Chapter Twenty-Five.

Cynthia, accompanied by Mike, followed the elderly woman inside and down the first-floor corridor. For a senior citizen, she moved quickly and led them to an apartment where the door stood open. Cynthia peered inside and saw a man sprawled face-down on the floor. "He isn't moving."

Mike hurried to the man's side while calling on his radio for medical a.s.sistance.

Cynthia turned to the woman. "Did you notice anyone around the apartment or anything suspicious?"

The elderly woman shook her head, her hands trembling and her eyes wide. "I was just on my way to check my mail when I saw him." She pointed to the victim. "He wasn't moving so I hurried back to my apartment and called 911."

Not wanting to involve the sweet, old grandmother any further, Cynthia touched her on the shoulder. "Thank you very much for calling us, Ma'am. We'll take it from here."

The woman smiled, "We? Are you a policeman, too?"

Realizing she wore Alex's regular clothing, Cynthia smiled. "Yes, Ma'am. I worked an undercover a.s.signment today."

The woman displayed a toothless grin and turned to leave.

"Before you go, do you have any idea whose apartment this might be?" Cynthia inquired.

"No, can't say that I do. I've seen the man a time or two but I don't know his name. Strange man, he is."

"Well, thanks again. You take care now." She heaved a huge sigh, something she'd been doing frequently. Was it just her or were all the men in this building strange? If she wasn*t so distraught, she might have laughed; she was a fine one to talk.

Cynthia's heart raced as she hurried back inside. How did Alex and Mike stand the stress of this job? One never knew what a call would entail, and she'd seen more than she ever wanted to; autopsy photos, victims of strangulation, and now this. The apartment was just as dark and dreary as the super's, but not nearly as nasty. Old furniture, tattered draperies, and the stale and stagnant smell of smoke and mustiness reeked in the air. But who lived here?

Mike rolled the man over onto his back and Cynthia gasped. "It's the building super."

"That John Cratski, guy?"

"Yes. Is he alive?"

"He has a bad b.u.mp on his head, but his pulse feels strong," Mike a.s.sured.

Cynthia scanned the room. "This isn't his apartment. I wonder what he was doing in here. Surely not fixing something...he'd need tools for that."

The paramedics arrived with stretcher and first aid kit. Mike and Cynthia backed away to give them room. While EMT personnel tended to the victim, Mike turned to her. "Do you think this guy had anything to do with Cynthia's disappearance?"

"I don't know. This whole thing just keeps getting more confusing. I would've put my money on him, but now...I have to talk to him when he wakes."

When the medical staff had loaded the super onto the gurney and started for the door, Mike nudged her. "Once we get to the hospital, maybe you can get some answers."

All kinds of facts danced in her mind and two questions kept surfacing. Whose apartment were they in, and was Cratski there for a legitimate reason? Normally, he would be the resource to provide the tenant's name, but that wasn't likely to happen any time soon.

She had an idea. "Mike, would you mind if I stayed behind while you followed the ambulance? I have something I need to do here."

He raised his brow. "Is it legal?"

"I'm not sure. But if I don't tell you what it is, then you don't have to worry."

Mike nodded and followed the parade. Cynthia accompanied them as far as the lobby. Several doors opened as they pa.s.sed, cracked only enough for curious eyes to peer out into the hallway. Could Alex be imprisoned behind one of them? Determined to find out, she waited until the ambulance and Mike drove away.

This was her chance. She wanted to get into Cratski's apartment for days and this was the perfect opportunity. But how? Alex was the one who knew how to open doors without keys. As she approached the super's apartment, she puzzled over her dilemma. What were the chances she'd find it unlocked?

She turned the k.n.o.b. The key G.o.d smiled down on her. The door opened.

Inside, the curtains were pulled closed and the interior masked in darkness. She quickly shut the door behind her and locked it. No use inviting trouble.

The placed smelled like a huge ashtray. Cynthia wrinkled her nose at the stench, crossed to the window and pushed the draperies aside. A yellow nicotine film stained the gla.s.s and created a strange reflection of sunlight on the walls. Feeling grimy, she wiped her hands together. How did people live in such filth? This guy made Alex's cleaning standards look good in comparison.

She surveyed the room. What exactly was she looking for? She had no idea, which made finding a starting place for her search twice as confusing. Maybe if she looked in every nook and cranny, some sort of clue would jump out at her.

Opening drawer after drawer, she rifled through the super's belongings. The kitchen turned up nothing at all, only cheap utensils and lots and lots of matchbooks.

She moved to the bedroom. Just as Alex had said, the super definitely had an interest in the kidnap-murder case. Newspapers, all pages turned to stories of the crime, littered the room. Of course, more matchbooks, dirty clothes, and used paper plates. Didn't the man own a trashcan?

