Robideau handed back the envelope without comment. As he moved to the door, Leonard called after him, “So what are you goin’ to do about them gerfeedy criminals, huh?”
The chief sat in his car thinking. He agreed with the cantankerous Boski that, at least superficially, things appeared normal. The apartment was messy but not alarmingly so. Nothing overturned or broken, no sign of foul play. But certain things were troubling. The clock showing winter time when it ought to have been rolled forward to daylight-saving ten days ago. The girl was last seen on the twenty-ninth — almost a week before the clocks changed. And then there were the plants. Mrs. Robideau kept plants and wouldn’t dream of neglecting them. If she went away, she left explicit instructions as to their care — water twice a week and a careful dusting of the leaves — and woe to the chief if he forgot.
Miss Lemay liked plants, too. Dressing them up with little ornaments like that gnome. If she had been missing since before the clocks changed, her plants ought to be pretty dry. But the soil that little gnome was sitting on was as moist as a West Coast rain forest.
Somebody was watering those plants.
Roald Overberg, owner of the Highcliff Apartments, was a tall, observant septuagenarian erect as an obelisk behind the calf-lined blotter of his teakwood desk. He gazed back at Robideau with eyes like two bright blue crystals. His skin was tanned, the legacy of a winter vacation. He wore a gray silk tie, a cashmere sweater, and showed half an inch of starched white shirtcuff at both wrists.
“The letters went out two months ago,” Robideau told him. “You must have got one. Besides, the new bylaws are the talk of the town.”
Overberg shrugged, displaying a patronizing smile. “I generally disregard the ‘talk of the town,’ chief. To a man of my years it hardly seems relevant. And as to the letter, well, no doubt it’s misfiled. I’m not as organized as I once was.”
The chief replied with a doubtful glance. The room was tidy to the point of fastidiousness, even the objects on the desk appearing to have been positioned with a special template. He said:
“There’s one other matter...”
“Oh?” Overberg’s trim gray eyebrows moved.
“It seems as though one of your tenants is missing.”
“Really? How strange. I’ve never misplaced one before.”
Robideau gave him a caustic look. “Don’t you want to know who I’m referring to?”
“Oh yes. Of course.”
“I mean Miss Angela Lemay. She’s not been seen for weeks. You weren’t aware of it?”
Overberg’s teeth were startlingly white in that tan face.
“Chief Robideau. Really. People lead their own lives. It’s not my province to meditate on their whereabouts. But since you drive me to it, my guess would be that she’s on a vacation.”
“That’s my guess, too, but I need to nail down some dates. Can you show me her last rental payment? She doesn’t use postdated checks, I hope.”
“As a matter of fact, she pays cash.”
“Then you’ll have a receipt stub.”
Overberg studied him. Still smiling, he made a circular motion with his hand. “Again, it will be here somewhere. I need time to locate it, that’s all.”
“Fine. I’ll call back. One last thing. The lock’s been changed on her apartment. When was that done?”
“I have no idea.”
“Not changed by you at her request?”
Did his smile twitch slightly? “No, sir, it wasn’t.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, people changing locks like that? I’d imagine you’d want access in some situations.”
“Good Lord, chief, I don’t have access personally. I leave that to my superintendent. I have enough keys to lug around.” He flourished a key fob, which Robideau’s sharp eyes noticed held only four keys and a small metal charm.
“It seems odd,” Robideau said, “that she’d replace a lock at her own expense when she could have had you re-key the old one.”
“When you find her you’ll have to ask her about that, won’t you?”
Robideau held the steely blue gaze a moment, then got up.
“I hope,” he said from the door, “you’ll act promptly on those bylaw infractions. The fire door. And that garbage chute...”
Missing person reports were not common in End of Main, and so Chief Robideau was surprised to receive a second one the very next day. Even more interesting was the name and address of the complainant, Mrs. Tozer. She lived one street over from the Highcliff — in fact, just across the alley from it. She could not locate her son, a man of about forty who was no stranger to Chief Robideau’s files. Edward Tozer (Ted, his mom called him) had been accused of unsavory acts in the past, several times being a suspect in the mutilation of neighborhood pets.
Mrs. Tozer was as he remembered her, a heavy woman with an aura of doom about her. She had no idea where poor Teddy could be.
Robideau asked, “Was there an argument between the two of you? Was he threatening to go off on his own?”
“His clothes are still in his closet, aren’t they? And his money — all what he had — is still in the tin box under his bed. He wouldn’t leave that. Not on purpose.”
“All right, Mrs. Tozer, let’s visit his room.”
She led him up a malodorous staircase, wheezing asthmatically like someone unaccustomed to the climb. Probably, Robideau thought, she hadn’t been up these stairs in years.
There was scarcely space for the two of them in the half-story room. It had walls of half-height that angled up to a low, narrow ceiling. The bed was a tangle of sheets. The walls were covered with posters, and realizing the violent nature of some of them, Robideau’s jaw tightened. Not typical movie horror scenes, this was neo-Nazi stuff, hateful and vicious. Sensing his disapproval, Mrs. Tozer was defensive. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s just something he’s going through.”
Good Lord. And the man was forty.
A sheet of drawing paper lay on a rickety sideboard, covered with writing that was heavily stylistic. Fat, pillowy, indecipherable characters. The markings repeated as if whoever made them had been practicing penmanship.
“Has Ted taken up calligraphy?”
“I dunno. What’s that?”
“Fancy writing.”
“Oh, he can write okay. He’s not stupid, you know.”
Back they went down the creaking stairs. At the door, the woman told Robideau emotionlessly, “I hope you find him soon. It’s important.”
Robideau paused. “How so?”
“He’s got a job. He was looking for ages, since you told him that’s what he should do, but no luck. Then a man offered him work. A man he met someplace.” She swung her head morosely. “He’s already done a few things for him.”
“What sort of work is it?”
“Ted never told me.”
“Did you meet his employer?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know anything about him? Anything at all?”
She screwed up her heavy face in concentration. “Well, sir, one thing. Ted said he wore an overcoat that could of paid off our mortgage.”
This time the tanned face appeared strained. In a slow, practiced movement, Overberg cupped the back of his head with linked fingers and leaned back, as though to communicate a relaxed sincerity.
“I know of Ted Tozer. Who doesn’t in this town? But he doesn’t work for me, and even if he did, I trust that wouldn’t be a crime under some new bylaw.” He went on gratuitously. “We may have been seen together. We talked at the mall one day. A chance encounter.”