I typed the address Tommy gave us into my phone.
“Now I know why I couldn’t figure out where she lived,” I said. “She doesn’t own the place at this address, Charles Peters does.”
“Charles could be her father; they share the same last name.”
“Let’s stop by,” I said to Nick.
“And do what?”
“Take a look.”
“I doubt you’ll find her there; she’s on the run.”
I smiled.
“Oh no you don’t.”
“Come on,” I said. “I work for myself, so guess what? I don’t need permission from you or your boss. If she’s not there anyway, what’s the harm…who’s going to know?”
He pointed a finger at himself.
I joined my wrists and held them out. “Why, Detective Calhoun, do you plan to arrest me?”
He stayed quiet.
“Turn here,” I said.
“This isn’t a good idea.”
Nick was far from perfect, but he tried his best to uphold the law, and I respected him for it. It wouldn’t be right not to give him an out.
“Let’s go home, and I’ll do this later.”
“If you mean on your own, I don’t think so,” he said. “You go in, I’ll keep watch. Let me know if you need me.”
“Will do.”
“How do you plan on getting into her apartment anyway?”
I kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t you worry; the less you know, the better.”
There was only one person seated at the front desk when I entered, and his eyes were glued to a device on his lap. He was around seventeen and had shiny, long hair like a girl on a Pantene commercial. With his eyes sealed shut, he lifted his fingers in the air and whipped his head from side-to-side, strumming to the beat of his air guitar. When the guitar solo was over he opened his eyes and gasped when he saw me standing there.
“I wondered if you could do me a favor,” I said. “I left my wallet inside my sister’s place today, and I seem to have lost the key card she gave me as well.”
He removed his earbuds. “Who’s your sister?”
“Bridget Peters,” I said. “Unit 431.”
“I’m not supposed to give another card out without her permission.”
“You could call her,” I said.
I gambled on the fact that she wouldn’t answer.
“I guess so.”
He dialed the number and waited. After about thirty seconds, he put the receiver down.
“No answer?” I said.
He shook his head.
“She showed some houses today, and one of her listings was out of range. I have no idea when to expect her.”
“Can’t you wait until she gets home?” he said.
“I’m headed out to dinner with some friends in a few minutes,” I said. “And well––”
“You can’t go without your wallet.”
“Right,” I said.
I leaned over the counter and looked at the device sitting on his knee.
“Oh wow, I’ve always wanted to get one of those,” I said. “Is that the new one?”
“Yeah.”
“I heard you can rent movies on it. That must be nice. I expect you sit here all night in this place without much of a distraction.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “Do you rent movies on it?”
“All the time.”
“And you don’t think the screen is too small?” I said.
He pulled it from under the desk.
“Wanna see?”
He handed it to me, and I put the earbuds in. I cared nothing about the size of the screen, but I pretended to be engrossed in the fight scene on the screen anyway. When I felt enough time had passed, I gave it back to him.
“Thanks, I need to get one of those,” I said.
He ran a plastic card through a machine and handed it to me. “Here, go get your wallet.”
I stepped into the elevator, and my cell phone vibrated.
“How’s it going in there?” Nick said.
“I’m in.”
“Let me know if you need me.”
“Will do.”
“Remember what we agreed on,” he said. “This conversation never happened. Scratch that. This night never happened.”
“10-4 over and out,” I said in a low whisper even though the floor was vacant, and I was the only one in sight.
Bridget’s place was downright pristine. There wasn’t a speck of dust, dirt, or grime anywhere. The walls in every room were painted bright white, and I was afraid to touch anything for fear I would ruin the sterile environment.
In the living room an inlaid bookcase contained a small DVD collection in a wide array of black and whites and about twenty movies starring the late Marilyn Monroe. The room itself contained one picture: a single photo of Marilyn from her early days when she was still known as Norma Jeane. She sat on an oversized green ball with a funny looking starfish prop next to her, and her hair was a rusty shade of red and not the lustrous blond she was known for later in life.
The shower stall in the bathroom was dry. Bridget hadn’t used it, at least not in the last several hours. On the nightstand in her room a single photo displayed a girl with her arms draped around Tommy. She had light brown hair that was straight and went to her shoulders and greenish-colored eyes that sparkled. She looked happy. On the bed was a duffle bag half full of clothes. I rifled through it and found two pairs of jeans, a few shirts, socks, a pair of Skechers and several pairs of non-granny-style panties. The side pocket contained some travel-size shampoo and conditioner bottles, a bag of makeup, and a toothbrush and toothpaste.
Given the methodical order of Bridget’s condo, to leave the bag didn’t suit her personality. Questions flooded my mind. Why had she left the bag behind, what was her tie to the murder, and most important: Why was she on the run?