Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  “Would it be possible to take a look at the application?”

  “The police took the original. What would you want to look at it for?”

  “Maybe he listed some family member I could call who might talk to me about Jeff. I think people should be remembered for who they were and what they did in life, not how they died.”

  “I never thought of that. I imagine it’s not easy finding someone’s family.” Rose hesitated then heaved herself out of the chair. “Well, management policy says tenant information is supposed to be confidential, but I don’t suppose it matters now with Jeff being, you know, dead and all. Like I said, the police took the original, but I always keep an extra copy or two.”

  While Rose shuffled through a legal portfolio filled with papers, Sam rocked to her feet. The sudden redistribution of weight upended Joe onto his side. Stifling a laugh, Sam walked over to Rose’s desk. “Did Jeff ever say what brought him to Palm Springs?”

  “Not to me. Like I said, he was pleasant but not chummy. Polite young man, though.”

  “Did he mention what kind of work he did?”

  “Not that I ever heard.”

  “I assume the police have already gone through his apartment.”

  “Come and gone. Didn’t look like there was much in there.”

  “Can we see it?” Joe asked.

  Sam frowned, annoyed that he asked first.

  Rose handed her Rydell’s application and mulled over Joe’s question. “Well, they didn’t say not to. I guess there’s no harm in that, either.” She opened the desk drawer and pulled a key off a large ring, “Here. Just bring it back when you’re done. I would come with you, but my program’s about to start.”

  “That’s okay,” Sam took the key. “Thanks.”

  In the elevator Joe asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

  His contrite tone evaporated her peevishness. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just obsessive sometimes.” She caught his raised eyebrow. “All right, most of the time.”

  Sam hesitated before opening up the door to Rydell’s apartment, turning to see what Jeff’s view of the world had been. Directly across from his apartment was the elevator bank. In front of the apartment to the left, two bikes leaned against a tower of stacked milk crates. The door to the unit on the other side of the elevator was open, the blue flicker of a TV set reflecting off the screen. One floor below was Rose’s velvet-covered windows and looking further down Sam could see the foyer and mailboxes. All in all, it was a depressing scene.

  Joe used the toe of his shoe to straighten Rydell’s doormat, a bargain basement reject imprinted with a goose holding a Welcome! banner in its beak. “No wonder someone killed him.”

  Sam laughed and opened the screen door, growing silent when she saw the front door was ajar.

  “What?” Joe asked.

  “Something’s not right.” She pushed the door open slowly. “Shit.”

  The living room had been completely trashed. Seat cushions from the couch and chair sliced open letting loose a snowfall of foam; the drawers of two hollow-core side tables lay smashed on the floor with papers spread around like confetti; overturned lamps rested like perfect bookends on either side of the couch; and the carpet had been pulled away from the wall in each corner.

  Sam and Joe stepped across the threshold. Sam wondered if the intruders found what they were looking for.

  “You’d think the police would clean up after themselves,” Joe said.

  “The police didn’t do this. And if they found it like this, they’d still be here.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  The window shades were all closed and the dim lighting elevated the creep factor. “Rose is going to have to call the police to file a report for insurance,” Sam told Joe. “I just want to take a quick look around first.”

  She took a cautious step forward. Off to the left was a compact kitchen, down a short hall straight ahead was the bedroom. She assumed the closed door on the left side of the hall was the bathroom.

  Joe pulled at his shirt. “I can’t believe how hot it is in here.”

  Sam was too preoccupied to be uncomfortable. “You stay here. I’m going to check out the bedroom. Make sure not to touch anything.”

  The bedroom was equally torn apart. Rydell’s few belongings lay in heaps on the floor. Shirts had been ripped off their hangers, jeans dumped, and underwear scattered. The mattress was pulled off its frame and sliced open in several places, puffs of stuffing bulging out like sprouting mushrooms. The drawers of a small desk had been ransacked although the computer on top seemed untouched.

