by Kathy Reichs
“Yes.”
“Vodyanov had gone to it. I admit, I got curious, cruised around. Stumbled onto some pretty grim sites.” Barrow sent her ash flying with the flick of a thumb. “Looked like the dude was into two things.”
I expected secret government facilities, maybe nuclear reactors. What she said shocked me.
“Missing kids. Child porn.”
“Do you recall specific websites?”
Barrow shook her head no. “Made me want to puke. I deleted every link. And the browser. Put nothing in my diary.”
“Did you confront him?”
“What for? He was supposed to be unplugged; I broke the rules and wired him in. I wiped the whole incident from my mind. Tried to, anyway. Vowed to never let the asshole con me again. Didn’t matter. Shortly after that, he was gone.”
“This occurred during his final stay?”
“Nah, an earlier one.”
“When was he last at Sparkling Waters?”
She considered. “I keep in touch some. I hear he was last there late May, early June.”
“Do you know where Vodyanov lived?”
Barrow mashed her cigarette against the heel of her boot. Held the stub in one palm, considering. Then, without a word, she yanked the screen open and disappeared into the house.
Time passed. I sweated. A lot. I was certain I’d been dismissed when Barrow reappeared, holding the door with one hand while thrusting a yellow Post-it at me with the other.
“You didn’t get this from me.”
“Thank you.” Quick glance, then I slipped her offering into my shoulder bag.
“Any way I spin it, spying, trafficking, child porn, comes down to the guy was bad news. My conscience is clear. Now I got work needs doing.”
“One last question.”
Barrow didn’t retreat.
“If they weren’t simply spiritual retreats, why do you think Mr. Vodyanov made visits to Sparkling Waters?”
“I never asked the reasons folks needed to get away from their lives. Still, some shared. Usually, it was alcohol, drugs, stress at work. Vodyanov told me he suffered from taphophobia.”
I raised questioning brows.
“The dude had spells when he was terrified of being buried alive.”
12
The drive back to the highway felt as dismal as the drive in from it. More so. The clouds, no longer satisfied with forming small alliances, were expanding and muscling out the sun. Rolling and bumping over the driveway and then the narrow road, I felt enveloped in gloom—gray forest, gray road, gray sky through gray vegetation. Monet might have titled the landscape Study in Depression.
Rush-hour traffic had the northbound lanes of I-77 congealed into one enormous clot. Fortunately, I was heading south, toward Charlotte. Still, it was five forty when I finally parked at the annex.
Walking from the car felt like passing through a steam bath. I estimated the barometric pressure at about a billion.
First off, I fished the yellow Post-it from my purse and, seated at the kitchen table, googled the address. Was a bit surprised.
If Barrow was correct, Vodyanov had lived in a part of Charlotte I skirted on one of my driving routes to UNCC, a largely Latino area with a robust gang presence. MS-13, Sur 13, subsidiaries of both. Disputes between rival entrepreneurs often sent corpses toes-up through the doors at the MCME.
I dialed Slidell. Got his voice mail and left a message. Call me.
Minutes dragged by. A half hour.
I fed Birdie, then paced. Undecided. Knowing the wise decision.
I picked things up. Put them down. Returned to the table. Plucked a daisy from a vase, triaged petals, returned it to its pals. Ran my palm over a place mat. Felt roughness and spit-cleaned the morsel with one thumb. Paced some more.
My stomach growled. I ate a carton of yogurt. A peach.
The annex was silent save for the tinkle of Bird’s tags against his bowl. The metronome ticking of the mantel clock.
Unable to stay still, I crossed to the window overlooking the patio. The world outside was bathed in eerie plum light. The clouds, now bloated and bruised, were organizing for serious action.
Agitated, I called Slidell again. With the same result.
Was he ignoring me?
Snap decision.
Even with rain, it would be light for another three hours. I had a vague sense of Vodyanov’s hood. Had gone there for the occasional burrito or enchilada.
I left a different message for Skinny. This one included the address.
