Vandermein

VIII

I wouldn't stay long. Eventually, Veronica would be up, and I wanted to be back to collect her urine sample and run some tests when she did. I was entertaining her story for now, willing to go along with it until evidence pointed me elsewhere. I hoped that it would, that Detective Boone wasn't the man she painted him as.

I hopped in my car and made it downtown. Up above, helicopters were whirring, grabbing video footage of the recovery operation taking place at the harbor a few miles away. By now they would have erected plastic shielding to block the grizzly scene from a curious public, but even just seeing that much--a curtain, knowing what's behind it--would be too much.

So, I took the long way around to get to Boone's residence. He had once lived in a fairly nice house, but since his divorce, he downsized quite considerably and moved into an efficiency apartment in a lower-end complex.

My GPS brought me to the beige, stucco slum. Warning signs seemed plastered every 10 feet: residents only parking, violators will be towed; no loitering; no skating; no smoking, etc. It seemed Boone didn't pick this place for the thriving nightlife.

His was apartment B202, on the second story. Strolling through the open air corridors, I smelled ethnic foods cooking, babies crying, dogs barking. I wondered how the detective slept through it all. When I arrived at his door, I lifted my hand to knock, but some instinct told me different. I hesitated. Was the door somewhat crooked? Was the frame cracked at the top? With the half-hazard painting job on the place, I couldn't tell what was damage and what was mere neglect.

Each apartment appeared to have two windows: a bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom windows were small and frosted, but the bedroom windows were quite large. I circled the building and located the window for apartment B2. The blinds--those stock, long, white plastic strips that are always getting caught on themselves--were pulled closed, but the corner piece looked bent. It could be the nature of those blinds, to bend and break and guarantee the management keeps the security deposit. Or, something happened inside. I'd always known Boone to be so neat and organized, this sort of oversight stuck out to me.

Beside his window and stretching down to the ground floor was some electric piping protecting wires from the elements. I climbed up the side, careful not to pull too hard against the building. These sorts of exterior fixtures are made to last, but not made to carry a 200-pound man.

I found the pipe dusted in some places with a tan powder that was soft when I rubbed it between my fingers. I thought first that it must be residue from the stucco; perhaps they used a cheap coating that was slowly being washed away by the rain. Except, the color was ever slightly so different, more brown than orange.

It was on the windowsill too, in the form of a partial fingerprint. Could it be climbing chalk? It seemed far too fine, and didn't help my grip on the way up at all.

I peered into the window where the blind was bent, hanging from the second story sill. A small desk lamp was on inside, and there was someone sitting, hunched over at the desk. Their head was down, resting on folded arms. Above the desk was a corkboard with pictures and clippings pinned up and string connecting one thumb tack to another.

My picture was up there, as well as a picture of what I assumed was the freighter in the bay. Veronica's picture was also there, with Boone as well.

"Hey!" The sudden shout from below startled me. It also startled the figure inside. It turned directly toward me. I expected to make eye contact with them, to at least get a good look at the detective to see if it was safe.

But the face that turned to me... Well...It didn't have one.