Culture Shock (27 page)

What if …those words kept haunting her. She had no desire to spend the rest of her life locked in a man's body, but if she could bargain with God to bring Alex back, she'd promise to remain the same and never complain. She surprised herself. When did she start caring that much for him? The thought of never hearing his sarcastic jabs and silly excuses again saddened her. She refused to rest until she found him. 

They hadn't come this far for it to end like this.

If something didn't happen during her twelve-hour watch, Cynthia wasn't sure what move to make next. She had no idea how the police handled investigations like this, except what Mike had mentioned. Surely because of the Baby Doll Murderer they would take every report seriously. Regardless, by the time her shift was over, so would twenty-four hours of waiting and worrying. She focused her attention back on the monitors, hoping beyond hope that something caught her eye and led to Alex.

***

Mike came by the next morning in the squad car to pick up the monitors and the rest of the equipment. Cynthia was sure the look on her face conveyed what a dismal waste of time the stake-out had been. "Thanks, for your effort, partner. I'm sorry it didn't help us one iota. I'm scared to death that Cynthia is the next victim of the killer. Please tell me I'm wrong."

Mike massaged his chin. "I'd like to say something positive, buddy, but if she's as responsible as you say, this doesn't look good." He patted Cynthia on the back. "You better go home and get some rest. I promise I'll keep looking. And I know the other fellas are, too, now that they know it's your girl." He picked up the last piece of equipment and nodded toward the door. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride across the street. I have to go pick up the alley camera."

She slid into the passenger seat and rested her head against the back. Exhaustion left her limp and defeated, but on the positive side, she might be able to sleep. Mike made a left turn and pulled around behind the building.

The dispatcher's voice announced a disturbance call
in The Cairns. Mike responded that he and Alex were in the immediate vicinity and would contact the reporting person. They left the squad car in the alley and hurried around to the front entrance.

"Officers!" A hysterical woman greeted them. "Come quickly, there's a man lying on the floor inside." Concern etched her elderly face.

Cynthia didn't recognize the lady, but then she didn't know many other tenants. She had prayed the call would lead to Alex, but her hopes were dashed the moment the woman indicated her concern was for a man.

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Cynthia, accompanied by Mike, followed the elderly woman inside and down the first-floor corridor. For a senior citizen, she moved quickly and led them to an apartment where the door stood open. Cynthia peered inside and saw a man sprawled face-down on the floor. "He isn't moving."

Mike hurried to the man's side while calling on his radio for medical assistance.

Cynthia turned to the woman. "Did you notice anyone around the apartment or anything suspicious?"

The elderly woman shook her head, her hands trembling and her eyes wide. "I was just on my way to check my mail when I saw him." She pointed to the victim. "He wasn't moving so I hurried back to my apartment and called 911."

Not wanting to involve the sweet, old grandmother any further, Cynthia touched her on the shoulder. "Thank you very much for calling us, Ma'am. We'll take it from here."

The woman smiled, "We? Are you a policeman, too?"

Realizing she wore Alex's regular clothing, Cynthia smiled. "Yes, Ma'am. I worked an undercover assignment today."

The woman displayed a toothless grin and turned to leave.

"Before you go, do you have any idea whose apartment this might be?" Cynthia inquired.

"No, can't say that I do. I've seen the man a time or two but I don't know his name. Strange man, he is."

"Well, thanks again. You take care now." She heaved a huge sigh, something she'd been doing frequently. Was it just her or were all the men in this building strange? If she wasn‘t so distraught, she might have laughed; she was a fine one to talk.

Cynthia's heart raced as she hurried back inside. How did Alex and Mike stand the stress of this job? One never knew what a call would entail, and she'd seen more than she ever wanted to
; autopsy photos, victims of strangulation, and now this.  The apartment was just as dark and dreary as the super’s, but not nearly as nasty.  Old furniture, tattered draperies, and the stale and stagnant smell of smoke and mustiness reeked in the air.  But who lived here?

Mike rolled the man over onto his back and Cynthia gasped. "It's the building super."

"That John Cratski, guy?"

"Yes. Is he alive?"

"He has a bad bump on his head, but his pulse feels strong," Mike assured.

Cynthia scanned the room. "This isn't his apartment. I wonder what he was doing in here. Surely not fixing something…he'd need tools for that."

The paramedics arrived with stretcher and first aid kit. Mike and Cynthia backed away to give them room. While EMT personnel tended to the victim, Mike turned to her. "Do you think this guy had anything to do with Cynthia's disappearance?"

"I don't know. This whole thing just keeps getting more confusing. I would've put my money on him, but now…I have to talk to him when he wakes."

When the medical staff had loaded the super onto the gurney and started for the door, Mike nudged her. "Once we get to the hospital, maybe you can get some answers."

All kinds of facts danced in her mind and two questions kept surfacing. Whose apartment were they in, and was Cratski there for a legitimate reason? Normally, he would be the resource to provide the tenant's name, but that wasn't likely to happen any time soon.

She had an idea. "Mike, would you mind if I stayed behind while you followed the ambulance? I have something I need to do here."

He raised his brow. "Is it legal?"

"I'm not sure. But if I don't tell you what it is, then you don't have to worry."

Mike nodded and followed the parade. Cynthia accompanied them as far as the lobby. Several doors opened as they passed, cracked only enough for curious eyes to peer out into the hallway. Could Alex be imprisoned behind one of them? Determined to find out, she waited until the ambulance and Mike drove away.