On the nightstand lay a blueprint of some sort. Cynthia picked it up and scanned the confusing configuration. The yellow and aged paper made absolutely no sense. She put it back where she got it and moved to the bureau. She searched its contents, moving aside underwear and socks, looking under everything. There was definitely nothing that held a special meaning inside. Even a search under the bed proved fruitless; dust bunnies and a dirty sock. As a child, she'd always feared that monsters dwelled beneath her mattress, and if ever such a creature existed, this would be the perfect place to live. She stood, brushed off her knees.

"Ohhh," she groaned. "Why can't I find anything?" She slammed her fist into her open palm.

If the man was John Cratski, why wasn't there something there to prove his ident.i.ty Something like a bill, a letter...anything! The walls were void of pictures, and she'd found no alb.u.ms to tie him to family. Surely even this slob had relatives.

Her search proved futile and she had to face facts. There was nothing in the apartment that pointed toward Alex...pointed toward anything for that matter. She wanted to scream. Her anger got the best of her and she picked up a stack of papers and sent them flying.

The sheets fluttered to the threadbare carpet and blended in with the newspapers and wrappers already littering the floor. She shrugged her shoulders as she eyed the mess. Who would notice? Besides, there was no use wasting any more time sifting through garbage. Maybe Mike was having better luck at the hospital.

She made sure all the drawers were closed and put the curtains back as they were, then slightly opened the door and peered out into the hallway. When she saw the coast was clear, she darted out the door, closing it behind her, and sped up the stairs.

Cynthia paced. What the heck was taking Mike so long to call? Surely Cratski had regained consciousness by now. The waiting was torture; fear and anxiety tangoed on her last nerve. She tried to watch TV or read the newspaper, but despite being exhausted, she felt guilty sitting on her b.u.t.t when Alex needed her. She'd experienced frustration in her life but it didn't come close to comparing with how she felt at the moment.

She wanted to call Mike, but feared acting out of character. Alex would know his partner would keep him informed as soon as he had something to share. She'd just have to bite the proverbial bullet and wait.

Weariness overtook her. She hadn't slept for hours, and since there was nothing she could do now, rest seemed the best idea. If any leads developed, she would at least be refreshed enough to pursue them. She turned the radio on for background noise and stretched out on the sofa. Her lids grew heavy and finally closed.

At the sound of a ringing phone, she jerked awake. She had no idea how long she'd slept, but bolted to her feet so fast, she made herself dizzy.

"h.e.l.lo?" she answered, still groggy and bothered by the images in her dreams.

"Hi, it's Mike. I-"

"What in the world took so long? I've been going crazy waiting for your call."

"Sorry, but it took forever for the doctors to come out and tell me what was going on. You know what it's like in a hospital. Hurry up and wait."

"Well..." she pressed." Are you going to share the news or keep me guessing?"

"Our victim finally came around. It seems he was bushwhacked from behind and thinks he knows who did it."

"Who?" Maybe this was it. The tip she needed.

"He tells a pretty rambling story and I'd like you to hear it directly from him. If you can hang on just a while longer, I'll be bringing him home. They're putting in a few st.i.tches and releasing him to me. Think you can handle the wait?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Fine lot of good that phone call did," she mumbled as she paced. She checked the clock. An hour had pa.s.sed and the waiting wore on her nerves. She'd much rather be sleeping than worrying, but there was no chance she could relax enough for repose.

What if nothing useful came of all this? What if it was too late and Alex was already... She stopped short of thinking the dreaded word. Her mouth dry, her pulse racing in her ears, she clasped her hands. "Please, Alex, hold on. I'm trying to find you."

At long last, a knock on the door. She opened it to find Mike accompanied by John Cratski. The bandage wrapped around the super's head resembled a poor imitation of a turban. She almost wanted to laugh, but he looked miserable and she was too tense.

She opened the door wider. "Come in, please."

Mike motioned toward the couch. "Sit down, Peter."

"Peter?" She closed the door then jerked around. "I'm glad you're on a first-name basis, but I though your name was John."

The super, grimacing in obvious pain, sat. He gingerly touched the side of his head.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she offered. Although she didn't feel like playing hostess, he looked pale.

"Naw," he said. "I just wanna catch the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h who hit me."

How much more p.u.s.s.y-footing around could she stand? Clearly, she lacked the endurance they a.s.sumed. "Can you please tell me what's going on?"

"First of all," Mike gestured to the super, "let me introduce you to Peter Sorenson. Peter is an FBI agent."

Chapter Twenty-Six.

