Eats to Die For! by Michael Mallory Page A

to break her cigarette habit, then her paranoia at being spotted backsliding would indeed be justified.
    But this was still nothing more than speculation.
    I continued my search through Louie’s apartment, opening and rummaging through every drawer in every piece of furniture that had one, but found nothing.
    That left me with three possibilities: whoever had ransacked her apartment in the first place had found it and taken it; Louie had hidden it in a place I’d never find; or wherever she was, she had taken the flash drive with her.
    Unless she had sent it to someone else or destroyed it.
    The only really useful bit of information I had uncovered was the realization that finding pertinent clues in someone’s apartment might look easy in the movies, but it wasn’t in real life.
    I was about to leave when I heard a thump against the wall that Louie’s place shared with Avery Klemmer’s apartment. That was followed by another thump, like someone was hitting the wall.
    Maybe he was taking online dance courses.
    Then I heard a muffled cry, some banging, and a crash.
    Rushing out into the hallway, I listened against Avery’s door. It was now quiet. Maybe I was just being ridiculous; maybe he was rearranging the furniture and something fell and broke. I waited another few seconds before knocking.
    â€œHi, Avery?” I called through the door. “It’s Dave Beauchamp.”
    For several more seconds it was completely silent, after which I heard the sound of a lock being turned.
    Yet the door remained closed.
    Taking the knob, I slowly turned it and then stepped inside. “Avery? Hello. It’s Dave Beauchamp.”
    There was no answer.
    Something’s wrong, kid , Bogie said, needlessly. I could figure out that much on my own.
    I was about to call his name again when something hit me squarely on the back of the head and I went down.
    The visual metaphor is always an array of shimmering stars, and that’s not far off, though for me it was more flashing lights than anything in a particular shape. I kissed the carpet and heard movement behind me, which I prayed would not lead to another hit. It didn’t. Once the explosion in my head settled, I rolled over and looked, but it was too late.
    The apartment door was wide open and from the end of the hallway I could hear the faint sounds of the elevator door closing. I could try running for the staircase and hope to make it down before the elevator got there, but I knew that would be futile, mostly because I was not yet certain I could get up off the floor. There were no windows in the elevator area for me to look out and see who was running down the sidewalk, either.
    Whoever had coshed me in the back of the head was going to get away scot free.
    I managed to force myself into a kneeling position and now saw a large collectable bust of Batman, the kind that nerds spend fortunes on in comic book shops, lying on the floor next to me. That must have been what my assailant had used to hit me.
    It’s too bad the flashing lights weren’t accompanied by the word THWAP! If this were a movie or TV show, I could take the bust and have it tested for fingerprints, and a few would actually show up. But even if there were fingerprints on the statue, the chances that they matched those of someone who was already in the system were remote.
    Pros don’t leave prints and amateurs aren’t in the system.
    Now the headache was starting. Again, in the realm of the movie or TV detective, getting hit over the head is as much a part of the job as billing for expenses.
    But in the real world, it was as miserable as it was rare.
    â€œAvery, are you here?” I called out, fighting nausea. I was hoping he was hiding in a closet. Even more, I was hoping he had not been the one who had tried to dent the back of my skull with Batman.
    That was when I smelled it, and my stomach turned cold.
    Okay, let’s back up: every movie mystery that’s