Last Seen Leaving (31 page)

My fingers were getting stiff, the burn in my arms building to a steady ache, as I adjusted my hold and prepared to try again. Flinging my left hand up this time, I managed to grab onto one of the thick wooden balusters. Its rough surface offered enough friction to give me purchase despite the rain, but when I started to bring my leg up, my hold slipped a bit. I dropped an inch, and a sharp sliver speared the soft flesh of my palm. It hurt as badly as a wasp sting, but I fought the urge to cry out and the instinct to let go, squeezing tight with quaking fingers as I forced my toe up onto the balcony and rebalanced my weight.

Hand over hand, I dragged myself up the wooden posts through sheer force of will, teeth gritted and mind wiped to a self-conscious blank. I got my other leg beneath me, stood, and then swung myself over the rail, collapsing into an ungainly, wet heap on the floor of the balcony between a potted spider plant and a miniature charcoal grill. I was breathing hard, my arms trembling and my hand throbbing, but I'd done it. Or, at least, I hoped I'd done it; there was still the chance the door would be locked, or that my bearings were all wrong and this wasn't the right apartment.

Rising to my feet, I grabbed the handle of the glass door and gave it a tug. It resisted at first, but then, with a click and a scrape, it popped open and slid quietly along its metal track. Furtively, I scanned the black, empty windows of the facing buildings and then slipped inside.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

ONCE, WHEN WE
were in the eighth grade, Micah somehow managed to lock himself out of his house. We spent twenty minutes circling the property, turning over every rock in the yard to see if it concealed a spare key and repeatedly trying to force open the garage door, before I finally discovered the screen on one of his tiny basement windows was loose. With a little brute force, we managed to get the thing open and slither through, dropping into the laundry room with only a handful of scrapes and bruises for our trouble. We got a massive rush out of how clever we'd been in our cunning infiltration, an extra burst of excitement from the once-removed sensation of having violated some kind of basic social rule. We were
almost
just like actual burglars!

That little adventure constituted the entirety of my experience with breaking and entering, prior to the moment I set foot in Cedric Hoffman's apartment. The thrill I'd gotten back then wasn't even in the same ballpark as what came over me when I stepped out of the rain and onto a dark, rectangular floor mat laid down just inside the balcony door.

My heart throbbed frenetically, blood speeding through my arteries so fast it made me dizzy, and I swallowed hard, as if I had something stuck in my throat. There was a thick silence in the air, the ominous and unnervingly still kind, but I could barely hear it over the
thud thud thud
of my pulse pounding away in my ears. A bit late, it finally occurred to me that Cedric might not live alone, or that he might have called in sick, and my legs went loose and cold underneath me as I stood motionless, straining to listen for signs of life. What would I do, I wondered, if I heard footsteps coming? Besides piss myself, I mean.

But I heard nothing. The heavy, clinging stillness endured, the air practically tingling with it, and at last I eased the sliding door shut behind me. It wasn't until my chest began to hurt that I realized I'd been holding my breath, and as I took in shaky gulps of air, I turned to look around. In the next instant, my heart nearly exploded in my chest when I found myself staring into a narrowed pair of fierce green eyes, glaring at me, practically lit from within by pure hatred.

A surge of adrenaline hit me like a kick to the breastbone, quicksilver panic shooting through my veins, before I realized in the next instant that my hostile nemesis was a cat, crouched on a shelf of Cedric's bookcase. The lithe black animal swished its tail silently as I blinked rain and flop sweat out of my eyes, struggling to get my hyperactive circulatory system to slow back down.

I was standing in the living room. Straight ahead of me was a half wall that separated the space from a small, galley-style kitchen, to the left of which was the front door. A hallway branched off to the left as well, leading, I presumed, to the bedroom and bathroom. The spider plant on the balcony proved to be only a foretaste of Cedric's apparent green thumb—everywhere I looked, I saw something floral or leafy: a ficus towering in the corner by the television set, ferns spilling from pots suspended by ceiling hooks, African violets clustering near my feet to soak in the meager light coming through the glass doors.