This was her chance. She wanted to get into Cratski's apartment for days and this was the perfect opportunity. But how? Alex was the one who knew how to open doors without keys. As she approached the super's apartment, she puzzled over her dilemma. What were the chances she'd find it unlocked?

She turned the knob. The key god smiled down on her. The door opened.

Inside, the curtains were pulled closed and the interior masked in darkness. She quickly shut the door behind her and locked it. No use inviting trouble.

The placed smelled like a huge ashtray. Cynthia wrinkled her nose at the stench, crossed to the window and pushed the draperies aside. A yellow nicotine film stained the glass and created a strange reflection of sunlight on the walls. Feeling grimy, she wiped her hands together. How did people live in such filth? This guy made Alex's cleaning standards look good in comparison.

She surveyed the room. What exactly was she looking for? She had no idea, which made finding a starting place for her search twice as confusing. Maybe if she looked in every nook and cranny, some sort of clue would jump out at her.

Opening drawer after drawer, she rifled through the super's belongings. The kitchen turned up nothing at all
, only cheap utensils and lots and lots of matchbooks.

She moved to the bedroom. Just as Alex had said, the super definitely had an interest in the kidnap-murder case. Newspapers, all pages turned to stories of the crime, littered the room. Of course, more matchbooks, dirty clothes, and used paper plates. Didn't the man own a trashcan?

On the nightstand lay a blueprint of some sort. Cynthia picked it up and scanned the confusing configuration. The yellow and aged paper made absolutely no sense. She put it back where she got it and moved to the bureau. She searched its contents, moving aside underwear and socks, looking under everything. There was definitely nothing that held a special meaning inside. Even a search under the bed proved fruitless; dust bunnies and a dirty sock. As a child, she'd always feared that monsters dwelled beneath her mattress, and if ever such a creature existed, this would be the perfect place to live. She stood, brushed off her knees.

"
Ohhh," she groaned. "Why can't I find anything?" She slammed her fist into her open palm.

If the man was John Cratski, why wasn't there something there to prove his identity
Something like a bill, a letter…anything! The walls were void of pictures, and she'd found no albums to tie him to family. Surely even this slob had relatives.

Her search proved futile and she had to face facts. There was nothing in the apartment that pointed toward Alex…pointed toward anything for that matter. She wanted to scream. Her anger got the best of her and she picked up a stack of papers and sent them flying.

The sheets fluttered to the threadbare carpet and blended in with the newspapers and wrappers already littering the floor. She shrugged her shoulders as she eyed the mess. Who would notice? Besides, there was no use wasting any more time sifting through garbage. Maybe Mike was having better luck at the hospital.

She made sure all the drawers were closed and put the curtains back as they were, then slightly opened the door and peered out into the hallway. When she saw the coast was clear, she darted out the door, closing it behind her, and sped up the stairs.

***

Cynthia paced. What the heck was taking Mike so long to call? Surely Cratski had regained consciousness by now. The waiting was torture; fear and anxiety tangoed on her last nerve. She tried to watch TV or read the newspaper, but despite being exhausted, she felt guilty sitting on her butt when Alex needed her. She'd experienced frustration in her life but it didn't come close to comparing with how she felt at the moment.

She wanted to call Mike, but feared acting out of character. Alex would know his partner would keep him informed as soon as he had something to share. She'd just have to bite the proverbial bullet and wait.

Weariness overtook her. She hadn't slept for hours, and since there was nothing she could do now, rest seemed the best idea. If any leads developed, she would at least be refreshed enough to pursue them. She turned the radio on for background noise and stretched out on the sofa. Her lids grew heavy and finally closed.

At the sound of a ringing phone, she jerked awake. She had no idea how long she'd slept, but bolted to her feet so fast, she made herself dizzy.

"Hello?" she answered, still groggy and bothered by the images in her dreams.

"Hi, it's Mike. I—"

"What in the world took so long? I've been going crazy waiting for your call."

"Sorry, but it took forever for the doctors to come out and tell me what was going on. You know what it's like in a hospital. Hurry up and wait."

"Well..." she pressed."
Are you going to share the news or keep me guessing?"

"Our victim finally came around. It seems he was bushwhacked from behind and thinks he knows who did it."

"Who?" Maybe this was it. The tip she needed.

"He tells a pretty rambling story and I'd like you to hear it directly from him. If you can hang on just a while longer, I'll be bringing him home. They're putting in a few stitches and releasing him to me. Think you can handle the wait?"

"Do I have a choice?"

***

"Fine lot of good that phone call did," she mumbled as she paced. She checked the clock. An hour had passed and the waiting wore on her nerves. She'd much rather be sleeping than worrying, but there was no chance she could relax enough for repose.

What if nothing useful came of all this? What if it was too late and Alex was already... She stopped short of thinking the dreaded word. Her mouth dry, her pulse racing in her ears, she clasped her hands. "Please, Alex, hold on. I'm trying to find you."

At long last, a knock on the door. She opened it to find Mike accompanied by John Cratski. The bandage wrapped around the super's head resembled a poor imitation of a turban. She almost wanted to laugh, but he looked miserable and she was too tense.

She opened the door wider. "Come in, please."

Mike motioned toward the couch. "Sit down, Peter."

"Peter?" She closed the door then jerked around. "I'm glad you're on a first-name basis, but I though your name was John."

The super, grimacing in obvious pain, sat. He gingerly touched the side of his head.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she offered. Although she didn't feel like playing hostess, he looked pale.

"Naw," he said. "I just wanna catch the son-of-a-bitch who hit me."

How much more pussy-footing around could she stand? Clearly, she lacked the endurance they assumed. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"