Red Man Down(31)

They all looked around at the bare walls and sparse furniture. ‘You’re right,’ Ray said. Bombarded with wedding gifts, he was newly sensitized to housewares. ‘Geez, not even a good mixing bowl in this kitchen. Looks like she did all her cooking in these two pans.’

‘What you can’t use at the moment,’ Leo said, ‘you store.’

Delaney, coming back in with the spare keys to the apartment and to Angela’s car, heard them speculating and said, ‘Let’s talk to that building manager some more.’

She was round, tan and hard-surfaced, like a nut. Her brown hair was wound around her head in braids, and she wore a blue denim apron with several pockets. ‘She’s got one trunk in the basement, come to think of it,’ the woman said. She picked a key off a pegboard wall and opened a door that connected the building’s office to her living quarters. Sarah could see a pair of men’s legs on the footrest of a tan plastic recliner.

‘Herb,’ the woman shouted, above a TV game show on high, ‘show these officers to the storage room of number two hundred and fourteen, please.’ A hand reached across the feet and took the key that dangled from her fingers. Another hand, out of sight, snuffed the noise and lowered the footrest. With a grunt, the man stood up. In the doorway, whiskery and disheveled, he muttered, ‘This way.’ He didn’t speak again as they followed him out the doorway and across the graveled dooryard to Angela’s building.

In a suffocating storeroom, he helped them find the crude metal rectangle with Angela’s nametag on it. It was about four feet wide and six feet long, with seams welded on the outside. The hasp lock was held by a padlock. And the key? The man shrugged. When Ollie went back to the office, the woman said, ‘She sure never gave it to me.’

The next thing they noticed was that the trunk was too heavy to lift. They called for an assist from the operator of their tow service, who brought the truck with the cowcatcher. Four men heaved it up from the basement and onto the scoop, which ferried it back to the station.

The detectives went back to Angela’s apartment to search for the key – not very hopefully.

‘Hell,’ Ollie said, ‘we already looked at every hair and bug in this place.’

‘Twice,’ Jason said, rubbing his neck, which was sore from his long search of closet drawers.

Ten minutes into the fruitless search for the key, Delaney came back to check on progress. ‘Never mind the key,’ he said. ‘We’ll just cut the hasp.’

‘But I just thought of something,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s probably in her purse.’

‘All right,’ Delaney said. ‘Where’s her purse?’

All the detectives grew guilty looks as they realized that in two hours of searching this small space, they had never asked that question.

‘Maybe she left it at that store where she works,’ Jason said.

‘Nah,’ Sarah said, shaking her head. ‘If she did, she’d go back for it. She was here, so her purse should be here.’ She looked around at doubting faces. ‘Trust me, guys. A woman would not go ten minutes without having her purse. It’s got all her stuff. Driver’s license, credit cards, makeup …’

‘OK, OK, I agree,’ Delaney said. ‘Just for the hell of it, though, let’s call that store and ask.’ He looked around. ‘Who’s got the number?’

‘Um. I’ve got it, come to think of it … in my notes from …’ She went back through pages in her notebook till she found it. Then she stood with her smartphone in her hand, looking pained. ‘I don’t remember what her purse looked like.’

‘I do,’ Oscar said. He looked around at the astonished faces of the other male detectives. ‘I told you,’ he reminded Sarah, ‘that my sister owns a women’s clothing boutique. I help her there sometimes, so I notice purses. You’re right, women care a lot about them – they take forever to decide which one to buy. Angela’s purse was old but not shoddy like the rest of her outfit. It was a leather Coach bag – cowhide, not cheap – from back when they made quality purses that lasted forever. Had several compartments—’

‘I remember now. With neat brass toggles. A place for everything.’

‘Yes. Magenta. With a shoulder strap.’

Sarah dialed the store while the rest of the detectives worked to contain their amusement. Jason, in fact, had lost it when Oscar said ‘magenta,’ and stood with his back turned, shaking.

The store owner, who said her name was Marjorie Springer, answered with her customary rasp. ‘We keep all our purses and junk in one bin,’ she said, ‘Hang on a minute.’ In a minute she came back on the phone to assure Sarah that Angela’s purse was not there.