Girls Like Us(24)

“Isn’t this 97 Main Street? I have the lease agreement here.” I open my purse and withdraw a folder.

“He pays the rent all right. I just don’t see much of him.”

“Well, if he wasn’t there, who was?”

“Not sure I see how that’s any of your business.”

“My father is dead, and I’m the sole beneficiary and the executor of his will. So if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me in and we can discuss this privately.”

The door shuts, and for a second, I wonder if Lester Simms is off to call the police. But then I hear the deadbolt chain slide open, and the door creaks on its hinges and the dogs click their nails on the floor in excitement. As I step inside, one of them rears up and places its paws on my midsection. It’s a big animal, with a muzzle the size of a horse’s, and the force of its full body weight nearly knocks me on my ass.

Lester grabs the dog by the leash and gives it a firm yank. “No, Brutus,” he chides, so sharply that the dog cowers in response. “Sorry about that. He doesn’t bite, just a little excitable, especially before his morning walk. Come in. Ignore the mess.”

He gestures at a small wooden table in the kitchen. “You want some coffee? It’s made.”

“Sure, thanks.”

“How do you take it?”

“Just black is fine.”

He nods and pours us each a mug. “Sorry to hear about your dad. When did he pass?”

“About ten days ago.”

“He was a cop, right?”

“Suffolk County PD. Homicide.”

“Killed in the line of duty?”

“No, nothing like that. Motorcycle accident.”

Lester looks disappointed but nods nonetheless. “A damn shame.”

“How well did you know my father?”

“I didn’t, not really. He came around last summer, said he wanted to rent the place. He said he was going to use it as an office. Maybe last July it was. Can’t remember now.”

“Just as an office?”

“Yeah. That’s what he said. He’d come and go, maybe once or twice a week that I could tell. About a month later, he asked me to make another set of keys. Said he had a friend that needed to stay there. Asked if that was all right by me.”

“Was it?” I take a sip of my coffee. Lester makes better joe than I do, which probably says more about me than it does about him.

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me what my tenants do as long as they’re quiet and keep the place up and pay the rent on time. Maria’s a good woman. Hardly see her, but she makes me muffins sometimes and leaves them outside my door. And last winter, I broke my hip and she helped me out. Walked the dogs, brought in the mail, made sure the trash got taken out, that kind of thing.”

“Maria—do you know her last name?”

“Cruz, I think. A Cuban girl. You don’t know her?”

“No. I know my father wanted her to be able to stay in the apartment. I thought I’d introduce myself and see if we can work something out.”

Lester raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re welcome to keep paying the rent. But Maria, she’s gone. Moved out about two weeks ago.”

“Moved out? You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I was taking my dogs for a walk and I saw her carrying this big duffel bag into a cab. I asked her if she needed help and she said she was fine. She gave me a hug and then gave me back her key. She was crying, I remember that. I asked her where she was going and she just shook her head. She said once that she had family down in Miami. Maybe she went there. She never got much mail, so I guess she didn’t see fit to leave a forwarding address. Anyway, the lease is still good.”

“When exactly did she leave? Do you remember?”

“Hmm, let’s see. I think it was a Sunday night? Yeah, that’s right. I was watching my show and then my sister called. She calls every Sunday. Usually to carp at me about something. So what’s that, ten, eleven days ago?”

“Eleven,” I say, my breath caught in my chest. The day before my father died. “Do you have the key to the apartment? I’d really like to see it. And I’d like to try to find Maria, if that’s possible.”

Lester shuffles over to the kitchen counter. He digs through a basket filled with mail. After a minute, he produces a key. He holds it up and I wince. The key hangs from a chain I gave to my father the Christmas before I left. A small Swiss Army knife is attached to one end. His initials, MDF, are engraved on the side.

“All yours,” Lester says.

“Thanks. Can I keep these for a few days?”

“Sure. Long as you pay next month’s rent.”

“Fair enough. Hold on. I’ll write you a check now.”





8.



Apartment 3 has a thick metal door. There are two deadbolts on it, a feature my father certainly appreciated, and steel bars on the window. A rudimentary security system, but an effective one.

Maria, it appears, has indeed moved out. There are no personal possessions in the apartment: no art hanging on the walls, no clothes in the closest, no toiletries in the bathroom. The only signs of recent life are the lightly wrinkled sheets on the bed and a few pots and cups in the dishwasher. A sour smell emanates from the refrigerator. I open it to find an expired container of milk, orange juice, and three boxes of stale Chinese takeout. I close the door quickly and make a mental note to take out the trash before I leave. The apartment’s mine now, at least for another month. It’s the least I can do.