Sixteen

Kate and I cleaned up from our meal.

She held up the kitchen trash bag. “It’s so full already I can’t believe it. I’ll run the trash out. Where did you say the chute was again?”

“I’ll show you,” I said, leading her to the back door of the apartment. We each clutched a bag of trash in our hands as we walked through the building’s dim hallway.

The sound of heels clicking in the stairwell was not a normal sound here. Most people took the elevator. So, as the noise erupted, Kate gaped my way and shrugged. But when the stairwell door opened, it was the blonde Jean Harlow look-alike who appeared, wearing a shimmering pink dress and silver heels. She was out of breath and gasping for air.

“Hey!” I said. “Stay right there, please!”

She was surprised to see me. Her hands flew up as she shook her head and glanced around me before she turned back down the stairwell. What was she seeking? Was she searching for someone or something? Her lilac scent trailed after her.

“I’ll take the stairs,” I said to Kate. “You take the elevator.”

Kate nodded.

“I think we’ve got her,” I said, pushing open the door.

Kate rushed down the hallway to the elevator. She was muttering terms of disbelief as she went.

I nearly flew down the stairs. Fourteen floors. What was fourteen floors?

I stopped momentarily to see if I could hear the look-alike’s heels clicking. But it was silent. Had she slipped out onto another floor? How could she have gotten into the building?

But then again, I’d gotten into the building for several days with no questions asked.

But I had a key.

Did she know someone in the building?

Was she living here herself ?

I tried to listen.

Deadly silent. She was gone. There was no way to find her.

But maybe Kate had better luck?

I continued down the stairs, alert to sound, smell, anything pointing me in the look-alike’s direction.

I was convinced she was stalking me. But why?

And how did this all add up? Were there connections I wasn’t making? What had Justine been trying to tell me about the Jean Harlow kooks? I’d assumed she meant collectors like Chad Walters, and maybe some Hollywood types and even Severn Hartwell. It never entered my mind that she might have been talking about someone like my beautiful stalker.

My thighs and calves were burning by the time I reached the small landing on the bottom floor. There was an open door leading outside, a different one than the back door I’d used. I poked my head out and strained my eyes. No blonde bombshell-types to be found.

I walked around the building to the front entry way, where Kate stood chatting with the doorman. Her arms were flailing wildly as the man slowly shook his head. From this tableau, I gathered she hadn’t had any luck either.

“What kind of a place is this, that someone could sneak in through the back door?” Kate said.

“We don’t know that’s what happened,” I said as I approached her. “She could still be in the building. She could live here.”

The doorman, nonplussed, shook his head. “I think I’d know if someone looking like Jean Harlow lived here.”

“Let’s check with management. Maybe they can give us a list of names of people who live here,” I said.

“Against policy,” the doorman said.

“I should think it’s against policy to allow people to wander the stairwells in the middle of the day. The stairwell’s outside door was propped open. That’s a security breach,” I said.

“Please,” the doorman said, “calm down.” He glanced behind me at a stiff-faced management-looking person. The irony of my situation was not lost on me even as I pursued this.

“What seems to be the problem?” the manager asked, eyeballing us. Our clothes powdered in dust from cleaning.

I explained what happened.

“She most certainly must be a resident, or was here visiting,” he replied.

“But the back door, you know, near the stairwell was open,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Let me check into this further and get back to you. We sometimes have vendors who enter through that door. But they should be closing it behind them.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Kate and I turned toward the elevator. She pushed the button. We stood out in the beautiful lobby. But it wasn’t as if the residents all walked around in evening gowns, especially not on a Saturday afternoon. A few women walked by us wearing sundresses. Another group of women wore nice jeans and flowy shirts. But Kate and I wore old jeans and T-shirts—not Kate’s usual style at all. At least not since she’d made the change.

I’d been staying here a week now and was beginning to get a feel for the general population—most of whom were like Justine, coming from old money and not interested in showing off.

The elevator dinged when we reached the fourteenth floor. It opened to a foyer that was a part of Justine’s apartment, but there was another door to open to actually get inside.

That door was wide open.

“Did we leave the door open?” Kate asked.

“We didn’t leave from this door.”

“No, I mean earlier. Did we?” Her voice quivered.

I’m sure she knew the answer. No. We’d not left the door open. Either someone was inside, or had been.

I started to forge ahead to see what was going on, but Kate pulled me back. “Someone might be in there. I think we should call security. Or Den. Or both.”

“And say what? The door is open and we think someone may be inside?” I asked. It sounded ridiculous. I walked forward, but Kate’s strong arms held me back.

“I can’t let you do that, my friend.” She pulled out her cell phone from her back pocket. “Call security.”