Friday’s apartment building was modern. Clean. But, like many new buildings, already falling into disrepair. The rugs were prematurely worn. The cheap light fixtures were speckled with rust. The lobby mirror was blotched, branched where the silver backing had worn away.
Friday unlocked her mailbox, took out a handful of letters and catalogs, locked the mailbox, and was leafing through the mail as she crossed the lobby when a shadowy figure slipped from behind a dying potted palm: Plante.
“Linda,” Plante said.
Startled, Friday dropped the mail.
* * *
Harry stood at the open door to the apartment next to Marian Turner’s place. Marian Turner’s neighbor, a woman in her mid-fifties named Sharon Lahey, wore a sweatsuit and was wiping her hands on a small blue-checked towel. Her apartment, behind her, gave off a smell of fried onions.
“So,” Lahey said, “the second, third time I’m out running and some guy gets in my slipstream, figuring he’s got a free look during his run, I decide the hell with giving a show to these yo-yos and I get a NordicTrack.”
“Your neighbor…,” Harry said.
“So,” Lahey continued, “I figure, I’m running in place in my own home, what’s to worry?”
“The last time you saw her…,” Harry said.
“What I forgot,” Lahey said, “is the gas man, the electric man, the mailman, you.…”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” Harry said, “but—”
“Morning, night,” Lahey said, “doesn’t matter, the minute I put on my sweats, the doorbell rings.…”
“Ms. Lahey,” Harry said, “this is important.”
“Is there a light,” Lahey said, “an alarm somewhere, goes off: Lahey’s in her sweats?”
“I’m investigating—” Harry began.
“Garter belts, I can understand,” Lahey said. “But what is it, this thing about men and sweatpants?”
“Your neighbor,” Harry said, “Marian Turner—her answering machine’s got a week’s worth of messages.”
“Maybe she took a vacation,” Lahey said.
“When you go away,” Harry said, “don’t you call in for your messages?”
Lahey shrugged.
“These kids,” Lahey said. “Move in, move out. Odd hours. Who can keep track?”
“She didn’t say anything about a business trip?” Harry asked. “A vacation? A family emergency?”
“Never talked to her,” Lahey said. “Hardly ever saw her.”
“Anyone visit her recently?” Harry asked.
Lahey shook her head no.
“Far as I can tell,” she said, “she’s got nobody.”
“Friends?” Harry asked. “Family?”
“Except for the carpenter,” she said. “Guy, mid-thirties, coveralls, impressive red boots. Should of asked where he got them. Working in her apartment a week ago Saturday. His truck was parked out front all morning. Pillette Construction.”