On the plus side, the windows next door were made of ordinary glass and there was no laser net inside, at least not an activated one. I peered inside and made sure the neighbors hadn’t just gone to bed early. A preliminary check of the window confirmed that it was locked. I took off the goggles and, using the laser blade, cut a rectangle large enough to crawl through. Removing the section of window carefully, I stepped down into the apartment.
I got out my flashlight and moved the beam around. The apartment was furnished sparsely, but tastefully. The motif was floral, a school to which I didn’t subscribe, but could certainly appreciate. A simple, black leather couch took up a large section of the wall on the right. On the other side of the wall behind the couch was Ching’s apartment.
I touched the surface of the wall, then knocked on it. A previously overlooked option occurred to me. I pulled the couch carefully away from the wall and pulled out the laser blade.
I’d never used the laser blade on anything more dense than glass, but I thought it might have enough juice to cut through plasterboard. Kneeling down, I aimed the laser beam and began to cut. The wall studs were about two feet apart and, when I finished, there was an opening approximately two feet wide by three feet high. Luckily, this section of the wall had no electrical wiring. Once the hole in the neighbor’s wall was opened, I cut into the plasterboard on Ching’s side. Two minutes later, a matching section of plasterboard came loose and toppled over.
I replaced my laser blade, snapped on the goggles, and squirmed partway through the opening. The laser net I’d seen from outside extended to about halfway between me and the wall under the window. As long as I didn’t get too careless, it looked like I’d be relatively free to explore the rest of the apartment.
I pulled myself all the way through the opening, then stood and took a look around. The first things I noticed were nearly a dozen terrariums, tanks, and aquariums of various makes and sizes, filled with everything from tropical fish to a boa constrictor. The soft and flickering ambient light provided plenty of visibility, so I didn’t bother to turn on the flashlight.
As I looked back up, a figure moved suddenly on the far side of the room. I froze as my heart rate instantaneously tripled. Trying not to breathe, I peered toward the opposite wall and saw the face of a middle-aged man staring back at me, wild-eyed. After an instant of confusion, I realized it was me. My knees nearly buckled with relief, and it took a minute for the pounding in my ears to subside.
As my breathing slowly returned to normal, I inspected the walls of the room, which turned out to be covered with pricey-looking paintings and ornately framed mirrors. The room was not large, maybe twenty-five feet wide and forty feet long, but the mirrors gave it a much bigger feel. Some furniture was scattered here and there, but this appeared to be more of a den than a living room. I noticed a desk in one of the corners and decided to start there.
On top of the desk, I found a computer printout containing a list of names. As I looked it over, one name jumped out at me: Lowell Percival. The billionaire industrialist had been a client of mine years ago. I scanned the list and, as far as I could tell, it consisted of people interested in buying rare artifacts.
I continued on and quickly rooted through the drawers of the desk, but turned up nothing related to what I was looking for. The terrariums and aquariums didn’t seem to be worth checking out, but I did anyway, just to be on the safe side. I paused to take a closer look at Ching’s boa, which was curled into a dormant mound the size of a stegosaurus dropping. To the right of this terrarium was another, this one containing three brightly colored, venomous-looking serpents. Ching certainly had strange tastes. I imagined that poisonous snakes would be slightly less cuddly pets than, say, a puppy. Between the terrariums, I saw a long metal pole with a noose on the end. The thought of one of the snakes getting loose made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.
There was only one door leading out of the room, directly across from the freshly cut hole in the wall. I opened it and stepped into Ching’s living room. The second window I’d looked in was on my right, opposite the front door to the apartment. The reflections of the city lights provided some light, but not enough for a thorough search. The room was about the same size as the den, but was much more lavishly furnished.
Directly across from me, I saw a large, wooden bookcase, crammed full of books. To the right of the bookcase was an open doorway, leading to a small kitchen area. To the left was a closed door, then a five-figure couch and love seat that occupied the entire corner of the room. I paused to examine a display cabinet teeming with exotic objects. The room was filled with plants, vases, and other ostentatious decorations. The exposed walls were covered with paintings and still more mirrors. The apartment was a narcissist’s dream.
I walked around the room, examining the objects d’art and feeling like a tourist. In one section of the room, I found a panel that opened to reveal a small but magnificently stocked liquor cabinet. Ching kept an admirable selection of bourbons and scotches, as well as the usual token bottles of rum, gin, and vodka. I was thirsty and nervous, but all I really wanted was to finish the job and get out.
Eventually, I made my way to the bookcase and looked through it. Many of the volumes were foreign. Unless these were just for show, it looked as though Ching spoke at least English, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, and probably several other languages I couldn’t identify. The selection of books ranged from The Complete Works of
Shakespeare to a collection by some guy named Flannery O’Connor. Regrettably, my preferred reading material had always fallen somewhere between Spider-man comics and the back of a Cheerios box. Of the several hundred volumes in the bookcase, I’d read only one — For Whom the Bell Tolls. Well, read was an exaggeration, but I’d seen the movie. Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman. Now that was a woman. Women like that had disappeared around the time tube tops and tie-dye became fashionable. What a goddess. I sighed involuntarily. So very lonely.
I moved to the closed door, which turned out to be the entrance to the bano, the most commonly used Spanish word not directly related to food. There was nothing remarkable about the bathroom. To be thorough, I opened the medicine cabinet and casually glanced over the contents. Unlike some people, I’ve never had an interest in inspecting other people’s medicinal and hygienic inventories. It looked like a pretty typical selection, so I closed the cabinet and returned to the living room.
The last area I checked was the kitchen. A stove, a microwave, a refrigerator, a sink, and a small dinette set were crammed into a space maybe fifteen feet square. Cupboards mounted on the walls circled the perimeter of the room. I took a peek in the refrigerator, but the interior was even more vacuous than the back at my office. After ten minutes, I realized that there was nothing to find in the kitchen.
I stepped back into the living room, discouraged. I’d searched carefully, but had nothing more than the name of an old client and an unwelcome reminder of my lack of exposure to classic literature. I swung the flashlight beam around, hoping to spot something I’d overlooked, but there didn’t appear to be any container or space large enough to hold the item I was looking for.
I started moving everything that wasn’t ruggedly attached to a wall and inspecting the areas underneath. Behind an antique-looking oil painting of buxom fruit, I found a small wall safe. Naturally, I was excited, but after experimenting with the dial for some time, I lost interest and returned to my search. There was nothing but wall behind the living room mirrors and paintings. The kitchen didn’t turn up anything, so I moved into the den. After fifteen minutes, I’d come up empty again.