Read The Man on the Washing Machine for Free Online Page B

with.”
    â€œNo, I suppose not.”
    â€œIs your partner here today?”
    â€œShe probably dropped off some merchandise earlier, but—no.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll catch her at home.” Her glance sharpened. “By the way, we’ve taken the seal off the attic rooms at the building where Mr. Callahan fell.”
    â€œOh,” I said. And then, because she seemed to expect more, I added: “Good.”
    â€œThere are new people moving in; some sort of shelter or halfway house, I’m told.”
    â€œAlready?” That was an unpleasant surprise. I’d been lobbying neighborhood association members for a couple of months, trying to calm the panic about a harmless group home in the Gardens, but they were still twitchy. I thought I had a little more time to bring them around.
    â€œThe attic rooms contain some storage boxes and furniture. The shelter people say it’s nothing to do with them,” she said, still watching me closely.
    â€œThe property manager has been renting out storage space. I guess I’d better mention it at the association meeting tonight. I know some of us have stuff at number twenty-three. The new people will want it out of there. We didn’t expect them to move in so soon.”
    â€œI’d like a list of the people who have their belongings stored in the building. Can you get that for me?”
    â€œI’ll do my best.”
    She nodded and surprised me by glancing around the store and adding: “Do you have somewhere private we can talk?”
    â€œI’m here alone. This is as private as it gets. What do you need?”
    She hesitated. “This is something I’d prefer to discuss without customers coming in.”
    I didn’t feel too good about that, but I walked to the door, locked it, and flipped the Open sign to Back in Ten Minutes. I led her back into our tiny office and waved her into the only chair.
    â€œI can stand, Ms. Bogart. Why don’t you take a seat?” She waited while I sat down, and cleared her throat. “We do a surface investigation of everyone who witnesses something like Mr. Callahan’s death,” she began. I felt the color drop out of my face. “In your case of course we learned about the robbery and attack on you last year.”
    â€œOf course you did,” I said, and tried to keep the relief out of my voice. Could my life tolerate any more irony? I was relieved she was digging into my terrifying run-in with a knife-wielding robber instead of my family history.
    â€œThe man was never caught.”
    â€œNo. No, he wasn’t. He covered his face. I wasn’t able to identify him.”
    â€œI’m sorry to bring it all up again.” She paused briefly. “We’ve been told Mr. Callahan was a petty thief. Is that true?”
    I nodded. “He called it hand jive, and thought people were fools to leave their stuff where it could be stolen,” I said.
    â€œAnd yet people hired him?”
    â€œHe was a fixture around here. Mostly he worked where there was nothing to steal. Attics. Garages. Places like that.”
    â€œI see. You’re our only witness to Mr. Callahan’s death, but even you didn’t see the start of his fall and, according to you, Davie Rillera—”
    I stood convulsively and ran both hands through my hair. “I saw him sweeping downstairs and I spoke to him!”
    While my heart rate had about doubled in the past sixty seconds, she looked unfazed. “A weapon isn’t always designed for violence. Sometimes ordinary household items can kill. Think of that broom, Ms. Bogart.” She pantomimed a waist-high lunge with both fists around an imaginary broom handle. “Mr. Callahan had a deep bruise on his midsection, which the M.E. tells me would have occurred immediately before his death.”
    The image of a broom being shoved at Tim Callahan as he stood on a windowsill painting the window frame was all