People scurry home
through red, yellow, maroon leaves
to watch Tonight’s News—Szan
I’m eager to get to the little slip of paper burning a hole in my jacket pocket but there’s something I want to check out first. Though I’m not far from the station, I don’t want to create the wrong impression by showing up there every day. I’m only a few blocks from the Kaffeteria and if I go now, I can get onto the computer before the afternoon rush.
No need to hack into official police files, even if I could. The Paradise City Crier has plenty on the theft at Facets. The first article quotes Marvin Overshort who reports the unaccountable absence of “several loose and set stones.” Included among them is a unique “marquise-cut emerald ring.” It sounds expensive, although in the story Overshort is vague about its value. A follow-up report includes a statement from Overshort as well as a Facets employee who first discovered the theft, and from neighboring businesses, the janitorial service, and the Canterbury’s roving security officer. None noticed any sign of a break-in. “Police maintained” to have questioned pawnbrokers to find out if the jewels had hit the streets. Sounds like a thorough-enough investigation, but the goods were indeed never recovered. There are no reports of anyone being arrested, much less charged.
Like the narratives I’ve written on my cases, the theft is reported in language that’s meant to communicate facts, not opinions. Still, there’s always more than what’s in black and white—suspicions that couldn’t be proved, impressions that couldn’t be documented. By reading between the lines, the astute observer can see where the investigation was headed. The “pawnbrokers” that Grady questioned were probably street people or known fences pressed into service as informants. A subject re-interviewed or a location revisited shows who or what was under the microscope. The reporter interviewed only one person more than once: the complainant, Marvin Overshort.
Hector Waltann isn’t even mentioned. No wonder the theft didn’t come up in my initial query about Hector. Apparently Overshort was the one who was really in charge. That could explain why Hector’s name didn’t mean anything to Grady. He dealt with Overshort.
Just as when I spoke with him, in the reporter’s story Overshort seems curiously dismissive, stating the loss was of no great importance and that he fully expects insurance to take care of it.
That done, I hustle on over to Hector’s condo. Shays’ Landing, in the crook of the river’s elbow, is a newer development built to appeal to yuppies and comfortably-set empty-nesters who don’t want yard work.
Even though it’s on a cul-de-sac, bounded on one side by the river and gated, we get a fair number of intruder calls from this place. Walls are no real deterrents to thieves who find a way over, under, around, or through. Not even this one, designed to mimic stockade fencing. Instead, the so-called security gives a false sense of safety to the residents who then get lax about locking up.
The development’s office is housed in a model. For accessibility to the public, the entrance is outside the gate. In the model’s foyer, a well-groomed woman in a tailored pink wool suit rises from behind an antique writing desk, crosses the cushiony sand-colored carpet, and greets me with a pink-lipsticked smile.
“Hi, welcome to Shays’ Landing. Were you interested in one of our units?” she asks.
“Why yes, I am.” That, in any event, is no lie.
“How lucky for us,” she says with a smile that is part flirtation, part salesmanship.
“One of your residents interested me in the place. Hector Waltann?”
“Ah, Hector ... yes. Is he on a business trip or on vacation or something?”
“I wouldn’t know. We’re not that well acquainted. Why?”
Her smile loses some of its brightness and she taps a long polished nail against another. “It’s just that I haven’t seen him lately. A week, maybe longer.”
“You think something’s happened to him?”
She flushes slightly and stands a little taller. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure he’s just out of town. He should have had his mail held. His lock box is crammed and the mailman’s started leaving his mail with me.”
“I could take it, give it to him when I see him.”
“How sweet of you. But I probably should hold onto it.” The leasing agent tugs the hem of her jacket and squares her shoulders. “Well, you said you were interested in our units.”
“Hector made his sound very attractive. He invited me over but I’ve never had a chance to take him up on it. I wonder if I could see it now?” I give her my most appealing smile.
“Oh, I don’t think I could do that. Why don’t I show you a unit just like his?” She pulls on a trench coat and unlocks the access door to the complex’s inner sanctum. Her pink high heels click loudly on rain-darkened brick walkways.
