Lock Every Door(40)

I’m not surprised. Down here, even the lightbulbs are caged.

I round the dumpster, startling Mr. Leonard’s aide, who stands on the other side. She startles me right back. We both suck in air—simultaneous gasps that echo off the stone walls.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she says. “For a second, I thought you were Mrs. Evelyn.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m Jules.”

The woman nods coolly. “Jeannette.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Jeannette’s dressed for the basement’s chill, her purple scrubs covered by a ratty gray cardigan with gaping pockets. One hand rests just above her ample bosom. Her way of silently telling me just how much I scared her. She keeps her other hand behind her back in an attempt to hide the lit cigarette she’s holding.

When it becomes clear that I’ve seen it, she lifts the cigarette to her lips and says, “You’re one of those apartment sitters, aren’t you? The newest one?”

I wonder if she knows this because Leslie told her or if I just look the part. Maybe the former. Probably the latter.

“I am.”

“How long are you in for?” Jeannette asks, making it sound like a prison sentence.

“Three months.”

“Like it here?”

“I do,” I say. “It’s nice, but there are a lot of rules to follow.”

Jeannette stares at me a moment. Her hair’s pulled back, which tightens her forehead into an impassive look. “You’re not going to narc on me, are you? Smoking’s not allowed in the Bartholomew.”

“Not anywhere?”

“Nope.” She takes another drag. “Mrs. Evelyn’s orders.”

“I won’t tell,” I say.

“I appreciate that.”

Jeannette takes one last puff before stubbing out the cigarette on the concrete floor. When she bends down to pick it up, a lighter falls from a pocket of her cardigan. I grab it while she drops the butt into a coffee can at her feet and slides it into a corner, where it blends in with the shadows.

“You dropped this,” I say, handing her the lighter.

Jeannette stuffs it back into her cardigan. “Thanks. This damn sweater. Stuff’s always falling out.”

“Before you go, I was wondering if you could help me. One of the other apartment sitters left last night and I’m trying to reach her. Her name is Ingrid Gallagher. She was in 11A.”

“Never heard the name.”

Jeannette shuffles to the elevator. I follow, pulling out my phone and swiping to the picture of Ingrid and me in Central Park. I hold it in front of her. “This is her.”

Jeannette presses the button for the elevator and gives the photo a brief glance. “Yeah, I saw her once or twice.”

“Ever talk to her?”

“The only person I talk to lately is Mr. Leonard. Why do you need to find her?”

“I haven’t heard from her since she left,” I say. “I’m worried.”

“Sorry I can’t help you,” Jeannette says. “But I’ve got enough to deal with. Sick husband at home. Mr. Leonard convinced he’s going to keel over every damn minute of the day.”

“I understand. But if you remember anything—or hear something about her from someone else in the building—I’d really appreciate it if you told me. I’m in 12A.”

The elevator arrives. Jeannette steps inside.

“Listen, Julie—”

“Jules,” I remind her.

“Jules. Right. I don’t want to tell you what to do. It’s not my place. But it’s better to hear it from me and not someone like Mrs. Evelyn.” Jeannette brings the grate across the elevator door and stuffs her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. “In the Bartholomew, it’s best to mind your own business. I don’t go around asking a lot of questions. I suggest you follow my lead.”

She hits a button, and the elevator takes off, lifting her out of the basement and out of view.

I follow the string of exposed bulbs inside their red-wire confines to the storage units, which line both sides of a mazelike corridor. Each chain-link door bears the number of its corresponding apartment, beginning with 2A.

It reminds me of a dog kennel. A creepy, too-quiet one.

That silence is broken by my phone, which blares suddenly from deep in my pocket. Thinking it might be Ingrid, I grab it and check the number. Even though it’s one I don’t recognize, I answer with a distracted “Hello?”

“Is this Jules?”

It’s a man calling, his voice lazy and light, with a noticeable stoner drawl.

“It is.”

“Hey, Jules. This is Zeke?”

He says his name like it’s a question. Like he doesn’t quite know who he is. But I do. He’s Zeke, Ingrid’s friend from Instagram, calling me at last.

“Zeke, yes. Is Ingrid with you?”

I start my way down the corridor, sneaking glances into units as I pass. Most of them are too tidy to be interesting. Just boxes stacked in orderly rows, their contents announced in scrawled marker. Dishes. Clothes. Books.

“With me?” Zeke says. “Nah. We’re not that close. We met at a warehouse rave in Brooklyn a few years ago and only hung out a few times since then.”