched door, although he doubted if even those blows could be heard over the blasting TV.

Behind him he could hear Bridger saying, “He’s a freak. I’m all for handi-capable, but there’s a limit. Remember when he tried to keep that rat in a cage in the basement? A pet rat! And MacQueen’s so-called dogs kept going after it? I think the rat was bigger than both dogs put together.”