Quickly, I removed my shoes and peeled off my drenched socks, leaving them all on the mat. I wasn't sure yet what I intended to do with any evidence I might find—take it with me before Cedric had the chance to destroy it, or leave it where it was for the benefit of the police—but either way, I knew I didn't want the man to realize someone had been inside his home. I was drenched from the rain, and even though I didn't expect him to come back for at least three hours, I couldn't risk the possibility of tracking sodden footprints throughout the apartment. Luckily, the mat was dark enough that it would show nothing once the moisture was absorbed; Cedric would have to step on it in his bare feet to discover how wet it was. At that point, maybe he'd blame the cat for having a weak bladder.

I'd like to pretend that I went about searching the place in an orderly, methodical fashion, but I had no idea where to even start. Aside from drugs that might be used to render someone unconscious—small enough to be concealed almost anywhere—I wasn't certain what I was looking for. January's missing phone? A bloody hacksaw? I would just have to hope that, whatever it was, I would recognize it when I saw it.

A single drawer in the coffee table yielded a treasury of cardboard drink coasters, a wine key, and two decks of playing cards, but little else. The cupboards in the entertainment center were packed with nothing but DVDs and some dusty, ancient VHS cassettes; half of them were adult films, and half of
those
contained the phrases “barely legal” or “naughty schoolgirls” in their titles. Predictable. I shuddered to think what Cedric's browser history might look like.

I gave the kitchen a thorough once-over, sliding knives one at a time out of a block beside the stove to check them for inculpating bloodstains, my stomach tight as a fist. In the junk drawer, under a wild nest of extension cords, loose twine, and rubber bands, I found a thick roll of duct tape. I couldn't decide if this was a coup or not, though; to my eye, it matched the stuff that had been clinging to January's clothes in the meadow—but duct tape was duct tape. How different could it be? And pretty much everyone has a roll of it somewhere in the home. Plus, I didn't think January would have come back there with the man willingly the night she died; neither could I imagine why he would bring her to his apartment rather than simply killing her at Dumas. Either way, I pulled out my iPhone and photographed the suspicious adhesive
in situ
, for posterity.

There was a small closet in the front entryway, and I inspected the pockets of Cedric's coats, rooted around in the toes of his boots and shoes, and even shook out two umbrellas to see if anything had been tucked into them. Nothing.

Looking at my phone's display, I realized to my shock that my search was taking far longer than I expected, and that I had already been up there for over twenty minutes. Even though I knew I was probably safe, I couldn't bring myself to relax; I was somewhere I didn't belong, with no guarantee that one of the neighbors hadn't seen my awkward act of home invasion, and I was itching to leave. Kaz had sent me two nervous texts inquiring after my progress, and I fired back a quick response before heading for the hallway that led to the rest of the apartment.

A stunted passageway, it gave immediate access to three doors. The first turned out to be another small closet, which doubled as a linen cabinet; its interior was half narrow shelves bearing sheets, pillowcases, and towels, while the other half—open space—housed a broom, a vacuum cleaner, and a collapsible ironing board. Immediately across from the closet, the second door was to Cedric's bedroom while, dead ahead, the third gave access to the bathroom.

I went straight for the medicine cabinet, tossing open the mirrored cupboard, and as I took in rows of plastic pill bottles on the grimy, glass shelves, my heart sank. There were dozens of them, in all different colors, shapes, and sizes, and I could already tell I wouldn't have a clue what most of them were. There were half a dozen over-the-counter treatments for allergies, colds, and pain relief alone, but if Cedric had dumped out the real medications and replaced them with roofies, I would never know the difference—and that went double for the prescription meds, with their odd names and ambiguous instructions. Worse, I had to remind myself, even if I
did
find a container that was clearly labeled
ROHYPNOL
, it
still
wouldn't prove Cedric had committed any sexual assaults, let alone two murders.

With mounting frustration, I went through the process of photographing each bottle, and then replacing it exactly as I had found it. I rummaged quickly through the drawers and other cupboards, but that only increased my awareness of Cedric's dental hygiene and preference for two-ply toilet paper. I gave a quick look into the bathtub, and even dragged a little plastic rake through the cloyingly perfumed cat litter, but struck out both times.

