Three-Day Town by Margaret Maron Page A

even gave off a strong smell of a pine-scented cleaner. The elevator walls were hung with quilted plastic pads, and there was the usual panel with a button for each floor.
    Urbanska looked at Hentz and stated the obvious. “So once someone’s on an upper floor, they can get down and out, but if you don’t have a key, the only way to get up is on the front elevator that’s manned twenty-four/seven?”
    “So it would appear,” he said.
    They stepped back into the hall and Hentz unlocked the door to the Lundigren apartment. They were met by a white Persian cat that mewed loudly upon seeing them.
    Urbanska immediately stooped and crooned reassurances, her hand stretched out to the animal. Cautiously, the cat sniffed her fingers, then rubbed against her knee and accepted her strokes. When Urbanska stood up, the cat walked to the archway that led deeper into the apartment, looked back at the young woman, and gave a soft cry.
    “He’s probably hungry,” she said. “Okay if I look for his food?”
    Sigrid, who had never owned a pet and was not particularly fond of cats, nodded.
    Urbanska glanced around the little jewel box of a living room. “Pretty room,” she said.
    “Doesn’t look as if it gets much use, though, does it?” asked Sigrid.
    The small space was indeed pretty, but as impersonal as a doctor’s waiting room. No family photos, no magazines or newspapers, nothing out of alignment. Behind the gauzy white curtains, a window overlooked a narrow alley that probably led to the street. Although sparkling clean on the inside, the window was dirty on the outside and was not only barred, but painted shut as well. Hentz noted that there was a ramp up from the basement and that someone had swept it clean within the past hour, for there was only a light dusting of snow.
    “Seems to be letting up,” he said as he dropped the curtain.
    Beyond the formal living room lay the kitchen, bedroom, bath, and a den that had probably begun life as a dining room. Everything was neat and tidy, but the den was clearly where the Lundigrens had done their living. A large plush recliner faced the plasma screen, and the remote lay on a table beside the chair along with a copy of TV Guide and Al Gore’s book on climate change.
    All very masculine, thought Sigrid.
    The couch was probably Denise Lundigren’s usual seat. It was upholstered in a bright floral print and several ruffled cushions picked up those colors and formed a cozy nest at one end. A half dozen shelter magazines were neatly stacked on the shelf of the nearest end table. Here, too, were the photographs that had been missing in the living room, but all seemed to be of Denise. Denise as a pretty little girl in a ruffled dress and patent leather Mary Janes. Denise in a high school cap and gown. Denise in a polka-dot dress on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Denise curled up on this very couch with that white cat in her arms.
    But none of Phil. And none of anyone else.
    Out in the kitchen, they watched Urbanska spoon a small tin of cat food into a delicate china saucer that sat on the floor beside a matching bowl of water. Here, white tiles, white cabinets, and white appliances were brightened by floral dishtowels and pot holders. The magnets on the refrigerator were enameled cats and flowers, and the magnetized shopping list— soap, carrots, cat food, O.J. —continued the motif. A tall narrow window at the end of the room had been frosted, then fitted with glass shelves that held a collection of shiny crystal animals, mostly cats but also porcupines, rabbits, and birds, each one cut and faceted to reflect light from every angle. The bottom shelf was reserved for small glass perfume bottles that looked to be handblown. The thin glass stoppers were fanciful swirls, and they, too, glittered under the lights that were concealed at the top of the window.
    “She must wash those things every day,” Urbanska marveled. She rinsed out the tin and put it in a