The 6th Target

Chapter 100

CINDY WAS WAITING AT THE ENTRANCE to the Blakely Arms, her streaky blond curls blown every which way. Her lipstick looked chewed off.

"Jesus," she said. "Again? Is this really happening again?"

"Cindy," I said as we entered the lobby, "has there been any talk in the building? Any gossip? Any fingers pointed toward anyone?"

"Only thing I've heard is the nasty sound of people's nerves snapping."

We took the elevator together, and once again I was standing outside an apartment in the Freaky Arms that was bristling with uniformed cops.

Conklin nodded to Cindy, then introduced me to Aiden Blaustein. He was a tall white kid, about twenty-two, wearing black-on-black-on-black – torn jeans, Myst T-shirt, vest, a patched leather jacket, and choppy black hair that was short in back, falling across panicky brown eyes.

Conklin said, "Mr. Blaustein is the victim."

I heard Cindy say, "Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Would you spell your name for me?"

I exhaled. The kid was alive and unhurt but obviously scared half out of his mind.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I asked Blaustein.

"Fuck if I know! I went out for a six-pack around five," he said. "Ran into an old girlfriend and we got a bite. When I came home, my place had been totally trashed."

Conklin pushed open Blaustein's front door, and I walked inside the studio apartment, Cindy trailing behind me.

"Stay close -" I said.

"And don't touch anything," she finished.

The apartment looked like an electronics shop that had been trampled by a rhino on crack. I took a quick count of a desktop computer, three monitors, a stereo, and a forty-two-inch plasma-screen television that had been reduced to shards. Not stolen – destroyed! The desk was banged up, probably collateral damage.

Blaustein said, "It took me years to get all this together just the way I like it."

"What kind of work do you do?" Cindy asked.

"I design Web sites and games. This stuff cost probably twenty-five."

"Mr. Blaustein," I said, "when you went out, did you leave your door open?"

"I never leave my door open."

"Mr. Blaustein left the music on when he left the apartment," Rich said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but he didn't look at me.

"Did anyone complain to you about the music?" I asked.

"Today?"

"Ever," I said.

"I've gotten nasty phone calls from one person," Blaustein said.

"And who was that?"

"You mean, did he tell me his name? He didn't even say hello. His opening line was 'If you don't turn off that shit, I'm go

"You have kids?" I asked, unable to imagine it.

"No. He cursed any future children I might have."

"So what did you do?"

"Me? I know swearwords this dude never heard before. Thing is, I would've recognized the guy's voice if I'd heard it before. My ears are, like, good enough to be insured by Lloyd's of London. But I don't know him. And I know everyone who lives here. I even know her," he said, pointing to Cindy. "Third floor, right?"

"And you're saying no one else in the building complained about your sound system?"

"No, because A, I only work during the day, and B, we're allowed to play music until eleven p.m. Besides which, C, I don't play the music loud."

I sighed, unclipped my cell phone, and called the crime lab. I got the night-shift supervisor on the line and told him we needed him.

"You have someone you can stay with tonight?" Rich was asking Blaustein.

"Maybe."

"Well, you can't stay here. Your apartment's a crime scene for a while."

Blaustein looked around the wreck of his apartment, his young face sagging as he cataloged the destruction. "I wouldn't stay here tonight if you paid me."

Chapter 101

CINDY, RICH, AND I CONNECTED THE DOTS during the elevator ride down to the lobby.

"The dogs, the piano, the treadmill…" Rich was saying.

"The Web-meister's apartment…" Cindy added.

"It's all the same thing," I said. "It's the noise."

"Yep," Rich agreed. "Whoever this maniac is, noise makes him a little bit violent."

I said, "Rich, I'm sorry I snapped at you before. I had a bad day."

"Forget it, Lindsay. We close this case, we'll both feel better."

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped out again into the lobby. At the moment, the space was packed with about two hundred freaked-out tenants, standing room only.

Cindy had her notepad out and moved toward the board president as Conklin used his body as a plow. I drafted behind him until we reached the reception desk.

Someone yelled, "Quiet!" and when the rumble died, I said, "I'm Sergeant Boxer. I don't have to tell you that there have been a series of disturbing incidents in this building -"

I waited out the heckling about the police not doing their jobs, then pushed on, saying that we were going to reinterview everyone and that no one was permitted to leave until we said it was okay.

A gray-haired man in his late sixties raised his hand, introducing himself as Andy Durbridge.

"Sergeant, I may have some useful information. I saw a man in the laundry room this afternoon whom I'd never seen before. He had what looked like a dog's bite marks on his arms."

"Can you describe this man?" I asked. I felt a new kind of tension in my gut. The good kind.

"He was about five six, muscular, brown hair going bald, in his thirties, I think. I looked around already, and I don't see him here."

"Thanks, Mr. Durbridge," I said. "Can anyone here pin a name on that description?"

A petite young woman with caramel-colored bedspring curls waded through the crowd until she reached me.

Her eyes were huge, and her skin was u

"I'm Portia Fox," she said, her voice quavering. "Sergeant, may I speak with you privately?"

Chapter 102

I STEPPED OUTSIDE the Blakely Arms with Portia Fox.

"I think I know that man that Mr. Durbridge was referring to," Ms. Fox told me. "He sounds like the guy who lives in my apartment during the daytime."

"Your roommate?"

"Not officially," the woman said, casting her eyes around. "He rents my dining room. I work during the day. He works at night. We're like ships crossing, you know?"

"It's your apartment, and this man is a sublet, is that what you're saying?"

She bobbed her head.

"What's his name?"

"Garry, two Rs, Te

"And where is Mr. Te

"He's at his job with a construction company."

"He works in construction – at night?" I asked. "You have a cell phone number for him?"

"No. I used to see him every day for about a year in the Starbucks across the street. Sometimes we'd say hello, share a newspaper. He seemed nice, and when he asked if I knew of a place he could rent cheap… well, I needed the money."

This child had let a stranger move into her apartment. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to report her to her mother. Instead I asked, "When do you expect Mr. Te

"Around eight thirty in the morning. Like I said, I've always left for work by the time he comes in, and now that I've got a coffeemaker at work, I don't go to Starbucks anymore."

"We're going to want to search your apartment."

"Absolutely," she said, pulling her key out of her handbag and offering it to me. "I really want you to. My God, what if I'm sharing my place with a murderer?"