  Tacked to the wall above the monitor was an Elect Ellen Konrad poster. Hanging beside it was a photo of Rydell and the candidate in a cheap store bought frame. The inscription read: “Thank you Jeff for all that you do and all that you are. Ellen.” Sam looked at the photo and shook her head. “Phil Atkins is a damn liar.”

  Even in a snapshot, Ellen Konrad merited a double-take. Sam stared at her smile; it looked warm and genuine. But then again, she was an actress.

  Sam put the photo in her bag and recorded the scene with her Nikon. There was always something a little sad about poking through a dead person’s home, but the atmosphere in Rydell’s place was particularly gloomy.

  She crossed the room, carefully stepping over clothes and a pile of empty plastic DVD covers, to open a door on the far wall. It was a linen closet, empty except for an old pillowcase hanging from a hook inside the door. She smelled a familiar scent and ran her hand over the middle shelf. She smiled in recognition at the white residue on her fingers.

  Sam closed the door and went over to Rydell’s desk. She sat down and turned on the computer, hoping there was an address book installed on it. There wasn’t. Over the beeps and blips of Windows shutting down, Sam thought she heard voices coming from down the hall and assumed Rose had come to check up on them—until she heard a thud and the brittle sounds of breaking glass.

  “Joe!”

  Sam sprung out of the chair but tripped on the mattress and pitched forward, her right knee smashing into a clothes drawer lying on the carpet. Shaking off the jolt of pain, she scrambled to her feet and rushed into the hall just as the front door slammed shut. Her pursuit ended abruptly when she heard Joe moaning in the bathroom. She found him propped against the wall holding his nose with one hand and the side of his head with the other. The medicine cabinet mirror was shattered, and bits of glass sprinkled the floor. Blood covered the fingers of both his hands and spotted the front of his shirt.

  “Oh my God, Joe, are you alright?”

  Joe shook his head, dazed. “I’m not sure at the moment.”

  Sam found a washcloth and soaked it with cold water. She gently pried Joe’s hand away from the front of his face. “Just lean back.”

  Joe winced as she applied pressure to stop the bleeding. “Is it broken?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What happened?”

  Joe gingerly touched his rapidly swelling eye. “I’m not sure.”

  “Just take it slow. What did you do when I went to the bedroom?”

  “I went to the kitchen and got a drink of water…I sat down to wait for you…then I had to go to the bathroom. The light didn’t work but I went in anyway. Before I had a chance to unzip my pants, somebody jumped out.”

  “From where?”

  “I guess they were behind the door, or maybe the shower curtain. We struggled. I think his elbow hit the mirror. I turned my head to avoid the glass and lost my grip, and he was able to push me down. My head hit the side of the tub.”

  “You’re sure it was a man?”

  Joe’s good eye glared at her. “I know I’m not Mr. Macho, but I think I could handle a woman coming at me. Yes, it was definitely a man, and he was wearing Paco Raban aftershave.”

  “Did you see what he looked like?”

  “No, he was wearing a cap.” Joe looked down at the bloodstains on his shirt. �
�I just bought this, too.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one. I’m so sorry. I should have never brought you here.”

  She helped Joe to his feet, worried he might still be woozy. But he was surprisingly steady. “What’s going on, Sam? Do you have any idea what’re they looking for?”

  “I have a feeling once I know the answer to that I’m going to have one hell of a story.”

  • • •

  They waited in the manager’s apartment for the police to show up. Rose fussed over Joe, applying cold compresses to his bruised and swelling face.

  “I feel responsible,” she said anxiously, refilling his glass of iced tea from a sweating pitcher. “I should have never let you go in there.”

  “I would have figured out a way to get in there regardless,” Sam assured her, suspecting Rose had visions of litigation dancing through her head. “I’m a reporter and it comes with the territory. Joe’s fine, so don’t worry. Besides, we asked to go in,” Sam reminded her, looking at Joe pointedly. “I’m more concerned why someone tore the place apart.”

