visible. Perplexed, Sawyer looked at her. “So? I can show you about a
dozen of these in my office. Metal rusts, leaches into the carpet.
Presto. Rust spots.”
Sidney’s eyes twinkled. “Really?” She pointed triumphantly.
There were faint but discernible indentations on the carpet, which
showed that the cabinet had originally butted up against the one next to
it. There should have been no gap.
She motioned to the cabinet Sawyer had moved. “Lean it over and check
the bottom.
Sawyer did so. “No rust spots,” he said, then looked back at her.
“So somebody moved this cabinet to cover the rust spot. Why?”
“Because that rust spot came from another filing cabinet. A filing
cabinet that isn’t here anymore. Whoever took it vacuumed out as best
they could the indentations the missing cabinet ‘made on the rug but
couldn’t get the rust spot out. So they did the next best thing. They
covered it up with another filing cabinet and hoped no one paid any
attention to the gap.”
“But you did,” Sawyer said, more than a trace of admiration in his tone.
“I couldn’t figure why a guy obviously as neat as our Mr. Page would
have a gap in a wall of filing cabinets. Answer: Someone else did it
for him.”
“And that means someone is interested in Edward Page and what he had in
that file cabinet. Which means we’re heading in the right direction.”
Sawyer picked up the phone on Page’s desk. In a succinct request he
instructed Ray Jackson to find out everything he could about Edward
Page. He hung up and looked over at Sidney. “Since his office didn’t
yield all that much, what do you say we pay a visit to the late Edward
Page’s humble abode.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Page’s residence was on the ground floor of a large turn-of-the-century
home in Georgetown that had been transformed into a series of quaint
apartments. The sleepy owner of the property had not questioned
Sawyer’s desire to view the premises. The man had read of Page’s death
and expressed dismay over it. Two detectives had been to the apartment
and interviewed the landlord and several tenants.
The landlord had also received a phone call from Page’s daughter in New
York. The private investigator had been a model tenant. His hours were
somewhat irregular, and he would sometimes be gone for days at a time,
but the rent was always paid on the first of the month and he had been
quiet and orderly. He had no close friends of whom the owner was aware.
Using a key provided by the owner, who lived on the premises, Sawyer
unlocked the front door of the apartment and he and Sidney stepped
inside; he hit the light switch and then shut the door behind them. He
was hoping to at least get a base hit here, although a homer would be
nice.
They had checked the security log before leaving Page’s office.
The filing cabinet had been removed the day before by two guys in
movers’ uniforms bearing a legit-looking work order and the keys to the
office door. Sawyer figured the moving company was certainly a phony
and the contents of Page’s filing cabinet, which probably held a
treasure trove of interesting info, was probably no more than a pile of
ash at the bottom of some incinerator by now.
The interior of Page’s residence resembled the man’s office in its
simplicity and neatness. Sawyer and Sidney walked through the various
rooms, surveying the basic layout of the apartment. A nice fireplace
with a large Victorian-style mantel dominated the living room.
Bookshelves filled one wall. Edward Page had been a voracious and
eclectic reader, if his collection of books was any indication.
There were not, however, any journals or records or receipts that might
have shown where Page had been lately or whom he might have been
following other than Sidney and Jason Archer.
After methodically searching the living and dining rooms, Sawyer and
Sidney moved on.
The kitchen and bathroom yielded nothing of interest. Sawyer tried the
usual places like the tank behind the toilet and in the refrigerator,
where he checked Coke cans and heads of lettuce to make certain they