The nurse led Ben further into the living room, where his view of Catherine was obstructed.
Ben removed a small notepad from his back pants pocket and began to scribble disinterestedly. “Forgive me for prying,” he said, “but for security reasons, I have no choice. Do I understand that Miss Andrews is here alone at nights?”
“That is … correct,” the nurse said haltingly. “I leave after I see that Miss Andrews is settled for the night.”
“Are you here every day?”
“Yes.” Her left eyebrow rose.
Being too nosy, Ben thought. Slow down and play the game. “Do either of you have any valuable jewelry on the premises?”
The nurse sat down in the love seat facing the sofa. “Miss Andrews has a few pieces. Nothing of great value, I’m sure.”
Ben continued to make notes on his pad. Then, on the pretext of surveying the apartment, he stood up and paced around the living room. “No TV or stereo. Just as well. Burglars love electronic equipment. Easy to take, easy to pawn. Do you have any drugs on the premises?”
The nurse hesitated. “Of course, being a nurse, I have some medications here.”
“What kinds?”
“Nothing of interest to prowlers.”
“You’d be amazed what a dope-starved junkie might be interested in, ma’am. What do you have?”
“Sedatives, tranquilizers, sleeping pills, that sort of thing.” She paused. “Catherine sometimes requires … calming. Nothing illegal, I assure you.”
“I’m sure. Do all the doors here have dead bolts?”
“I’m afraid not. Just ordinary push-button door locks.”
“Unbelievable,” Ben intoned gravely. “I’ll have to make a note. The manager really ought to do something about that. A burglar could be in here and out again with all your valuables in sixty seconds. Piece of cake.”
The nurse shrugged. “There’s not much to take, really.”
Ben continued to pace around the apartment until he had positioned himself in front of the hallway. He raised his voice. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Miss … Andrews, is it?”
The nurse stood immediately. “Could I speak to you privately, Lieutenant?”
Ben strode over to the nurse.
“Lieutenant, Miss Andrews is … not well. Not physically or mentally. I’m sure you’ve surmised the reason she requires the constant care of a nurse. She is not … lucid. She is in a continual depressive state, paranoid, probably schizophrenic. It would be difficult to have a conversation with her and impossible to learn anything. And it could cause considerable trauma to her, you not being a trained professional.”
Ben looked back at the woman in the wicker chair. Asleep with her eyes open, as far as he could tell.
“I understand. I probably have everything I need. But do call the police station if you see anyone or anything suspicious, will you? Ask for Lieutenant Kincaid.”
The nurse nodded her head, not smiling. “I will. What’s that number?”
There was a pause. Ben stuttered. “It’s … it’s in the book. Or dial 911.”
The nurse stared intently at Ben. “You’re very young to be a police lieutenant, aren’t you?”
“I went into the force as soon as I got out of the army,” he said, thinking off the top of his head. “I’ve done my time.”
“I see,” the woman said, without breaking eye contact. “What was your badge number again? In case I should want to contact you.”
“Not necessary,” Ben said, steadily edging toward the door. “Just ask for me by name. Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
36
THERE WAS NO MOON. Ben would have wished for a moon—not a full moon, just enough to see and breathe and feel like the night wasn’t swallowing him whole. Times like this, Ben almost wished he was a smoker. Not for the flavor—just so he would have something to do while waiting. Besides waiting. And waiting.
It began to rain. Not a lot, just a fine mist. He rolled the car windows up, but left a small crack in the window closest to him so he could hear. The windows began to fog, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t turn on the engine to power the windshield wipers or defogger without drawing attention to his parked car. Ben pulled his shirt-sleeve over his hand and wiped clear a circle on the side window. He had to be able to see.
How did that line go? Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives. No kidding, Ben thought. Seven o’clock passed, then eight. Ticktock, ticktock. A mixture of recollection, analysis, and daydreaming trickled through Ben’s head. Maybe the nurse lied. Maybe she stays there all day and all night. Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe she’s the killer. Ticktock, ticktock. Nine o’clock.
At a quarter to ten, the nurse stepped out of the elevator feeding the sunken parking garage of the apartment complex. Her feet clubbed the pavement. She walked through the garage, then stepped into a yellow Nova and started the engine.
Ben waited a full five minutes after she had driven away before he stepped out of his car. A matter of caution, he told himself, but he knew he was really just drumming up the nerve. He hopped a brick wall, walked into the sunken parking garage, and punched the elevator button. He rode the elevator to the seventh floor.
Quietly, taking care not to attract attention, he walked the short distance to apartment 724. He knocked sharply on the door. He knew she wouldn’t answer, but the suburbs in him made him try, just to be polite. He knocked again.
No answer.
He had examined the simple lock earlier, when he was inside. Later he’d driven to a pay phone, called Greg, and had a brief conversation about push-button door locks. It sounded simple enough.
He withdrew the Citibank MasterCard from his wallet and slid it between the edge of the door and the wall, just below the lock. He wedged the card beneath the lower end of the tongue. One sharp slice, and a quiet popping noise told him the lock was sprung. Simple. Most bathrooms were better protected. He stepped into the apartment.
“Hello?”
The apartment was dark except for the light of a single lamp burning in the room at the far end of the hallway. He saw a dark figure moving in the shadows and then, a moment later, she stepped into the hallway.
Ben flipped on the lights. Catherine could not have reacted faster if he had hit her knee with a hammer. She fell back, clutching the wall with one hand. Her eyes expanded to three times their previous size. She breathed with sharp, painful gulps of air.
And yet, she did not scream. She did not run. She stared at him with uncomprehending eyes. She did not seem to recognize him but, after a moment, she did not seem afraid of him either.
Ben took a step closer. He had not meant to startle her. He had to do something fast to put her at ease.
“I’m here to help you,” he said quickly. He wished he could take it back. Sounded like something out of a fairy tale—knight in shining armor here to save the damsel in distress. He took another step closer.
“Daddy?” she asked. She had a high-pitched, uncertain voice, the voice of a child. Ben wondered how many times she used it in the course of a day. Or a week. Or a year. She was wearing a dingy blue bathrobe, tattered and pocked with holes and dried food stains. She pulled the robe tightly around her body.
“No,” he answered quietly. “I’m not Daddy. But I’m your friend—I want to help. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, so I let myself in.”
She stared at him, puzzled, as if he were speaking in a foreign language. Her initial rush began to fade; her eyes seemed droopy and tired.
“I was here this afternoon. Remember?” He was standing directly in front of her now. Her dark hair was stringy and matted; it hadn’t been washed for weeks. Her pale face was smudged and dirty.