The 6th Target - James Patterson [72]
Rich said, “What’s it take to get you to answer the phone, Lindsay?” He was annoyed with me and I didn’t care.
“I was in the shower,” I said. “As far as I know, that’s still allowed. What’s up?”
“There was another attack at the Blakely Arms.”
The air went out of me.
“A homicide?”
“I’ll let you know when I get there. I’m a couple of blocks away.”
“Lock down the building. Every exit,” I said. “No one leaves.”
“I’m on it, Sergeant.”
That’s when I remembered the treadmill victim. How could I have forgotten about him?
“Rich, we forgot to check on Ben Wyatt.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“You called the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Is Wyatt awake?”
“He died two hours ago.”
I told Rich I’d see him shortly and called Cindy — no answer. I snapped my phone closed, slapped it down on the kitchen counter so that I wouldn’t throw it through a window. The microwave binged five times, telling me that dinner was ready.
“I’m going to lose my mind!” I shouted at the timer. “Going to fricking lose it.”
Screw everything! I left the brandy untouched on the counter and my dinner in the microwave. I dressed quickly, buckled my shoulder holster, and threw on my blazer. I called Cindy and got her, told her what was happening.
Then I headed out to Townsend and Third.
By the time I strode into the lobby of the Blakely Arms, I was imagining my next conversation with Cindy. I wasn’t going to take any guff from her, either.
She was going to move in with me until she had somewhere safe to live.
Chapter 100
CINDY WAS WAITING AT THE ENTRANCE to the Blakely Arms, her streaky blond curls blown every which way. Her lipstick looked chewed off.
“Jesus,” she said. “Again? Is this really happening again?”
“Cindy,” I said as we entered the lobby, “has there been any talk in the building? Any gossip? Any fingers pointed toward anyone?”
“Only thing I’ve heard is the nasty sound of people’s nerves snapping.”
We took the elevator together, and once again I was standing outside an apartment in the Freaky Arms that was bristling with uniformed cops.
Conklin nodded to Cindy, then introduced me to Aiden Blaustein. He was a tall white kid, about twenty-two, wearing black-on-black-on-black — torn jeans, Myst T-shirt, vest, a patched leather jacket, and choppy black hair that was short in back, falling across panicky brown eyes.
Conklin said, “Mr. Blaustein is the victim.”
I heard Cindy say, “Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Would you spell your name for me?”
I exhaled. The kid was alive and unhurt but obviously scared half out of his mind.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked Blaustein.
“Fuck if I know! I went out for a six-pack around five,” he said. “Ran into an old girlfriend and we got a bite. When I came home, my place had been totally trashed.”
Conklin pushed open Blaustein’s front door, and I walked inside the studio apartment, Cindy trailing behind me.
“Stay close —” I said.
“And don’t touch anything,” she finished.
The apartment looked like an electronics shop that had been trampled by a rhino on crack. I took a quick count of a desktop computer, three monitors, a stereo, and a forty-two-inch plasma-screen television that had been reduced to shards. Not stolen — destroyed! The desk was banged up, probably collateral damage.
Blaustein said, “It took me years to get all this together just the way I like it.”
“What kind of work do you do?” Cindy asked.
“I design Web sites and games. This stuff cost probably twenty-five.”
“Mr. Blaustein,” I said, “when you went out, did you leave your door open?”
“I never leave my door open.”
“Mr. Blaustein left the music on when he left the apartment,” Rich said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but he didn’t look at me.
“Did anyone complain to you about the music?” I asked.
“Today?”
“Ever,” I said.
“I’ve gotten nasty phone calls from one person,” Blaustein said.
“And who was that?”
“You mean, did he tell me his name? He didn’t even say hello. His opening line was ‘If you don’t turn off that shit, I’m gonna kill you.’ That was the