Most Wanted (35 page)

“No, I doubt it. There's not even security lights. It's safe, or it used to be. People don't even lock their doors. I do, but I grew up in Queens.”

“What about surveillance cameras, nothing like that?”

“No, it's residential. Downtown or the campus may have, but not here.” Dom chuckled. “West Chester is a stop-time. My wife calls it Mayberry. She's from the area.”

“Any traffic cameras that you know of?” Christine realized the answer as soon as she asked. “Oh, whoops. There's no traffic lights.”

“Right, it's great for runners. I never worry about getting hit, like I used to in Manhattan.” Dom stopped as the alley ended in a wooden stairwell and pointed down to the concrete at the bottom of the stairs. “Here. This is where I found her, at the bottom of the stairs.”

“I see.” Christine didn't see blood or other marks on the concrete, and she scanned the small, narrow backyard, which was completely paved. Trash cans and recycling bins sat on the right, against an old privacy fence. There was a back privacy gate with a barrel lock, and a sign read
PROPERTY OF COBBLESTONE REALTY MANAGEMENT
.

“It was really pretty horrible.”

“I'm sorry,” Christine said, sympathetic. “I hate to ask you, but what did Linda look like? I mean, could you tell how she had fallen?”

“No, I couldn't.” Dom grimaced. “I knew right away she was dead, because her neck was bent and her eyes were open, staring upward.”

“Was there blood or anything?”

“No blood.” Dom shook his neat head. “Her legs didn't look broken, but they were bent underneath her, like she had fallen down the steps.”

“Was she lying faceup?”

“Yes, she was, and her head was right here.” Dom stepped over to the base of the steps. “Her head was facing near the steps, and her legs were toward our house.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Shorts and a T-shirt. She was barefoot, I did notice that.”

Christine made a note. “How did you happen to find her?”

“I run every morning before work. It's a long commute with the traffic on 202, so I leave early. I get up and run at five thirty.”

“What were you doing out back?”

“I stretch in the backyard, then I leave by our back gate.” Dom gestured over the privacy fence to his grassy backyard with a bistro table, which ended in an iron gate. “I was stretching and I happened to look over the fence. You can see it's not that high, and there she was. I went over to do CPR but she didn't have a pulse. Her skin was cool.” Dominic wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I called 911, and they got here with an ambulance.”

“So do you know when it happened, did the police give you any indication of that?”

“You could probably get that information from the coroner, but I think I heard them say that they think it was around midnight.”

Christine noted that it dovetailed with what she already knew. “Did you hear any sound around midnight, that night? Any cry for help or even her bumping down the stairs, as grisly as that sounds?”

“No, but I go to bed early and I take Ambien. So does my wife. There's a lot of stress on my job.”

Christine made a mental note, using the pause to switch tack. “By the way, my condolences on the loss of your neighbor, Gail Robinbrecht.”

“I know, Gail was a nice person, and we both liked her. We went to her parties, she included everyone, and she was so good to my neighbors on the other side, the Davidsons.”

Christine's ears pricked up. It was the next house she was going to.

“They're a retired couple, but they're never home these days. They have a new grandbaby in Toledo and they've been there for three months.”

Christine crossed that one off her mental list of houses to visit. “How did she know them?”

“Bill Davidson had a procedure at Chesterbrook, and Gail went out of her way to make sure he was okay. It was just thoughtful, and Bill really appreciated it.” Dom frowned. “We're so glad they got the guy who did it. It blows my mind to think that he was right here. Lately there's been too much bad news.”

“Did you hear anything or see anything suspicious the night Gail was killed?”

“The police asked us, too, but we didn't. Like I say, Ambien works.”

“By the way, did you ever notice people going to visit Gail Robinbrecht's house, coming up the back steps?”

