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Junior found the brick building off 47th Street and Laurel Hill Boulevard easily enough. It was to his great advantage that the Spences’ residence was a basement apartment accessible from the street. A decorative iron railing marked the unremarkable space. Unfortunately, the lock was not so easy to pick. He’d have to break it. What did he care, so long as he could get in and out without detection? He pulled on a pair of tight-fitting gloves, and after a quick glance to the street above, he busted the glass next to the door. He reached inside and twisted the lock, then pulled out his hand, scraping the inside of his wrist just above the glove for his trouble. Shit.
Quickly wrapping his wound with a white linen handkerchief, he turned the knob and slipped inside.
The dark apartment was illuminated only by high, narrow windows that showed white-painted walls and an array of a child’s artwork, proudly framed and displayed throughout a small living area. The couch and two chairs didn’t look all that old. Charity had received a considerable payoff from Victor Montgomery after all. As one of the estate attorneys, he should know. There was a large cabinet for a radio, but no television—a fad that would likely never take off.
The color scheme throughout the space was entirely feminine with its soft ivory and bluish hues.
Junior went through a swinging door that led into an immaculately clean, tiny kitchen. He went down a tiny hallway that led to two small bedrooms.
Stepping into the first one, he felt as if he’d been sucked into a doll’s house. The bed was pristinely made, and in the corner, was an even smaller bed adorned with a ruffled pink coverlet. Shuddering, he forced himself farther into the room and strode to a wardrobe. There were two rows of hangings, one for a taller person, the other for someone considerably shorter.
After a quick cursory look, he moved swiftly to the vanity. There, on the top, was a slip of paper telling the recipient to meet at the burial grounds at the Trinity Church. He stuffed the note in his pocket started a more methodical search.
Everything he saw showed how much the occupants cared for the child that lived there. Each drawer he opened reinforced his initial impression, giving Junior more insight to other possible strategies if he was unable to locate where Charity had hidden her proof of his past.
He found nothing in the wardrobe, beneath the bed, under or behind or in the dresser’s drawers. Nothing taped to the backside of the mirror. He dumped the contents of the drawers uncaring of broken bottles, fragile knickknacks, or delicate fabrics, looking for hidden mechanisms.
His search turned up nothing. Absolutely nothing. He pulled to his full height, his simmering fury boiled to the surface and scanned the room, hardly able to see through the red haze blurring his vision. It landed on a child’s toy box. He stormed over to it, and jerked it up and scattered it contents onto the floor, then searched every inch inside and outside of the box. Nothing. He wanted to scream out his frustration but didn’t dare. Instead, he lashed out with his foot, kicking a miniature version of a baby’s crib, shattering wood into splintered pieces.
A second bedroom held even less than the previous one. The small bathroom—again—held nothing. Nothing in this cheap apartment. Nothing. Damn you, Charity. Where is it? He forced himself to take a deep breath in a futile attempt to slow his pounding heart. It took several. He looked down at his gloved hands and realized that nowhere had he left anything that could indicate he’d been there.
Of course, what would it matter? It wasn’t as if he worried about going to jail. His father owned one of the most diverse, most successful law firms in the city. But his father would not be happy. But the thought of his father cutting him out of his due sickened him. He needed to fly the coop before one of the neighbors caught him snooping around.
This had been a monstrous waste of time. He slammed out the door with force and stomped up the steps to street level.
“They ain’t home, sir.”
The words jerked Junior from his fogged fury, pulling him up. “Uh, yeah. So I found.” He touched the tip of his newsboy cap to a young boy, then adjusted it, carefully shielding his face. Then nodding sharply, he hurried on his way.
