The Long Way Out by Michael Wiley

Author:Michael Wiley [Wiley, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448309856
Published: 2022-09-12T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-THREE

At the Northbank, I parked in a guest space, waited for a short-haired woman to wave her pass card at the front door sensor, and slipped in behind her. The lobby had a high ceiling with two big glass chandeliers. The floor was tiled with red and gray granite. When the woman got in an elevator, I went into the mailroom. The mailboxes were numbered but unnamed.

I rode an elevator to the thirtieth floor.

I knocked on the first door to the left. When no one answered, I crossed the hall and knocked.

A short man in a white muscle T-shirt opened and peered at me.

I showed him Cynthia’s box, as if I was delivering it. ‘Randall Lehmann?’

He gave me a funny smile. ‘Who?’

‘Councilman Lehmann? Does he—?’

‘Uh-uh.’ He closed the door.

No one answered the next two doors. The woman at the following one knew who Lehmann was but didn’t think he lived on the floor, though she’d seen him in the elevator.

At the final apartment on the right, a gray-headed woman answered, her husband standing behind her with a walker. ‘He lives upstairs,’ she said.

‘Right upstairs?’

The man said, ‘Day and night, he walks back and forth – thump, thump, thump.’ His voice cracked when he spoke.

‘That’s not the worst of it,’ the woman said. ‘Have you heard what comes out of his mouth?’

‘I have,’ I said, and backed away.

I went into the stairwell and up to the thirty-first floor. I knocked at the door of the apartment above the old couple.

A dog barked inside, high-pitched. Footsteps approached, thumping.

Lehmann opened. He wore white cotton pants and a yellow button-down shirt. He held a glass of red wine. The dog, a Miniature Pinscher, barked from behind his ankles. Lehmann said, ‘You’re trespassing in my building. Do you know what can happen to you?’

‘No more than has already happened.’ I held the box to him.

‘What’s that?’ He didn’t touch it.

‘Nothing I want.’ I threw it past him, into the room. The dog barked.

‘You’re a stupid man,’ he said.

‘Where were you when Antonia Soto died?’

He set his wine glass on the floor and picked up the dog. ‘What business is it of yours?’

I stepped toward him, pushing him back, and closed the door behind me.

‘How about Kumar Mehta?’

An abrupt grin broke over his face. ‘Are you accusing me? You think …’ He burst into a laugh. It seemed genuine. He almost dropped the dog. ‘Good God, you really are stupid.’

I crossed the room. In the middle, a sofa and armchair set surrounded a little Oriental rug. Paintings of ocean scenes hung on the walls. Tall windows and sliding glass doors faced a balcony looking east toward the ballpark and, beyond it, the football stadium.

One side of the room opened into a dining area and then a kitchen. On the other side, there were two closed doors.

I asked again, ‘Where were you on the night Antonia Soto died?’

With a grin, ‘In Tallahassee. A hundred fifty miles from here.’

‘Prove it.’

His face hardened. ‘No.’ The dog whined and struggled in his arms.

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