Along Came A Spider (A Dead Cold Mystery Book 28) by Blake Banner

Author:Blake Banner [Banner, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Right House
Published: 2021-10-24T22:00:00+00:00

Twelve

It was a half mile, six hundred yards as the crow flies, from the station house to Sheila’s apartment block. We could have walked it in ten minutes, but time was of the essence. The Pacific Plaza was a horseshoe arrangement of three apartment blocks with a peculiar blue archway that welcomed you into the central courtyard. We parked out front and followed her through the courtyard to the front desk. There she collared the building manager, who regarded us with distaste as he wiped coffee from his mouth with his wrist, and then from his wrist on his pants.

He didn’t say anything when she showed him the warrant, but grabbed a bunch of keys and took us up in the elevator to the fourteenth floor. From there we followed him along a broad, bright dogleg to apartment 1405 which, I deduced from its position, had panoramic views of the ocean. With my arched eyebrows I told Dehan Sheila had done OK since her husband had died. Her eyebrows said mine weren’t kidding.

The manager opened the door and let us in. Dehan went first, then Sergeant Hermione Bright-eyes. I stopped the manager as he went to go in.

“How many exits have you got to this building?”

He did a whole, elaborate thing pulling down the corners of his mouth, staring at the wall, hunching his shoulders, “There’s the main entrance you come in through, there’s the back entrance down into the basement garage. That’s it.”

“You need a key to take the elevator down to the garage?”

“Yeah, course.”

“Does Mrs. Walklet have one?”

He nodded more times than was strictly necessary, said, “Yeah, course,” and nodded some more.

“OK, I’ll let you know if I need you.”

He curled a fat lip and gave me the once-over. “Yeah, sure, you’re welcome. S’what I’m here for.”

He rolled away on fat legs and I closed the door behind him.

The first thing that struck me about the apartment was that there was nothing remarkable about it. There was an ample living room-cum-dining room-cum-open plan kitchen with huge sliding-glass doors onto a large terrace with a million-dollar view of the Pacific. Out there, there were a couple of parasols, a round wooden table and a couple of chairs. Inside there was a living area, mainly in gray and beige calico and blond wood, there were low bookcases, a low dresser in heavy oak and a small TV. The dining area was back by the kitchen. The table was a slab of highly polished redwood on an equally highly polished hunk of granite. It was pretentious, but managed to be beautiful too. I pondered absently that that kind of summed up Los Angeles and counted six chairs drawn up to the table. An armchair at the head, the others had no arms.

The kitchen was spotless, modern and highly functional. I opened the dishwasher and found a breakfast plate, a cup with coffee residue, a knife with butter and jelly on the blade and a couple of dirty spoons, one with jelly, the other with coffee.

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