Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(34)

No.

What about sounds, or commotions? Maybe a disturbance in the middle of the night?

No, sir. And they would be woken up by such a thing. Didn’t sleep so well these days.

What about new friends or acquaintances they’d recently seen with Flora? Or any inquiries about her apartment?

Well, except for the building inspector . . .

D.D. and Keynes both drew up, exchanged a glance.

“Building inspector?” D.D. spoke up.

“Day before. Or maybe the day before the day before. Time gets a little confusing,” James began, looking at his wife.

“Tuesday,” his wife provided. “The building inspector came on Tuesday. Said our place was overdue for review. All private rental units have to be inspected by the city every five years, you know. Why, it’s been ages since anyone’s visited us. Guess we really do lose track of time!”

“You showed him around the entire building? All the units?” Keynes asked.

“James showed him around the outside, the fire escape. But inside the units, well, navigating the stairs at our age . . .” Mary smiled apologetically. “We gave him keys to the units. Asked him to please knock first to alert the renters. He wasn’t gone long at all. Did his thing, then came down to tell us all looked well. We’d get our updated certificate shortly.”

“Wait,” D.D. interjected. “You have keys to all the units? Even Flora Dane’s apartment?”

James seemed insulted by her tone. “Of course. This is still our house. We are entitled to access. Plus, for the sake of maintenance or, heaven forbid, something like a fire. Our renters, they’re very busy. It’s easier if we can just go in, do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. We’ve never had any complaints or problems, not even from Flora. We respect her privacy, of course. We understand.”

The way he said the last word implied enough. That they knew Flora’s history, and were familiar with why she felt a need for extra security.

“Was Flora home for the building inspection?” D.D. asked.

“I don’t know, dear,” Mary answered.

“Did you tell her about the inspection? Mention it when you saw her again?”

“No, I don’t believe we’ve run into her since it happened.”

“What did the building inspector look like?” Keynes asked.

“Oh, he was a nice-looking young man. Dressed a little casual for my tastes—tan slacks, a blue dress shirt, but then no one wears suits anymore. He had ID. I’m not naive, you know. I did make him show it.”

“What about his size?” D.D. spoke up more softly. “Big guy? Small? Young, old?”

“Oh, he was very official-looking. Clean-shaven. Short dark hair. And big. Strong. Like a fireman. He looked like a very capable young man.” Mary smiled brightly.

A big man. A strong man. Who’d been handed over the keys to Flora’s apartment by her well-intentioned landlords. D.D. looked over at Keynes. Could tell from the expression on his face he’d just connected the same dots she had. Such as, all the best locks in the world couldn’t offer protection against a man with a key. Flora took pride in her preparations. And yet, if their suspicions were correct, her attacker had already been one step ahead.

Keynes rose to standing, offering his hand, finalizing their departure.

Out in the foyer, phone in hand, it only took D.D. a matter of minutes to confirm what both she and Keynes already knew: Boston’s Inspectional Services Department hadn’t sent anyone to this building in the past few days, let alone had anything scheduled for anytime soon. The building-inspector guise had been a ruse, a very effective means of gaining access to Flora’s keys in order to make a master copy.

“I’ll call the crime scene techs,” D.D. said quietly.

They headed back upstairs to wait in silence.





Chapter 16


I’M AWAKE.

My head jerks up, my eyes pop open, but I’m immediately disoriented by the fact I can’t see. Black. Thick and impenetrable. I feel a sense of urgency. Fight or flight. I gotta fight. Except . . .

I can’t see. Not at all. Up, down, left, right, I have no idea. I bulge my eyes as if that will make a difference.

Then it comes to me.

I’m in a room. I’m sprawled upon a bare mattress, wearing some kind of silky nightgown. My arms are bare, and cool metal bracelets encircle both my wrists. Handcuffs. I’ve been handcuffed, arms in front, hands at my waist. Furthermore, the manacles appear attached to a lead line of some sort, maybe rope, maybe chain. But I only have to give the slightest tug with my wrists to feel the corresponding resistance. I’m not just bound; I’m tethered to the ceiling, or a high spot on the wall.

As for the dark . . . I blink my eyes. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. My eyes are open. There’s no blindfold around my head. It’s the room itself. Windowless and, most likely, painted pitch-black, until not a single ray of ambient light can penetrate the gloom.

I wonder if I’m underground, and despite my best intentions, my heart rate accelerates, my breath growing ragged. Not underground. Not buried, please, please, please.

And for a moment, a split instant of time, other images come to me. Scenes from the past, another lifetime, another nightmare ago. I want to yell, scream, and beg. Bang my fists against wooden walls, kick my heels wildly.