"I will. I'll let you know when we get back."
Then he called the number McPherson had given him, having decided to go with his instincts and trust the man. McPherson picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"This is Chastain. Miss Whitlaw is with me, and we're going to Columbus this morning to look at some papers of her father's that are in storage. I've notified Shannon, and he knows I'm calling you." McPherson snorted. "Cautious soul, aren't you?"
"Cautious enough."
"It's a smart thing to be. I'll get someone there to tag along behind you."
"Tell me what he looks like, so I won't get nervous."
McPherson paused. Marc had the impression he covered the mouthpiece. Then he said, "Ah, okay. Tall, early to mid-thirties, dark brown hair, glasses."
"Got it."
"He—urn, he'll be wearing a Cincinnati baseball cap. Red. And, um, change the glasses to sunglasses." Either the man who would be following them was standing right there in front of McPherson telling him what he was going to wear, or McPherson was making a list of instructions. Marc suspected the former, otherwise why cover the mouthpiece of the phone?
"Can he get there ahead of us?"
"No problem."
"How will he spot us?"
"We have ID photographs of both of you."
"That was quick."
"As a fox," McPherson said.
"Have you turned up anything yet?"
"An interesting possibility, but no way to verify it. I hope you find something in that box that will help."
Chapter 19
Columbus, Ohio
Hayes studied the setup of the apartment building. It was an older building, in a good neighborhood, only four stories, probably two to four apartments on each floor. It was the kind of building where the
residents knew one another and kept track of what was going on. That wasn't good. On the other hand, there wasn't much in the way of security: lights on each corner, and the glass double doors to the small foyer were certainly locked at night, but if they were supposed to be locked during the day, then someone wasn't following the rules, because people came and went without hindrance. Not many people, true, but enough that he was cautious.
Her apartment was on the second floor, 2A. That should mean it was the closest to the stairs. He paused before he entered the building, taking a casual look around to make certain no one was watching him. A car turned into the small parking lot, and Hayes calmly opened the door and went inside, for to stand outside the door watching the car would get him noticed. A small elevator in the rear of the foyer serviced the upper floors; the mailboxes were on the right wall, the stairs on the left. Hayes took the stairs.
As he had surmised, apartment 2A was at the top of the stairs, the door just to the right of the steps. Yellow crime-scene tape was attached to the hand rail and stretched across the hall to the wall, creating a small alcove. Tape also had been placed across the door.
Looking down, he saw the large rusty stains in the beige carpet. The door had holes in it, jagged, messy holes. The smell of death, of blood and urine and feces, still lingered, and would until the carpet was cleaned.
Hayes took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. Ducking under the crime-scene tape, he tried the door. As expected, it was locked. Otherwise, the scene would have been an irresistible lure to teenagers and the morbid; they might even have gotten up the nerve to ignore the warning on the tape and go inside. People were incredibly nosy.
The locked door was a minor barrier. He had it open within fifteen seconds. If anyone came out of the other apartments and saw him, they would think he was a police detective. After all, he wore a suit and latex gloves. The suit was a definite sacrifice in ninety-degree weather; obviously, no one would be wearing one unless his job required it. That made him official; he doubted he would even have to show a badge, though he had one with him just in case. It wasn't a bad fake, either, considering how fast he had gotten it.
The inside of the door was covered with the same rusty stain, streaks smeared across the white surface, on the door jamb, part of the wall. Other than that, the apartment was neat. Clancy always had been particular about how he did a job. He was neat. No one would ever know their place had been searched; everything was back in its previous location, nothing taken, nothing sliced up. Clancy had claimed he could tell if anything had been hidden inside a cushion without taking it apart, by carefully studying the seams.
Yeah, Clancy had been an artist. Hayes had watched him toss a room before. He had tapped walls, gotten down on his hands and knees and studied the floor, inspected books and lamps and bric-a-brac. Nothing in that room had escaped his notice. And he had found the file for which he had been searching, hidden in the bottom of an upholstered chair. The particle-board bottom had been unscrewed from the frame and the file placed inside, then the bottom screwed back on. Clancy had noticed the small scratch marks on the particle-board where the screws had been removed and then replaced. Not many people had that kind of patience or eye for detail. Hayes would miss having his services.
Hayes closed the door behind him, then stood for a minute looking around, getting oriented. He didn't want to disturb anything unnecessarily, either, because the cops undoubtedly had photographs of the scene, and some sharp cookie might notice if anything was moved.
He was in the living room. There was a nice twenty-seven-inch television set in the entertainment center, and a small stereo system. Against the wall just as you came in the door was a small desk where an answering machine blinked and a cordless phone sat in its cradle. Hayes resisted the urge to listen to her messages, because if a detective was here later and noticed the messages had been played, he would wonder who had been in the apartment.