would have when Brian and I had our commuting marriage, but the on-campus housing for faculty was so much cheaper if less interesting…
Turn the page, Emma, and try not to look like you’re having an epiphany.
If I wanted to live some place anonymous, I would pick those apartments. It could also be that if there was someone over there watching me, it would behoove him to keep things quiet near his lair. Don’t shit where you eat, Grandpa Oscar would have said.
I was trembling in the warm sunlight now, all drowsiness gone. I couldn’t go investigate immediately, but I would have to soon. I needed to think first. There were four three-story buildings that were rental properties—that meant twelve apartments—and I was going to have to check out every one of them. But not at the moment, not when I was sitting right here…but why not? If anyone bolted, I’d be able to see them easily enough…
I sat and thought until I figured out every aspect of my plan: There were fire escapes on the backs of the buildings, but they were rusted metal and they’d make a hell of a racket if anyone tried to get out that way. I couldn’t do anything about that, but I could listen for the noise and be prepared. Otherwise, the windows on the ground floor were the only other ways out, and even those would require a sizable jump to the ground. Go in, look at the mailboxes, note any that looked likely, and—then what? Call the cops? Try and get in? I’d figure it out when I got there, I decided, suddenly impatient.
I stretched out, then jammed my book into my bag. I was as restrained as I could manage, walking at a normal pace, as if I was done with my break and heading back to campus. I had to assume I was being watched and was self-conscious: What did my normal walk look like—fast or slow? Did I keep my eyes on the ground or did I look around? Walking had never seemed so complicated a task.
I walked past the street with the apartments, so that it would look like I was heading straight back to school. I circled the next block, and started at the last building in the row. I got into the lobby, and checked the mailboxes: I was pretty sure that the ones with multiple names on them were students—some of these were festooned with stickers and flowers, making it obvious—and I figured that the landlord would expect only one label for one tenant. I knew exactly how nosy and attentive to every change of detail they were from my own days as a student renter.
There was nothing that stood out as obvious, so I moved on to the next building. As I stepped up to the foyer, the inside door swung open, and a gaggle of giggling females came pouring out: It was too nice a day for normal people to stay inside. I pressed up against the side of the vestibule, to let them by, but the door had a security hinge and swung shut almost immediately: There was no chance of getting in that way. The mailboxes were equally unhelpful, but there was one with a single name on it—I kept in mind to check that one if nothing else showed up.
The third building I struck pay dirt. Two of the mailboxes had two or three names, the third had just one. On a smudged piece of paper, I could make out just the first and last initials of the name: E and F.
Ernie Fishbeck. I had my man. Our Ernie, the one that was now unhappily the guest of Detective Bader and the rest of the Stone Harbor Police didn’t live here; he had given them a local Massachusetts address. Tony Markham had used his identity to find himself a lair near campus.
I was staring at the label, trying to convince myself that I was on the right track and that I needed to decide what to do next when the door opened. I stepped back, hoping to sneak in as whoever it was left, when I realized no one was coming out. An older woman, maybe in her late sixties, came bustling out and planted herself in front of the door, blocking me. She wore a Caldwell sweatshirt over black leggings and had a bandanna kerchief tied over her short hair. She had a broom in one hand and an