Leaving the bathroom, I hurried into the bedroom, a stuffy space that was rendered even gloomier by the dark, heavy skies visible through the broad windows above the bed. While the rest of the apartment was neat and clean, almost militaristic in its orderliness, Cedric's private quarters were a nightmare of rumpled sheets, casually discarded underwear, and overflowing wastebaskets. Without much enthusiasm, I started picking through his bureau, trying as best I could to avoid touching anything that had ever been in contact with any of his “intimate parts,” but there wasn't much to find. Wedged behind a collection of socks, though, I came across a small flash drive, and the obvious effort to hide it—from whom? I wondered—made my mouth water.

A laptop computer sat open on a small desk in a corner of the room, and I went for it right away, jabbing the USB stick into its port as I fired the machine up. When it blinked to life, a log-in screen confronted me immediately, demanding a password in exchange for access. My heart sank a little lower. Remembering what Klara had told us of “Professor Hoffman's” specialty in British literature and drama, I began trying words inspired by Shakespeare—Hamlet, Elsinore, Romeo, Juliet, Desdemona, Dunsinane. After twenty attempts, and just as many errors, I finally gave up with an aggravated exclamation.

Yanking the flash drive out of the port, I gave my phone another look—forty-five minutes had passed, and I had three more text messages from Kaz. Ignoring them, I crammed the data stick back where I'd found it, and started searching the rest of the desk. I should have made an effort to go through it carefully, but I had been in Cedric's place for the better part of an hour already and I was losing my nerve. It didn't help that by that point I was convinced everything I wanted was doubtlessly concealed on his inaccessible hard drive.

My phone sprang to life suddenly in my pocket, vibrating urgently against my thigh, and I jumped like I'd received an electric shock. Alarm mounted in me, my chest growing tight, as I fumbled the thing out and saw that Kaz was calling. A burst of fear jump-started my nerves, and I was already jogging back into the living room and heading for my shoes as I asked, “What is it? Is he back already?”

“What the hell is taking you so long?” Kaz demanded, his voice thin and pitched high with anxiety. “Flynn, it's been almost an hour!”

I had reached the glass doors by then, and I paused with a frown, peering out through the rain at as much of the parking lot as was visible through the railing of Cedric's balcony. I could see nothing. Keyed up, I reiterated the question. “Is he back or not? What's going on?”

“Well, no, he's not back
yet
,” Kaz answered shrilly, as if this detail were beside the point, “but who knows when he will be? I'm having a heart attack sitting out here waiting for you!”

I heaved a shaky sigh and leaned against the glass, squeezing my eyes shut and feeling my frantic pulse begin the slow process of decelerating. “And you figured you'd pass it along or something? I freaked when I saw you were calling—I thought I was about to get busted!”

“I called because you weren't answering my texts, and I got worried,” Kaz admitted, sounding guilty. “It turns out there are two entrances to the building, and I've got no idea which one he might use. I've been trying to keep an eye on both of them, but he could get in without me noticing, and then you'd
really
be fucked.”

“The play rehearsal ought to continue for at least another couple of hours,” I told him, “and I've only got a few places left to check before I'm done, so don't lose your shit, okay? I'll be out of here really soon.”

I said it as much to myself as to Kaz, since what he'd revealed really did make me feel a little less secure. After a moment's hesitation, he let out a breathy sound that might have been a nervous laugh. “Sorry. I don't think I have the temperament to be a good lookout man.”

“It's okay. Just … you know, don't call again unless you actually
see
him. Otherwise I'll be the one having the heart attack, and I don't think Cedric will want to call an ambulance when he finds me lying on the floor of his living room.”

Disconnecting, I returned to the bedroom, determined to make good on my promise to finish up quickly and be done with the whole pointless adventure. There were probably a dozen places Cedric could have hidden things that I didn't have the ability to explore—his car, a storage unit, a safe-deposit box—and probably a hundred or so more right there in his apartment that I hadn't even considered. I couldn't spend hours and hours ransacking the place, and I didn't think I had the intestinal fortitude to reenact my unlawful entry, so it was beginning to look as if my photographic essay of Cedric's kitchen and bathroom might be my big haul.