“No, but about Linda Kent, if your boss is looking for somebody to sue, he's barking up the wrong tree. Insurance is my business, and people don't realize that when you sue an insurance company, you're still suing somebody.” Dom gestured at the staircase. “Take a look at those steps, they're in fine condition. It didn't rain that night, and there was no reason for them to be slippery. Linda had an alcohol problem, everybody knows that. That's why she fell. It wasn't negligence.”

“I did hear that.” Christine's heart sank at the consensus, and the alcohol issue made her doubt Linda Kent's reliability as a witness to anything on Robinbrecht's back stairs. “Did Linda use the back steps to smoke?”

“Yes. She sat up in her chair up there, with the crossword puzzle, chain-smoking. It drove us nuts.” Dom pursed his lips. “We kept our back windows closed, and when my wife mentioned it to her, she called us ‘health nuts' and blew the smoke in our direction. Now, if you don't mind, I have to go get dinner before I start answering phone calls from our West Coast office.”

“No, I understand completely. Thanks, I appreciate your time.”

“Bye.” Dom left by the alley.

“Bye, thanks.” Christine turned toward the steps.

Linda Kent's apartment key was burning a hole in her pocket.

 

Chapter Thirty-six

Christine took pictures as she ascended Linda Kent's staircase and stopped at the landing outside the apartment door, where Kent had set up a smoking area. There was a gray folding chair with worn cushions set against the wooden railing on the right, and to the left, nearer the door, was a metal tray table with newspapers folded to the crossword puzzle, a few red Pilot pens, and an overflowing beanbag ashtray.

The date of the newspaper on top was Sunday, and the crossword puzzle was half-completed, sadly. She took photos of the sitting area, then turned to her left, taking more photos and confirming that Kent had not only a perfect view of Robinbrecht's staircase and back door, but even into her kitchen, which had a window across the way, though it was darkened now.

Christine put her phone back into her purse, took out the apartment key, opened the screen door, and unlocked the front door, though she hesitated at the threshold, at the violation of Kent's privacy. Christine didn't know what she expected to find, but she wanted to learn as much as she could while she had the chance. She resolved to do a quick walk-through and she closed the door behind her.

The front door opened into a small, square kitchen, which was surprisingly neat. White wood cabinets ringed the room, but looked as if they had been wiped down regularly, because they and the buttercup-yellow countertop, of Formica, showed absolutely no dirt, crumbs, or even pen marks. If there was liquor around, it was hidden. On the counter next to the door was a pack of Virginia Slims, with a transparent blue lighter on top. A toaster oven, a coffeemaker, and a small television sat next to the refrigerator, and the dish rack was empty. A round wood table in the center of the room was equally clean, holding only a stack of napkins, and a saltshaker.

Christine swallowed hard, chastising herself for barging in, but made herself stay on task. She took her phone from her purse and snapped a few pictures, then walked through the kitchen, getting the layout of the apartment. To the left was a bedroom, to the right the bathroom, and beyond that was another bedroom that Mrs. Kent had converted to a living room.

Christine walked through, taking pictures, but nothing she saw seemed helpful. The furniture in the living room was inexpensive and generic, and there were no magazines or books around, except for stacks of crossword puzzle and Sudoku books on the coffee table. Christine realized she was looking at the evidence of a life that was lonely, and she wasn't seeing anything that Kent did to nurture herself or feed her interests.

Christine left the living room and walked into the bedroom, but she stopped at the doorway, not wanting to invade Kent's privacy more than necessary. She took a picture of a bedroom that was as neat as the rest of the house, with a carefully made bed and a bare wooden chair that contained a stack of freshly folded and laundered clothes. A pair of pink flip-flops sat side by side in front of the bed, where they had been taken off, presumably.

Christine left the bedroom, heading back toward the kitchen, mulling it over. If Kent usually had her last cigarette around midnight, and the police had estimated that the time of death was about that time, it made sense to think that Mrs. Kent fell after she smoked her last cigarette or while she was smoking. Then Christine realized something didn't jibe.

