Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty

I toss my nightshirt aside and wander toward the bathroom like a zombie. Brush teeth, step into the shower. The water washes the sweat away, but my anxiety is still there.

As I go through the motions of making a minimal breakfast, my thoughts churn. The past few days' events flash by in my head. I need to write them down—and use what I've learned to somehow connect the players on my flowchart.

I force myself to meditate for ten minutes, then do my yoga stretches. To my astonishment, it helps. A little.

I suddenly remember that I still haven't heard back from Terry. Time to check up on him.

*****

On the way to Terry's apartment, I tried to figure out why he hadn't returned my calls. Maybe he lost his phone or maybe it died, but I didn't really believe either one. Of course, anything was possible, but there was only one way to find out.

I backed into a space outside Terry's building and started to walk toward the entrance. His car was parked several spaces from mine. A glance at a small opening in his mailbox revealed that he hadn't retrieved his mail. There were times when I could go for days without checking my own mail and not regret it, but I had to empty the box sooner or later. In any case, seeing a full mailbox was a little unnerving, considering that Terry had failed to return my calls or text me.

I climbed the steps and gave his door three sharp raps. No response. More rapping produced more nothing. I tried the knob. Locked. I sighed and dug through my shoulder bag for my handy-dandy bump key.

As I wrestled with the key, I kept my ears open and occasionally looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was sneaking up on me. The itchy feeling I had developed felt like a case of poison ivy—internal.

After what seemed like eons of whacking on the key with one hand and adjusting its placement with the other, the door lock finally gave way. I opened the door very slowly. My overly cautious entrée into Terry's apartment was unrewarded. Not a soul in sight. No Terry. No strangers who might be disgruntled hackers or whatever else.

I eased inside and shut the door behind me. After the soft click of the door closing, I sensed an eerie hush about the place . . . not a sound from within or without. The neighbors must be at work. Then I heard a faint squeak squeak from above. The upstairs neighbor was home. Or being robbed by the world's dumbest burglar. Not my business.

"Terry." The word slipped out, not loudly, but loud enough to be heard in the unusual silence. Moving through the small apartment, I could see that nothing had been disturbed. The furniture, the closets, the kitchen, the bathroom—it all looked unmolested by intruders. Terry's toothbrush was in its holder. Maybe he'd taken an impromptu trip and forgotten it.

I checked the fridge again. Nothing much in it, except for a few essentials. Condiments, jam, nothing that would spoil. Except for the take-out Chinese food shoved to the back. Thought about smelling it and changed my mind.

In the freezer, I found a stack of frozen foods. Those meal-in-a-box deals. This was Terry's diet. Frozen dinners, take-out, and condiments. The booze was probably under the sink.

Now for a list of things I did not find. I did not find a flight itinerary, credit card statements, old letters, a note written in invisible ink, a message hastily scrawled on the wall in blood, or any of those other fool things that invariably make their way into detective stories.

I also didn't find Terry's dead body. That was the good news.

I took one last look beneath furniture, behind a calendar, inside drawers and in every other conceivable hiding place. Under the bed, I saw what seemed like a dark lump of some kind. A closer look revealed a rectangular shape. I swept an arm beneath the bed frame and managed to snag it.

It was a cell phone. A cursory inspection made it clear it was Terry's and out of juice.

What was Terry's cell phone doing under the bed?