  “You think it was the killer?” Rose asked, alarmed.

  “I think it was probably just a looter,” Sam lied, trying to allay her fears. All she needed was for Rose to have a heart attack.

  “Well, this scares me, I have to tell you. To think a murderer could be lurking around here.”

  A sharp knock on the door made all three of them jump. Sam stood as Rose let Detective Larson in.

  He stared in surprise. “You again,” he said dryly.

  “Like a bad penny, I’m afraid.”

  Larson sat on the arm of the couch and took a brief statement from Joe. He tucked the small notepad in his shirt pocket and looked at Sam. “Any particular reason you were up there in the first place?”

  “Just researching a story. It wasn’t a restricted crime scene nor was it marked off limits.”

  “And I’m going to have a talk with some people about that,” he grunted. “You’re really taking your job at the Weekender seriously, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, well…helps pass the time.”

  The detective stood to leave. “Mrs. Goldman, if you hear or see anything suspicious call us right away. I’d be surprised if the intruder came back but you should have the locks to that apartment changed in any event.” He turned to Sam. “Try not to get in over your head.”

  After Larson left, Sam helped Rose clean up then motioned Joe it was time to go. “I’m sorry for all the excitement Rose,” she apologized, picking up her bag. “Promise me you’ll call if anything out of the ordinary happens. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is.” She pressed her business card into Rose’s hand.

  “Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that.”

  The elevator was stifling, the air so heavy it was uncomfortable to breathe. “I don’t understand how people live in this heat,” Joe said.

  “You must be feeling better; you’re complaining again.”

  The door creaked open, and Sam stepped out first. She stopped so abruptly Joe bumped into her.

  “Damn,” she swore softly.

  The door to Rydell’s mailbox hung off its hinges, everything inside gone.

  Chapter Three

  Sam slapped the snooze bar three times before finally sitting up in bed at 5:54 a.m. What she really wanted to do was go back to sleep for another slovenly but blissful hour. As usual, though, guilt won out—if she didn’t go to the gym in the morning, she wouldn’t work out at all.

  She turned up the radio and lay back down to organize her thoughts and her day. Music always helped Sam think; silence was the complete distraction. By 6:15 she was sufficiently motivated and got out of bed, knees cracking in protest. She changed out of the shorts and T-shirt she’d slept in and put on workout shorts and an old T-shirt. She stuffed her clothes for the day—black shorts and black T-shirt—into her gym bag. By the time Sam finished taking the dogs on their morning walk she was looking forward to the exertion to come.

  After class, during which Sam knee-lifted, V-stepped, and half-hop turned herself into a cardio frenzy, she showered and dressed on automatic pilot while reviewing what precious few facts she knew about Rydell. She was still puzzled over the mailbox—what would somebody be looking for in the mail of a dead man?

  Sam asked the same question aloud an hour later in her editor’s modest office. Marlene was in her fifties with short dark hair and an expressive, triangular face that always made Sam think of a Keebler elf. Despite having lived in California for thirty years, you could still hear Marlene’s New York roots when she talked. While she liked to foster the image of a harried, overwhelmed editor as a way to disarm people, she missed nothing. Marlene chain-drank coffee while Sam sipped on a Diet Coke.

  “Forget the mailbox a minute; is your friend alright?”

  “Joe’s fine. Surprisingly so. He’s always had a flair for the dramatic, but this time he’s gone all Clint Eastwood on me and is shrugging it off.”

  Marlene’s concerned eyes peered over her glasses. “Please be careful. It’s possible whoever broke into the apartment knew Rydell wouldn’t be there.”

  “They didn’t break in. Well, maybe they picked the lock, but there was no sign of forced entry. Either the police left his door open, or whoever was in there had a key. If there were no keys on the body, I guess it’s possible the killer took them.”

  Marlene digested that a second. “What do we know about Rydell?”

  “Not much, but I’m still hoping to jog the collective memory over at Konrad’s campaign.”

