eleven

The building on Guerrero was a once-proud Victorian with bow front windows. It had since been broken up into six small units and fallen into disrepair. I drove around the block several times before I managed to find a parking spot a few doors down. The shops on the main street were long closed, and the neighborhood streets deserted. I shivered and let the car heater run another minute to warm up before I left the comfort of my little metal box. There was something about this chore that made my stomach go into knots. Rummaging through a dead woman’s possessions was bad enough, but what if I found something that implicated Moira in a crime? Drug-related or otherwise? Should I even tell Geneva? She said she’d leave it to my discretion. It was tacit approval to do what I thought best, but I really didn’t like the idea of searching a dead woman’s apartment, much less risk the police finding out.

I climbed out of the car, careful to lock it behind me, and approached the long stairway leading to the front door. The wind had died down and now fog danced around the streetlights. It was eerily quiet. No lights shone from any of the windows. I hoped all the residents were safely tucked up in their beds. I climbed the cracked granite stairs to the entrance. The weathered door stood ajar, listing slightly on its hinges. I grasped the handle and twisted it, but the lock mechanism was out of commission. Inside, a bare overhead lightbulb hung from a chain. It cast a meager glow down the long corridor, cannibalized from a once grand entryway. The hallway smelled of dirty cat litter, moldy vegetables, and cigarette smoke. I followed the corridor to the end, and stopped at the last door on the right.

I slipped the key Geneva had given me into the lock. It offered no resistance. The door opened immediately. Had it not been locked? I caught a slight scuffling sound and cringed. I hoped no furry long-
tailed creatures were waiting inside for me. I reached around the doorway and felt along the wall. My fingers hit the switch. A rusting chandelier with two bulbs missing illuminated the one large room that was both Moira’s living room and bedroom. I tested the key with the door open, locking and then unlocking it. Now I felt the resistance. The door had definitely been unlocked. I stepped inside and shut it behind me, making sure the lock was secure. Was it possible someone had been here before me and left without locking the door? Or had Moira simply been careless?

I had to make sure I was alone in the apartment. There were no hiding places in this sparsely furnished room. I checked under the bed just to be certain and opened the closet, terrified that someone or something might jump out at me. The closet was narrow and filled with a jumble of clothing, half of it on the floor. I walked into the kitchenette and spotted a doorway that led to the back stairs and the yard. I tested the handle on the door. Locked. I checked the space between the refrigerator and the wall, and then the shower stall in the bathroom. I was alone. I’d been holding my breath and finally let it out in a great sigh.

I started with the drawers in the kitchen and checked the counter, looking for any notes with names or phone numbers. There was nothing. The kitchen was surprisingly clean, as if Moira had never used the room. Inside the refrigerator were a few condiments, a half-eaten unwrapped apple, and a loaf of whole-wheat bread. I quickly rummaged through the drawers and the freezer to make sure there were no bundles of cash disguised as frozen meat.

The main room housed a collection of hand-me-downs and broken furniture, ripped curtains, and piles of clothing in various spots around the floor. Had Moira really lived like this? I heaved up the mattress, first on one side and then the other, making sure nothing was hidden between it and the box spring. Under the bed, I spotted only dust bunnies. I pulled open each of the bureau drawers, checked their contents, and pulled them all the way out to make sure nothing was behind them. Then I opened the small drawer in the spindly nightstand. Amid a loose pile of clutter was a dark blue velvet box embossed with the letter R in cursive gold script. Could it be from Rochecault? I was fairly certain it was—Rochecault is an infamously expensive jeweler on Maiden Lane downtown. But how could Moira have shopped there? Was this what Geneva had meant when she said her sister seemed to have a lot of money to spend?

I opened the box and gasped. An amazing bracelet, heavy with blue stones in varying colors, rested inside. The setting had the slightly matte, industrial sheen of platinum. Moira couldn’t possibly have afforded this. Shoving the box into a side pocket of my purse, I decided I was definitely not leaving this for the police to find. I slid the drawer shut.

I scanned the room. Moira hadn’t been much of a housekeeper, but there wasn’t much furniture to hide things in. I headed for the desk, a rickety affair with two drawers and a computer on top. I clicked and waited a moment. The screen came to life and asked for a password. It would take someone much more talented than I to unearth its secrets. But under a jumble of papers and unopened bills, my eye caught a small black notebook. This looked promising. Perhaps it was an address book that would give us all of Moira’s contacts. I dropped my purse on the floor and reached for the book.

A searing pain shot through my skull. Blinded, I fell to the floor.