Inside the lobby, a woman got off the elevator with a tiny poodle, its fluffy white hair tied in blue ribbons. She opened the outer door, and I went inside, giving the dog a commiserating look. The dog lurched at its rhinestone-studded leash to smell my leg. “Now, Fifi,” the woman said, pulling the poodle back to her side. Dogs like that aren’t supposed to sniff at things or do anything else to remind their owners they’re animals.
The inner lobby wasn’t big. It held a few potted trees, two off-white couches where residents could chat, and a large hanging. You see these hangings all over the place, at least in this kind of building: they’re woven, usually with large knots of wool sticking out here and there and a few long strands trailing down the middle. While I waited for an elevator I studied this one without enthusiasm. It covered the west wall and was made from different shades of green and mustard. I was just as glad I lived in a tired three-flat with no neighbors like Fifi’s owner to decide what should hang in the lobby.
The elevator opened quietly behind me. A woman my age came out dressed for running, followed by two older women on their way to Saks, debating whether to eat lunch at Water Tower on the way over. I looked at my watch: twelve forty-five. Why weren’t they at work on a Tuesday? Perhaps like me they were all private investigators taking time off to handle a relative’s estate. I pressed 22 and the elevator carried me up swiftly and noiselessly.
Each floor of the thirty-story condo had four units. Boom Boom had paid over a quarter of a million to get one in the northeast corner. It contained just about fifteen hundred square feet—three bedrooms, three baths, including one with a sunken tub off the master bedroom—and a magnificent view of the lake from the north and east sides.
I opened the door to 22C and went through the hallway to the living room, my feet soundless in the deep pile of the wall-to-wall carpeting. Blue print drapes were pulled away from the glass forming the room’s east wall. The panoramic view drew me—lake and sky forming one giant gray-green ball. I let the vastness absorb me until I felt a sense of peace. I stood so a long moment, then realized with a start of resentment that I wasn’t alone in the apartment. I wasn’t sure what alerted me; I concentrated hard for several minutes, then heard a slight rasping noise. Paper rustling.
I moved back to the entryway. This led to a hall on the right where the three bedrooms and the master bath were. The dining room and kitchen were off a second, smaller hallway to the left. The rustling had come from the right, the bedroom side.
I’d worn a suit and heels to see Simonds, clothing totally unsuitable for handling an intruder. I quietly opened the outside door to provide an escape route, slipped off my shoes, and left the handbag next to a magazine rack in the entryway.
I went back into the living room, listening hard, looking for a potential weapon. A bronze trophy on the mantelpiece, a tribute to Boom Boom as most valuable player in a Stanley Cup victory. I picked it up quietly and moved cautiously down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
All the doors were open. I tiptoed to the nearest room, which Boom Boom had used as a study. Flattening myself against the wall, bracing my right arm with the heavy trophy, I stuck my head slowly into the open doorway.
Her back to me, Paige Carrington sat at Boom Boom’s desk sorting through some papers. I felt both foolish and angry. I retreated up the hall, put the trophy down on the magazine table, and slipped into my shoes. I walked to the study.
“Early, aren’t you? How did you get in?”
She jumped in the chair and dropped the papers she was holding. Crimson suffused her face from the neck of her open shirt to the roots of her dark hair. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting you until two.”
“Me either. I thought you didn’t have a key.”
“Please don’t get so angry, Vic. We had an extra rehearsal called for two o’clock, and I really wanted to find my letters. So I persuaded Hinckley—he’s the doorman—I persuaded him to come up and let me in.” For a minute I thought I saw tears in the honey-colored eyes, but she flicked the back of her hand across them and smiled guiltily. “I hoped I’d be gone before you showed up. These letters are terribly, terribly personal and I couldn’t bear for anyone, even you, to see them.” She held out her right hand beseechingly.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Find anything?”
She shrugged. “He may just not have kept them.” She bent over to pick up the papers she’d scattered at my entrance. I knelt to help her. It looked like a stack of business letters—I caught Myron Fackley’s name a couple of times. He’d been Boom Boom’s agent.
“I’ve only been through two drawers, and there are six others with papers in them. He saved everything, I think—one drawer is stuffed full of fan letters.”