Quick trip to the head, then I grabbed my purse and set off.
* * *
Ignoring the navigational advice emanating from my mobile, I drove to the intersection of Central Avenue and Eastway Drive, then turned left. Gloomy due to the impending storm, yet too early for streetlamps programmed for summertime dusk, the area seemed unnaturally dim and shadowy. I passed a check-cashing operation, an auto-parts store, strip malls containing bodegas, taquerias, tattoo parlors, gun shops, and other small businesses, all with bars on their windows and doors. Most were padlocked and dark. Only the occasional fast-food joint still blazed neon.
Unfamiliar with the maze of streets surrounding the main drag, I now followed the Waze lady’s robotic instructions. A couple of right turns, a left. The area became less commercial and more residential. I passed a lot of spray-painted graffiti, largely in Spanish. On one crumbling wall, the word Malditos in lime green.
Another right, and I was crawling down a narrow street packed shoulder to shoulder with unadorned boxes rising three or four stories. Grotty air conditioners jutted from windows, and rusty fire escapes snaked the brick. The iPhone voice told me my destination was on the right. Pulling to the curb between two pickups that had to be at least twenty years old, I scanned for Barrow’s Post-it address.
The digits 2307 overhung the front entrance of the last box in the row, smaller than its brethren. The first floor housed what looked like a comic-book shop. Lots of ads featuring dragons and superheroes. Metal grates covered the shop’s single window and door. Darkness beyond told me that business was closed for the day. Maybe forever.
Number 2307 was situated on a corner and had a small, unlit street skimming past its left side. A narrow walkway separated it from its neighbor to the right. A grass parkway separated it from the curb at which I sat.
Assuming rental units would be on the upper two floors, I checked those windows for signs of life. Only two were lit. Both were covered by yellowed shades. Behind the shades, small silhouettes lined the sills, a plant, a bird figurine, bottles of lotion or shampoo.
I got out and locked the Mazda. From far off came the thrum of unseen cars on Central Avenue. Closer, a rhythmic squeaking. I searched the sidewalk in both directions.
The pavement was deserted save for a lone woman pulling a handcart with one bad wheel. She stopped to stare at me, face unreadable in the prestorm gloom. I hurried to 2307.
Access was through a graffiti-splattered brown metal door to the right of the comic shop’s front entrance. Six buzzers, three with names: #1 Ramos, #5 Garcia, #6 Vance. Based on Barrow’s comments, I was betting on Vance to be Vodyanov. If Vodyanov had actually been a tenant.
I stood, considering options. Push random buttons? Phone Slidell? Retreat and call it a day? I was tired and hungry. Any second, the sky would unload.
I was pulling out my mobile to speed-dial Skinny when the door opened and a man hurried out. He was small and wiry and dark. Startled eyes took me in, then the man pushed the door wide, nodded, and hurried on his way, cleated heels ringing steely on the pavement. I mumbled a thank-you to his back and slipped inside.
The air felt damp and sticky against my hot skin. I smelled onions and grease. I glanced around.
The place was like any other dingy walk-up I’d seen. Grimy green tile on the floor. Cracked and peeling paint on the walls. Empty cans and unwanted flyers lining the point where one met the other.
I hesitated a few wild heartbe
ats, then headed for the staircase. It was narrow and poorly lit, with most fixtures lacking a bulb or two.
Rounding the second-floor turn, I heard a TV playing behind one of three gray metal doors. The cadence of canned laughter suggested a sitcom. I guessed tenant Ramos was catching some tube.
I continued to climb, my shadow crawling along the wall beside me like a fuzzy black slug. The higher I went, the more oppressive the heat.
Reaching the top floor, I paused again. Same setup as below. Three gray metal doors. Deep breath, then I crept down the hall. At unit 6, I stopped to listen for signs of a presence inside. Heard only the thrumming of my own pulse.
Now what? Vodyanov was in the morgue, not here. I had no key. Try the neighbor, Garcia, in unit 5? Ramos? Perhaps one or the other was the caretaker.