"FBI?" Cynthia's jaw dropped open. When she recovered from the shock, a million questions spun through her mind and jockeyed for position on the tip of her tongue. "FBI agent, here? Why? How come you made everyone believe you were John Cratski? Does this have anything to do with my friend's disappearance?"

"Whoa! Slow down!" Sorenson held up his hand. "I'll tell you if you give me a chance."

Cynthia pulled a chair from beneath the kitchen table, dragged it around and sat facing him. "Okay. Tell me!"

"I was a.s.signed to this case the moment the first body was discovered. That woman, Helga Thorston, was in the United States on an expired visitor's visa. In investigating her whereabouts, we discovered she had become romantically involved with a certain citizen and planned to marry him to remain in the States. When her body was discovered and identified, the incident was reported to the FBI because, as a crime against a resident alien, it falls within our jurisdiction."

Cynthia stared beyond him, then refocused and tilted her head. "That still doesn't explain why you masqueraded as a building superintendent here at The Cairns."

"Your old super chose to leave at an optimal time. My suspect moved into this building, and how better to watch him than to move in, too? I applied for and got the job. Of course, I had to tell a few little white lies. I suck at fixing things. I've never been very handy."

Cynthia flashed on all the times she'd ranted about a lack of response. "That explains a lot, but go on."

"Anyhow, when I identified my suspect, I kept him under surveillance. I was trying to find something to tie him to the other murders, but couldn't until today. It wasn't until recently that I figured out how he's been getting out of the building without me seeing him."

Confusion clouded her brain. "Who are we talking about here?"

"Thomas Carpenter," Sorenson answered.

"Carpenter!" She stared at him, disbelief dragging her mouth open. She glanced from him to Mike. "He's the creep who spends so much time standing out front ogling the ladies. I never would have guessed. He seems like nothing more than an annoying fly at a picnic."

Alex had been so sure Cratski was the culprit; he didn't see the real criminal right in front of his face. He believed that Carpenter was just a harmless masher, just as she did. They couldn't have been more wrong. The news was hard to digest.

She had to find the creep, and now. "So, Peter, I'm a.s.suming you believe Carpenter is the one who gave you the headache?"

"I'm positive. I got careless and let him get the jump on me. I went to his apartment to confront him about the stack of blue rags I discovered he'd recently purchased. I turned my back on him for just a minute to put out my cigarette."

Time was of the essence, and already too much had been wasted. Cynthia had to ask the hardest question. "Do you think he's tied to the disappearance of Cynthia Freitas?" Saying her own name sounded foreign.

"Makes sense to me." Peter rubbed his temple through his medical dressings. "The victimology fits his style: blonde hair, pet.i.te frame, and since she went missing from this building, I'd almost bet he's our man."

"Where do you suppose Carpenter is now?" Mike asked.

"Miles from here, I'd imagine. Now that he knows we're on to him, he'll hightail it as far away from here as possible."

Cynthia dipped her chin and released a loud breath. "Well, we can't just sit here, we have to put our heads together and find her, before...."

Mike thumped her on the back. "We will, Alex, we will!" He turned to Sorenson. "You said something about Carpenter leaving the building without being seen...."

"I had to get a schematic of the building to find out how, but somewhere down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, there's a door to a tunnel that leads across the street to another bas.e.m.e.nt. It was devised as a fire escape plan back when this building was originally built. The route may dead-end now since the building to which it connected was torn down years ago and a new one erected in its place, but there's a hatch leading to outside. It comes up in the alley across the way."

Mike scratched his head. "I wouldn't have suspected Carpenter either. So visible. He's the one person we saw the most during the twenty-four hours we watched the building."

Cynthia, her heart pounding, scrambled to her feet. "Have you searched the bas.e.m.e.nt, yet?"

Sorenson shook his head. "I haven't had time to do more than just scan the area. That was my next plan as soon as I had Carpenter in custody. The blue rags and the receipt gave me enough to hold him for twenty-four hours while I looked for more evidence to tie him to the murders."

Her eyes widened. "The bas.e.m.e.nt...maybe that's where he took Cynthia! Why didn't we think of that?" She rubbed her brow. "It's because he left all his other victims in an alley, and we never thought..." She answered her own question. "Let's quit talking about it and go look. We may still have time before...."

Peter stood, holding his head and steadying himself against the chair. "Wow, I owe that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h..." He took a moment to orient himself. "Let's go to my apartment and get the building diagram."

Cynthia flashed on the blueprint she'd seen and muttered a curse. The very clue she needed had been right in front of her nose.

Peter handed her the aged piece of paper. "Don't mind the mess; I haven't really had time to clean."

The smell hadn't improved since Cynthia had been there, but she didn't comment.