Deadly Grace. Taylor Smith

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      The old man peered at it, then pulled back, head shaking. “Well, that looks real official, I’m sure, but I’m damned if I can read it, ’specially without my glasses.”

      “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir.”

      “The whoosis? Who are they when they’re at home?”

      “FBI.”

      The old man cupped a hand behind his ear. “Who?”

      “Sir, if you could open the door—”

      “Wait, wait, lemme open the friggin’ door.” The super pushed it open a crack but stood barring the way with his bantam rooster frame. Cruz towered over him, looking down at the shine on the top of his bald head.

      “Lemme see that,” the caretaker said, waving a gnarled finger at Cruz’s ID folder. “Oh, the FBI! Why didn’t you say so? Jeez, Louise! I was figuring on the D.C. coppers.”

      “I don’t know anything about that, sir. I’m just trying to locate one of your tenants.”

      “You didn’t come on account of I called the police?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Well that just friggin’ figures, don’t it?” The old man peered around Cruz toward the outer door and the street beyond. “Called more’n three-quarters of an hour ago, but they never bloody show up when you need ’em.”

      “What did you call about?”

      He waved an impatient hand. “Tenants were complainin’ ’bout somebody hittin’ the intercom buzzers. Then they go answer and nobody’s there. Kids, prob’ly. It’s happened before. You get these punks’ll lean on all the buzzers, see. Chances are somebody upstairs is waitin’ for pizza delivery or something, unlocks the door without checkin’ who is it. Next thing I know, I got graffiti all over the hallways and units gettin’ broke into. Real pain in the ass. One of the tenants says she saw some frizzle-headed guy wandering around a while ago, lookin’ like he didn’t know where he was going.”

      “Did she speak to him?”

      “Nah. Said she figured he was there to visit somebody. Only mentioned it because when she came down here, she heard a couple of the neighbors complainin’ ’bout gettin’ buzzed. I woulda gone up to check it out myself, ’cept I got this hernia problem. Goin’ in to get it fixed next week. Otherwise, I got no problem goin’ after the little buggers myself and givin’ ’em a rap upside the head so they don’t come back here. Figured I better call the cops this time, though, let them do it. Only now,” the old man added resentfully, “you tell me you’re not even the cops.”

      “Sorry. I’m sure they’re on the way if you called.”

      “Course I called. I said it, didn’t I?”

      “Yes, you did. Look, if you like, I can go up there with you to check it out.”

      The super looked him up and down for a moment, as though trying to decide whether or not Cruz made a suitable bodyguard. “Nah. It was over an hour ago already. If the guy was up to anything, he’s been and gone already. I’ll hear about it soon enough. So what about you? What do you want?”

      “Like I said, I’m trying to locate someone who I understand lives in the building. A Jillian Meade?”

      “Oh, yeah, sure, I know her.”

      “She around, do you know?”

      The super hefted his thin, blue-clad shoulders. “I dunno. You buzz her?”

      “Yes, but there was no answer.”

      “Then she’s probably at work.”

      “Do you know where that is?” Cruz asked. “Where she works, I mean?” He was answered with another shrug. “How long has she been living here?”

      “Oh, I dunno, couple, three years, at least. Yeah, at least that, come to think of it, ’cause she was here during the Bicentennial, I remember. She was one of the ones decked out her balcony in red, white and blue bunting.”

      “What kind of tenant is she?” Cruz asked, pulling a notebook out of his hip pocket and making notes.

      “What can I say? Pays her rent on time, quiet.”

      “She’s single? Lives alone?”

      “Uh-huh. Kinda shy, but okay, you know. Goes to work early, comes home between, oh, six and seven most nights, I’d say. Never had any trouble outta her.” The old man peered over Cruz’s shoulder, trying to see if he was getting this all down in his notebook.

      “Any friends you can point me to? A boyfriend, maybe?”

      The super thought about it, his stained fingernails scratching across the stubble on his chin. “Not really. All the time she’s been here, can’t say I seen her go out on many dates. Now and then, there’s this older guy comes around. Not that I’m spyin’ twenty-four hours a day or nothin’ like that, but my place is right down here on the ground floor, and I keep an eye on things. You gotta, in a city this size. Stuff goin’ down all the time.”

      “Uh-huh. But this man who comes to see Miss Meade?” Cruz prodded. “You got a name, by chance?”

      “Nah. Seen him come and go with her a few times, is all. Not a real social butterfly, is Miss Meade.”

      “And he’s the only one?”

      “Only one I ever seen. She ain’t ugly, that’s for sure, ’specially if you catch her without those glasses on. But she ain’t no girl no more neither, know what I mean? I figure she’s just another one of those career office gals this city’s full of. But, hey! At least she don’t make trouble, right? All my tenants should be so easy.”

      “Okay,” Cruz said. “You say she gets home from work around six or so? But you don’t know where she works?”

      “Well, now, hang on a minute, lemme think about that.” The old man’s bristly eyebrows skidded together over his nose as he frowned, thinking hard. “I asked her that once, now you mention it. A few months back, it was. I was up in her apartment fixin’ a leaky john. Just tryin’ to make a little conversation, ’cause God knows, that woman hardly says ‘boo’ herself. And I did ask her what she did for a living. Now where did she say she worked? It was someplace, you know, like…oh, hey!” He snapped his fingers. “I remember. The Smithsonian. Yeah, that’s it!”

      Cruz’s pen paused in midair over the notebook. “Like, at that big old castle, do you mean, or at one of the other related museums? ‘Smithsonian’ covers a lot of territory.”

      “Ah, well, now, that I can’t tell you. Anyway, what does the FBI want with Miss Meade? She in some kind of trouble?”

      “It’s just a routine inquiry.”

      “I had a guy here once worked for the State Department. FBI came around, then, too, checkin’ him out. For a security clearance, they said. СКАЧАТЬ