Little Girl Lost (Hard Case Crime) by Richard Aleas

The front door was glass and the hallway beyond was well lit. I could see all the way in to the stairs, and there was no one there. But there were plenty of places someone could stand and not be visible. Behind the door leading down to the basement was one choice; the second, third, or fourth floor landings were others. And there was always inside my apartment itself. I’d installed a Medeco lock and a police bar, but neither was a guarantee against intruders, especially when the building’s windows were so insecure.
    I thought about going around to the back, up the fire escape, and in through the window myself, but apart from the noise it would have made and the fact that anyone in my apartment would have a clear shot at me long before I’d have one at him, I just didn’t have it in me tonight.
    I gripped the gun in my right hand inside my jacket pocket and readied the front door key in my left. No one came while I was opening the door or, once I was in the vestibule next to the mailboxes, while I waited for it to swing closed. No one stopped me on the stairs. No one fired down on me from above or came up behind me from below. I took each flight slowly, pausing at each landing to release my grip on the gun, wipe my palm, and re-grip. The stairwell was silent, aside from the muffled sounds of television coming from behind some apartment doors.
    When I got to the fourth floor, I listened at my door for a full minute before unlocking it and cautiously pushing it open with my foot. I had the gun out, held before me in both hands to steady my aim if I needed it. I let the door slam shut behind me and quickly turned left and right to look into the kitchen and the bathroom. No one was standing behind the shower curtain or behind the kitchen door. There wasn’t room for anyone in the apartment’s one closet, but I checked anyway. I turned in a circle, trying to spot anything that looked like it had been disturbed. Nothing did. I lowered the gun, went back to the front door and locked it.
    Murco Khachadurian’s number was where I’d left it, next to the piece of paper with Kirsch’s and Mastaduno’s. I slipped both pieces of paper into my pocket along with whatever cash I had in my desk drawer. I unplugged the cell phone charger from the wall, coiled up the cord and put the whole thing in my jacket pocket. No way of knowing when I’d be back here next. What else might I need? I looked around. The Serner files were still lying on the bed. I slipped the rubber band back over them and put them under the bed. Not much of a hiding place, but it also wasn’t the end of the world if they got stolen.
    What else? I could change my clothes. I could take another hot shower. I could try to get some sleep, start with a fresh head tomorrow. These were all reasonable things to do, and they were all just excuses to put off what I had to do.
    I dug out the cell phone number and dialed it.
    His voice, when it finally came, sounded hoarse, like he’d spent the night talking in a crowded bar or the past twenty years smoking two packs a day.
    “Hello, who is this?”
    “Mr. Khachadurian?”
    “Yes? Who is this?”
    “My name is John Blake,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
    “ Blake? You’re calling me? How did you get this number?”
    “It sounds like you know who I am,” I said. “That means you probably know I’m looking into the death of Miranda Sugarman.”
    Silence. Then: “I can’t talk to you now. I’m with company. I’ll call you back.”
    “Why don’t you tell them it’s a personal call and you have to take it,” I said.
    “Don’t push me,” he said. “We’ll talk when I’m ready to talk.” The line was disconnected.
    I put the cell phone down on my desk and watched it. Like the proverbial pot, it didn’t boil. But that was the number Khachadurian would be calling on if he did call back, since that was the number that would have shown up on his phone’s display.
    I wondered what he was doing.