In a few years, the saplings they planted to replace the old trees they chopped down will mature and the ground cover will fill in the bulldozed meadow. Then the place will look as if it’s been here for decades—if the buildings last that long. The brick veneered and dormered one-, two-, and three-bedroom townhouses mimic the architecture of old colonials but I doubt they have the same staying power.
“Naturally we have a pool, spa, a clubhouse, sport courts, all reserved for the residents,” the leasing agent says. “But here’s our signature feature: the view.” She points to the river, visible through a rear gate. Ah yes, the river. I remember when the developers first narrowed the riverbed and shored up the bank with concrete retaining walls. Conservationists and environmentalists protested.
“The main security gate keeps solicitors out, not to mention the criminal element,” she says. “You’ll find it’s very private here. Our residents mind their own business. Why you could go for weeks and never speak to a soul.”
As if to prove it, people coming home from work look neither to the right nor left as they stream from their covered parking spaces to their respective warrens. Doors close and the blue light of television flicks on behind curtained windows.
“You don’t think, maybe if neighbors knew and looked out for each other, we’d have less crime?” I ask.
The leasing agent looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Crime? We don’t have any crime here. I told you, it’s gated.”
“Ah.”
The vaulted ceilings of the one-bedroom unit she shows me draw the eyes up. Nevertheless I notice that the floors aren’t quite level and walls aren’t straight. Faux leaded-glass windows, cultured marble bathroom vanities with gilded faucets, and granite-like kitchen counter tops create a luxurious look that is only skin-deep.
I ask her if I could walk around the grounds on my own.
“But you haven’t seen the upstairs.” She grins. “Tell you what. See me before you leave. I’ll show you the bedroom.”
When she’s out of sight, I make straight for Hector’s unit.
A compact concrete walkway leads through a pocket yard of new winter rye and baby junipers. A short narrow flight of steps presents callers directly to the front door. Too vulnerable for my taste. I take up quarter stance as far to the side of the handkerchief-sized landing as the wrought iron railing will allow, reach across, and knock. No answer.
I jiggle the door handle. Locked.
I press my ear to the door. It’s quiet inside which only piques my curiosity. Maybe I’d find something that would answer all the questions. So far this is my best lead.
A striking young woman in workout gear emerges from the unit next door. Halfway down her stairs she glances over at me and pauses, halted in mid-stride like a window shopper caught by a tempting display. I give my best impersonation of an impromptu visitor frustrated to find the resident not home, and she moves on.
Maybe there’s a spare key. I check for any more uncharacteristically curious residents, then run my hand around the door frame. Flower pots flanking the door hold plants that have shriveled from neglect but do not hide a key.
Perhaps there’s a way in around the back. The rear entry is at ground level at the end of a yard a little larger than the one in front. I sidle up to the door and wait for any sign my presence has been detected. A thorough survey of the surroundings reassures me I’m alone and can’t be seen from the windows of the adjoining units.
I knock, listen, and try the door again but there’s no answer and the door is still locked. A search of the few places to hide a spare key turns up nothing. With management relying so heavily on the vaunted security gate, they’ve probably skimped on the doors and locks. Sure enough, the door itself is thin steel, cheaper and flimsier than solid wood, and there is no deadbolt, just an entry lockset. It would be easy to break in, no special skills required. Only the most amateur thief would bother picking the lock; most would simply kick it in.
It’s true that while nobody has seen Hector recently, the only one besides Sister Clyde who seems the least bit concerned about him is Facets’ gemologist, Heidi Quince. But what if he’s in trouble? He could be hurt or sick and who would know? Certainly not his bitter wife, absentee son, or blowhard business associate. Heidi Quince seemed too intimidated by Overshort to investigate, and Sister Clyde didn’t know enough to get this far. That’s why she asked me.
I want in so badly I can taste it. My conscience doesn’t stand a chance against my craving to know what’s inside. It’s never a serious contest; even as I debate with myself, my right heel takes aim at the lock. My left leg protests the strain louder than my scruples but I have already felt the lock give. Two more quick kicks defeat it.
I open the door. A powerful stench assaults my nose.