I was conceding what a spectacularly stupid idea this had been, on so many levels, when a thunderous clang sent adrenaline into every cell in my body. My eyes cut left, right. Nothing.
I was turning to leave when a voice froze me in place.
“Just you hold it right now.”
A woman crouched at the top of the stairs, right foot on my level, left foot below on the top tread. Short and skinny and swathed in something floral resembling a tent, she was wheezing and leaning on the banister. The exposed wrist sported enough bangles to stock a Target jewelry counter.
Before I could answer, the woman palm-pushed the upraised knee with her free hand, also bejeweled, hauled herself fully into the hallway, and shuffled toward me, bracelets jangling in rhythm with her steps.
“What you be doing there?” The first two words came out “wha-choo.”
“I’m sorry if—”
“Qué chingados!” What the fuck. Breathy, with a tense edge of anger.
Close up, I could see that the woman’s makeup was cheap, overdone, and losing out to perspiration. Her skin was mahogany, her hair polychromatic, combining shades favored by apricots, cherries, and merlot. “Are you Mrs. Ramos?”
“And if I be?”
“Are you the caretaker?”
The woman sniffed, insulted. “Owner.”
I pulled the composite sketch of Felix Vodyanov from my bag and held it up. “Is this man your tenant?”
The mascaraed eyes narrowed, almost disappeared above the overly rouged cheeks. “You be with immigration?”
“No.”
“The cops? Don’t matter. I don’t be lovin’ not the one not the other.” Her speech had such an odd cadence I couldn’t place her. It sounded like a mélange of Jamaican patois, gangsta rap, and Spanish slang.
“I work with the medical examiner.”
Blank stare.
“The coroner.”
The eyes reemerged, wider. “The guy’s dead?”
“Possibly.”
“Maldito.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Couldn’t say. His rent came as cash in envelopes under my door. He was reliable, I’ll give him that.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“What is to tell? Tenants pay, I don’t ask their business, you understand what I’m sayin’?”
“Did he have a vehicle?”
“Never saw one.”
“How long was he here?”
She gave the question some thought. Or pretended to. “Maybe two years.”
“How did he find this place?”
“I never knew, and I didn’t ask. We’re listed like everyone else.”
I went at it from a different angle. “Do you run background checks? Require potential tenants to fill out applications?”
“I be renting flats here, not managing Trump Tower.”
“You say this man lived in the building two years.” Indicating the sketch. “Did you—”
“Not sure he did.”
“What do you mean?” Trying to mask my frustration.
“I barely saw him. Don’t know if he actually slept here. Just sayin’.”
“Through that entire two-year period, the two of you never talked?”
“Maybe a few times.” Drenched in the saccharine light of the hall sconces, the clown face turned wary.
“I’d like to see the apartment,” I said.
“Ni de coña.” Not a fucking chance. My knowledge of street Spanish was coming in handy.
“How much to let me in?” Tone hushed, though we were alone.
“Violatin’ tenants’ rights could jam me up.” The woman’s hand rose, palm up, bracelets clanking. I dug five tens from my wallet and laid the bills on it. The hand stayed level. I added two more.
The woman produced a ring from somewhere deep within the flowery folds, fished out a key. After inserting her selection into the lock, she turned the knob and pushed the door in.
“Can’t hurt if the guy’s dead. Help yourself. Less clearing for me.” With that, the woman jangle-shuffled down the stairs.
Using one arm, I eased the door back as far as it would go. The displaced air smelled of mildew and old wood. And something else. Something that triggered a tumult of images. Larabee’s lifeless face the night he was shot. Tubes. Pinging machines.
After slipping on latex gloves, I leaned in and slid my hand along the wall. Felt a switch and flicked it.
An overhead fixture turned the room a jaundiced ocher. Glancing up, I saw one of those amber bulbs shaped like pine cones. A large stain circled the bulb’s chipped ceramic fixture, its color alarmingly similar to that of dried blood.
My eyes made the rounds.
