“Can we make one stop first?”
“Sure, just tell me where.”
“My brother’s apartment.”
“John, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
“We can’t get in.”
“I’ve got a key,” said Fiske. She looked puzzled. “I helped move him in when he started working at the Court.”
“Won’t the police have it taped off or anything?”
“Chandler said he was going to go over it tomorrow.” He looked at her. “Don’t worry, you’re staying in the car. If anything happens, just take off.”
“And if maybe the person who killed Michael is there?”
“You got a tire iron in the trunk?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s my lucky day.”
Sara took a shallow breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Me too, Fiske thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
When they reached Michael Fiske’s apartment, Sara pulled into a parking space around the corner. “Pop the trunk,” Fiske said, before getting out.
She could hear him rummaging through the compartment for a moment. She was startled for an instant when he appeared at her window. She quickly rolled it down.
“Keep the car doors locked, the engine running and your eyes open, okay?” he said.
She nodded, noting the tire iron in one hand and a flashlight in his other.
“If you get nervous or anything, just leave. I’m a big boy. I’ll get to Richmond okay.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “I’ll be right here.”
As she watched him head around the corner, a thought occurred to her. She waited a minute or so to allow him time to get into the building, then she pulled around the corner, back onto Michael’s street and parked across from the row house. She picked up her cell phone and held it ready. If she spotted anything remotely suspicious, she was going to call the apartment and warn Fiske. A good emergency plan, but one she hoped she wouldn’t have to use.
* * *
Fiske closed the door behind him, clicked on the flashlight and looked around. He saw no obvious signs that anyone had searched the place.
He entered the small kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a waist-high bar. He looked for and found a couple of plastic baggies in one of the kitchen drawers and covered his hands with them, so as not to leave any prints. There was a small door leading to the pantry, but Fiske didn’t bother with it. His brother wasn’t the type to have neatly arranged rows of canned corn and peas. It was no doubt empty.
He went through the living room, checked the small coat closet, but there was nothing in any of the coat pockets. Next he headed to the single bedroom at the rear of the apartment. The floors were worn tongue-in-groove and the creaks followed him with each step. He pushed open the door and looked in. Bed was unmade, clothes here and there. He checked the pockets — nothing. There was a small desk in the corner. He searched it carefully but came up empty. Hidden behind the desk he saw a power cord plugged into the wall and frowned as he held up the other end. He looked next to the desk but didn’t see what he had expected to see there: the laptop computer the cord should have been attached to. And his brother’s briefcase; Fiske had actually bought it for Mike upon his graduation from law school. He made a mental note to ask Sara about both the briefcase and the laptop.
Finished with the bedroom, he moved back down the hallway and toward the kitchen. He stopped for a moment, listening intently. As he did so, he tightly gripped the tire iron.
With a sudden lunge he jerked open the pantry door, the tire iron raised, the light shining directly into the small space.
The man burst out and hit Fiske right in the stomach with his shoulder. Fiske grunted, the flashlight flew away, but he held his ground and managed to clip the man across the neck with the tire iron. He heard a pained cry; but the man recovered more quickly than Fiske had anticipated, lifted him off the floor and threw him over the bar. Fiske landed hard and felt his shoulder go numb. Even so, he managed to twist sideways and kick the legs out from under the guy as he hurtled past, going for the door. He swung with the tire iron again, but in the darkness missed and it hit the floor instead. A fist connected with his jaw. Fiske swung out and hit solid flesh as well.