It was a challenge, of course. And I was supposed to be overwhelmed by the diligence and thoroughness of the law.
“What about delivery and service people? Dry cleaners, laundry, TV repairs, phone, plumber, electrician? What about the apartment superintendent, if any?”
He sighed heavily. He was upwind of me and even outdoors he had breath like a cannibal bat. “Son of a gun. Would you believe me if I told you that was all in the works, but I just forgot to mention it?”
“I’d believe you, Stanger. I think you might be pretty good at your job.”
“I’ll write that in my diary tonight.”
“What about the nurses’ day room at the hospital? She’d probably have a locker there. There might be some personal stuff in it.”
He sighed again and took out his blue notebook and wrote it down. “One for you.”
“Maybe there’s another one too. If there is, can I check it out? I have… a personal interest in this, you know.”
“If there’s another one, you can check it out.”
“I don’t think a registered nurse would be doing the billing and the bookkeeping and keeping the appointment book. So there probably had to be another girl working for Sherman, part time or full time.”
He squinted at the bright sky. He nodded. “And she was on vacation when he killed himself. Just now remembered. Okay, go ahead, dammit. Can’t recall her name. But Doctor Wayne’s office girl would know. Just don’t try to carry the ball if you come up with anything. Report to me first.”
“And you tell me what you find out from Holton.”
“Deal.”
He trudged toward the waiting car. I went back inside and used a pay phone in the lobby to call Dr. Wayne’s office. The answering service told me they opened the office at noon on Mondays.
I went back to 109. The cart was outside the door, the maid just finishing up. She was a brawny, handsome black woman. Her skin tone was a flawless coppery brown, and across the cheekbones she looked as if she had an admixture of Indian blood.
“Be through here in a minute,” she said.
“Take your time.”
She was making up the bed. I sat on the straight chair by the desk module that was part of the long formica countertop. I found the phone number for D. Wintin Hardahee and as I wrote it down I saw the maid out of the corner of my eye and for a moment thought she was dancing. When I turned and looked at her, I saw that she was swaying, feet planted, chin on her chest, eyes closed. She lifted her head and gave me a distant smile and said, “Feeling kind of… kind of…” Then she closed her eyes and toppled forward. Her head and shoulders landed facedown on the bed and she slipped and bounded loosely off and landed on the floor, rolling onto her back. Suddenly I knew what must have happened. I went to the closet alcove and bent and picked the doctored bottle of gin out of the corner where I had put it and, stupidly, forgotten it. There were a couple of fresh drops of colorless liquid on the outside of the bottle, on the shoulder of it. Any moisture would have long since dried up in the dehumidifying effect of the air conditioning. I licked a drop off with my tongue tip. Plain water. So she had taken a nice little morning pickup out of the bottle and replaced it with tap water.
I went to her and knelt beside her. Her pulse was strong and good, and she was breathing deeply and regularly. She wore a pale blue uniform trimmed with white. Over the blouse pocket was embroidered, in red, “Cathy.”
After weighing pros and cons and cursing my idiocy for leaving the gin where somebody might find it, I went looking for another maid. There was a cart on the long balcony overhead, in front of an open door to one of the second-floor units. I went up the iron stairs and rapped on the open door and went in. The maid came out of the bathroom. She was younger than Cathy, small and lean, with matte skin the shade of a cup of coffee, double on the cream. She wore orange lipstick, had two white streaks bleached into her dark hair, and a projection of astonishingly large breasts. Her embroidery said “Lorette.”