Facing the door was a single window with a torn and discolored shade pulled all the way down. Below the window, a collapsible metal table held a hot plate, a kettle, a small fry pan, a can opener, a dining kit composed of plate, cup, and bowl, all red, and a trio of clear plastic utensils. No ramen noodles, cans of Dinty Moore, or boxes of Kraft dinner. Not a crumb or particle of food in sight.
A battered dresser, down one leg, leaned at a cockeyed angle against the right wall. A twin bed sat opposite against the left, a single pillow and a rough wool blanket piled at the foot. A ratty orange carpet covered the floor space between.
Satisfied no one was home, I stepped into the unit.
The heat inside was even crueler than that in the hall. I vowed this would be a quick in-and-out.
Flanking the dresser were doors opening onto a tiny bath and what I assumed was a closet. No TV. No phone.
I checked the bath. Toilet sans lid, pedestal sink, shower hung with a translucent plastic curtain. Not a single product or personal item.
I returned to the main room. Ran a hand over the top of the dresser. The glove came up grease- and dust-free. One by one, I checked the drawers. Empty. No lint, no fibers, no hairs.
Tent Woman may have been right. The shabby space held nothing to suggest anyone lived in it.
I stood a moment, looking around. Since entering, I hadn’t shaken the sense that something was off. What? Like a name you can’t recall, the troubling impression skulked below the surface, untouchable.
I circled the dresser and opened the second door. The closet was roughly three feet square. Wire hangers held two items: a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of tan chinos.
I ran my hand over the shelf, then along the rod. Again, the latex was clean.
A third article dangled from a wall hook near one of the closet’s rear corners. I stretched forward and lifted it free.
Other images detonated. A dark silhouette in the shadows at Sharon Hall. A face staring from within a pale cone of light.
Recognition sent my heart rate spiking.
The garment in my hand was a faded gray trench coat. Identical to the one worn by the man on the night of my migraine dream. The faceless man. Felix Vodyanov.
Trench Coat was real!
Confiscate the thing? Hell, yes. The owner had granted permission to take what I wanted.
A clap of thunder startled me back into action. One last sweep, then adios.
I looked under the shade, bel
ow the metal table, behind the dresser and commode. Found all surfaces and objects spotless.
Was that the detail my subconscious had logged? A dingy, empty apartment, yet every inch immaculate?
I dropped to my knees to check beneath the bed. The odor was stronger close to the floor. I turned to sniff the orange rug. It reeked.
Sudden recognition. I was smelling hospital antiseptic, the kind I’d inhaled for hours in the intensive-care unit the night Larabee died. The kind strong enough to destroy materials containing DNA.
Second shocking realization.
The apartment and all its contents had been wiped clean of prints and everything that could identify its occupant. Vodyanov had wanted to destroy all traces of himself. And was sophisticated enough to know how to do it.
But why?
I was snapping pics when the jingle of faux silver again caused me to jump. Pivoting, I noted floral patterning filling the gap between the door and the jamb. In one move, I was on my feet and out into the hall.
“You’re spying on me.”
“Don’t you go getting all up in my face,” Tent Woman shot back.
“Talk to me about the occupant of this unit.”
“Got nothin’ to say.” Overridden by a peal of thunder louder than the first.
“Perhaps I should drop a word to ICE.” Unkind, but my patience had run thin.
The woman’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Two years,” I said. “You must have learned something about him? His name? His hometown? His occupation?”
Two bony arms floated high in surrender, revealing that the tent actually had sleeves.
“Dios mío. I barely saw the guy.”
“Look, Mrs. Ramos. It is Ramos, right? I’m not trying to cause you trouble. I couldn’t care less who lives in this building.”
“Qué chingados.” Apparently, she liked the expression.
“Seriously,” I said.
The arms dropped, the shoulders. Then, grudgingly, “It’s Ms., not Mrs. Señor Estúpido kicked eight years back. I kept his building and name.”
Unsure if that called for condolences or congratulations, I said nothing.
