Leslie Glass - Burning Time

The night doorman stubbed out his cigarette and looked at them dumbly. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve have a request from Dr. Frank to check his apartment,” she said. The name on the pocket of the man’s uniform was Francis. It was probably his first name.

“He’s away.” The man’s eyes looked dimly out at them from puffy lids. “Do you want me to ring his wife?”

“Is she here?” April asked.

“Could be,” the doorman said.

“What do you mean, she could be here?” April said.

“Well. She ain’t in the book, and I ain’t seen her since I come on. She could be out. She could be in.”

“What time do you come on?”

“Eleven.”

That was only forty-five minutes ago. So, Emma Chapman could be there or she could have left any time since yesterday. April nodded. “Please call her.”

“I’ll have to ring the apartment …” The doorman gestured at the old-fashioned intercom, one of those ancient telephone switchboards with the plugs and buzzers. There were no names by the holes, but there was a thick ledger on the table with a list of apartments and people who were out. April leaned over to look at it. Dr. Frank was listed as away. Emma Chapman wasn’t on that day’s list or the one for the previous two days.

“Well, go ahead. Ring up,” she said.

Sanchez moved out of the way. Francis stuck a plug into a hole and pushed the knob down. There was a faint hum as the connection was made.

No answer from upstairs.

“Where does it ring?” April asked.

“In the kitchen.”

“Is it loud enough to hear in the bedroom?”

“Depends.”

“Try again.”

He pushed the knob down a second time.

“What’s the procedure with the ledger?” Sanchez asked as the man rang over and over.

“Front or back?”

“You have two books?” April watched the board. Nothing. She hadn’t expected anything. God, she hoped the woman was at a friend’s house.

“Two doors, two elevators. Two books. Guess she must be out.” Francis gave up ringing and lit another cigarette. “What’re you looking for?”

“We’re looking for her,” April said. “Emma Chapman. Do you have a key to the apartment?”

“Well, yeah.” He frowned. “But I’m not supposed to give it to anybody.”

Everything always took forever. April took a deep breath. Everybody took persuading. Without a warrant, this guy might not let them in.

“You don’t have to give it to us. You can open the door and stay with us,” she suggested, keeping her voice casual.

“We’ll only be a minute,” Sanchez added.

“I can’t leave the door,” the man hedged.

“Oh, come on, not even to take a leak?”

Sanchez was good at making people do what he wanted. April’s face didn’t change when he took charge of the situation. She was a detective. He was a sergeant. She never forgot that.

Francis eyed them suspiciously. “The Doc is a real particular man. How do I know you’re really cops?”

Sanchez pointed out the glass door to the blue-and-white police car parked by the fire hydrant. It had their precinct number on it.

“By our squad car, Francis. You going to take us upstairs or what?”

Mike had left the lights flashing on top of the car. He did that sometimes, even though it ran down the battery. It did the job now.

Francis considered it only for a second. Then he moved away from the switchboard and locked the front door. “Okay, two minutes. But you better not touch anything.”

Sanchez held his hands up to show he had no intention of touching anything. As they headed to the elevator, April looked around. Twelve floors up at the top was a stained-glass skylight in the middle of the ceiling. The elevator was a big metal cage. The stairway went around the building in a square so you could walk all the way up if you had to. This place was … She didn’t know exactly what it was. She let out her breath in a little whistle.

They stopped on the fifth floor. April stepped back as the metal door accordioned closed. She wondered how many kids had gotten their fingers caught in it over the years.

They started around the square landing. There was a little indentation, not quite a vestibule, for every apartment.

“This is the Doc’s office. I don’t have a key to that.” Francis stopped at a vestibule with two doors. One had a table beside it piled with letters and packages.

“This is the apartment.”

Sanchez held his hand out for the keys. Francis handed them over, shaking his head. “The Doc won’t like this.”

“Stand back, will you,” Sanchez told him. His voice was very friendly.

Sanchez rang the bell repeatedly, then fiddled with the two keys, locking the top lock at first, and then unlocking it, while Francis muttered disapprovingly out on the landing.

April’s heart beat faster. She hated going through unknown doors. She looked at Mike and saw that he, too, noted this one hadn’t been double-locked. Without a word, they each took a side, moving away from the door as it swung open.

Inside the lights were on and there was the sound of voices. Someone was home. For a long moment neither of them moved. Then April stepped forward.

“Police,” she called. “Anybody home?”

No answer. She went into a square entry hall. A table on one side had a green marble clock with a gold cupid perched on top, and another huge stack of mail. To her right was a darkened room that April figured was the living room. Ahead was a long cream-colored hall with prints on the walls. She could see the frames of the prints. They were dark green. The noise was coming from the kitchen on her left. April headed through the door.

Her heart thudded and her mouth was dry. She just couldn’t get used to the fear of what she might find on the other side of an unknown door. She moved through this one quickly, on an angle, her body out of the frame before anybody could make it a target. Her hand was on her gun even though she was absolutely certain no one was in the old-fashioned kitchen. She saw at a glance the glass cabinets, wooden countertop, and new-looking appliances. It was well cared for and big enough to eat in.

On the counter was an empty cracker box with cracker crumbs around it and a half-filled glass. April sniffed at the glass without touching it. Water. A small TV by the window was tuned to CNN, which was airing a report on the stock market.

A salad bowl in the sink had a head of lettuce soaking in it. Mixing tools and a small jar of what looked like vinegar and oil sat beside it. She took a tissue out of the tissue box on the counter and turned off the TV. It looked like the woman had started a meal and left it.

April started at the faint dong of a clock in the other room, striking the quarter hour. She went out to take a look. Another struck with a different sound, and yet another. She switched on the lights and looked around with amazement. Every surface in the living room had some kind of working clock on it. It was like they were all alive, with their hearts ticking at different speeds. And there were books in neat stacks everywhere. There were so many books in the room April thought the clocks must be the Caucasian way to trick the Gods into getting more time to read them all.

She returned to the kitchen. Down the back hallway was a room with a washing machine, dryer, and treadmill. The ceiling light was on in here, too. A light on the panel of the treadmill showed it was on Pause at 3.5 miles.

Sanchez came out of the bedroom shaking his head as they met in the hall. “The tub and towels are wet in the bathroom, and her handbag is on the bed. Wallet, credit cards, fifty bucks. Everything but her keys.”

April followed him back into the bedroom, and did a double-take at the bed. It was a king-size bed with a pale blue-green brocade bedspread and a lot of pastel satin pillows on it. It looked like a film star’s bed. She sneaked a look at Mike to see what he thought of it. He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows. She turned away to check the closets.