Kent's flip-flops were beside her bed, as if she had just taken them off. So why did she take them off before she went outside for her cigarette? The landing of the stairwell was wood, and most people would have been wary of splinters, which meant that Kent would've kept her flip-flops on. But Dominic had said that she was barefoot when he found her at the foot of the stairs.

Christine tested her theory by viewing it the opposite way. Kent could've gone outside barefoot, and it fit with her profile, too. It's not as if Kent were so conventional; her arms were covered with tattoos. She liked the Ramones. So the fact that she was outside barefoot probably didn't mean anything.

Christine walked to the kitchen, opened the door, and was just about to leave when her gaze fell on the pack of cigarettes with the lighter, sitting on the counter by the door. Christine thought about it a moment, trying to reconstruct what happened that night. Kent presumably fell during or after her last cigarette of the night. So why would her lighter still be inside, on top of her pack of cigarettes?

Christine considered it, wondering. The landlord's rule was, no smoking in the apartments. So Kent had gone outside to smoke. But people who smoked outside didn't light up inside, did they? Christine wasn't a smoker, but her late mother-in-law had been and her mother-in-law hadn't smoked in her house. Her mother-in-law kept her cigarettes and lighter by the door, and her smoking ritual was the same every time; her mother-in-law pulled a cigarette from the pack, then stepped outside with her lighter. Her mother-in-law lit up the cigarette outside, smoked it, came back inside, and put the lighter back on top of the cigarette pack.

Christine blinked, eyeing the cigarette pack and the lighter. She considered the darker possibilities, the one she had come here to explore, that Kent's death hadn't been an accident, then tried to reconstruct an alternate scenario. If Kent wasn't killed while she was outside smoking, then there had to be some reason for her to be outside.

Christine thought about it. Perhaps Kent had already gone to bed, or was just about to, and had taken off her flip-flops but not her clothes. What if there was a knock at the door and she was going to answer it, but it had been the serial killer, coming to silence her because she had seen him go up Robinbrecht's staircase? What if the serial killer had entered as soon as she opened the door, pushed her inside, and silently broken her neck?

Christine realized that that scenario made perfect sense, and it also answered the question that had been bothering her, why hadn't the neighbors heard anything? Some of the neighbors had been asleep or on Ambien, but not all of them. Somebody should've heard
something
when Kent slipped and fell down the stairs; a cry for help, an exclamation, profanity, or the horrible sound of someone falling down a wooden stairwell, a bumping as she rolled down the stairs.

Christine felt the realization dawn on her. No one heard that because none of that happened. The killer could have killed Kent in her kitchen, then carried her quickly down the stairs, placed her at the bottom, and left by the alley, with nobody seeing him. Christine felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She realized that the alternative scenario was completely possible, and it reconciled with what she had learned tonight from the neighbors.

She took one last look around the kitchen, then headed for the door.

 

Chapter Thirty-seven

Christine called Griff as she walked back to her car, her head swimming with what she had learned at Kent's apartment. She was feeling more right about her suspicions than ever and couldn't wait to talk it over with him. She listened to the phone ring again and again, then the ringing stopped. No voicemail or message machine kicked in. She'd have to go back to the office to talk to him.

She reached her car, chirped it unlocked, climbed inside, and started the engine and the AC. She felt a wave of fatigue and hunger but ignored them, steering out of the space. She had to go to the bathroom, but it wouldn't take long to get to Griff's. She plugged the address into GPS because West Chester had so many one-way streets, then she pulled out of the space, went straight, then turned right, following the directions.

Her phone started ringing on the dashboard, presumably Griff calling back, and she answered right away. “Griff, you're not going to believe this!” she said, but when she glanced at the screen, it wasn't Griff but Marcus.

“It's your husband, remember me?” he asked, bristling.

“Sorry.” Christine kept calm.

“What is it that Griff isn't going to believe?” Marcus asked, his sarcasm undisguised.

“If you really want to know, I think I figured out that there was someone other than Zachary who was seen at the apartment and that a witness—”

“Spare me, Nancy Drew. Tell it to
Zachary
.”