  “Just because you found a button, a picture, and a poster?”

  “That, and because of the reaction I got at the headquarters yesterday. I know omission when I see it. What does our competition say about Rydell in today’s paper? I haven’t had time to look yet.”

  “Just the usual: dead body, identity being withheld until authorities notify relatives, yadda, yadda, yadda. And no, nothing about the victim being in any way associated with the Konrad campaign. Apparently, the police haven’t made the connection or decided not to let that tidbit out.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t count on it lasting,” Sam said, assuming the Palm Springs Tribune reporter had police sources. On the other hand, the murder of an apparent transient might not draw enough editorial attention for anyone to start digging. Regardless, Sam felt a familiar pressure to get busy. “I’d like to have an old contact of mine, an investigator, get some information for me.”

  Marlene raised her eyebrows. “All legal, I trust.”

  “I miss the good old days when journalists could pull credit reports and medical records with impunity, don’t you?” Sam sighed nostalgically, deftly evading Marlene’s question.

  “You’re too young to miss the old days.”

  “I miss them in theory. Don’t worry; I just want to try to find out where he lived before—”

  Marlene cut her off with a wave of her hand. “Go ahead and do whatever you need—within reason and the law. I’m going to hold this story for the print edition and maybe give the Tribune a run for its money.”

  As Sam headed for the door Marlene asked, “Need any help? I could pull someone else in.”

  “I haven’t been out of the field that long,” Sam said dryly. “No, I’m fine.”

  “You’re going to pop a vein,” Marlene smiled. “Don’t get insulted. I just meant if you need a body to do any legwork, let me know. Only trying to help.”

  “Did I hear you say you needed help?” Steve Leon asked, sauntering into Marlene’s office with a too-hip-for-the-room breeziness.

  Sam inwardly cringed. At their first introduction, the soft flesh behind her ears tingled in alarm. Steve exuded buddy-buddy friendliness, let-me-help-you earnestness, and you-can count-on-me sincerity, but Sam knew trouble when she met it. Or at least her ears did, and what she heard was the sound of a knife slicing into the small of her back. Someday, somehow, this man would prove to be bad news.

  “I saw the murder o
n the story list this morning. I’d be glad to give you a hand on it.”

  “If I get in over my head, I’ll let you know,” Sam said with a surprising lack of sarcasm.

  “Okay, kiddo, you do that.” Steve slid his hands into his pockets. “Marlene, I have to run out to have my brakes checked. I’ll finish that article on the drought when I get back.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  Marlene waited until Steve was gone before dropping her forehead onto the desk. “Drought-shmrought. The first bars must be opening. That man is going to be the death of me yet.”

  Sam excused herself to let Marlene vent in private and spent the rest of the morning on the phone. Her first call was to the Department of Motor Vehicles’ media services office. After providing her old access code from the Times, the operator checked for registrations listed to Rydell. There were none.

  That meant he was driving a car registered to someone else or, more likely, had come from out of state. Many people didn’t bother to reregister their cars in a timely manner after relocating. Of course, that was assuming Rydell had actually intended to stay in California.

  Next, she dialed the number for Data Search. Officially, the company was created to help find missing relatives and heirs via real estate records, utility records, and other publicly accessible means. Unofficially, it was a valuable research tool for tracking down people who weren’t readily, or willingly, found. Data Search claimed to have addresses for 90 percent of American households.

  “Data Search, may I help you?”

  “Michelle, hi; it’s Sam Perry.”

  “Sam! My God, it’s been ages. I was just thinking the other day about you. Where’d you retire to again?”

  “I’m still working. I just moved to Palm Springs.”

  “Oh, that’s right—to rub elbows with the rich and famous.”

  “So far, the old and infirm is more like it.”

  “Just remember to wear sunscreen.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a walking oil slick. Although I doubt it matters much once the heat reaches inferno stage. Anyway, I need some help.”

  “Are you back on the beat?”