“The judge’s will?” Pescoli asked.
“That’s right,” Alvarez said and filled her in as they drove the final few miles to Wanda Verdago’s apartment.
“So Vincent’s in play. I knew it when he disappeared,” she said, guiding her Jeep to an area of apartment buildings. “We need to send someone out there.”
“I’ll text Rule. See if he’s available.”
Alvarez was just finishing the text when Pescoli said, “Here we go. Now, which one is it?”
“Right here.” Alvarez pointed to a two-story building that looked a lot like a motel straight out of the seventies. Barely lit, a sign announced that they’d reached the Aspen Grove Apartments. With staircases on either end of a long porch facing the parking lot, the units were delineated by doors surrounded by a large plate-glass window on one side and two smaller windows on the other. Cookie-cutter apartments. The Verdago unit was on the second floor, so they parked next to a black SUV with plates indicating it belonged to Wanda Verdago. As Alvarez stepped out of the warm interior of the Jeep she was hit by a blast of cold, subfreezing air that seemed to cut through her thick jacket.
Thankfully the parking lot was clear of snow and ice, but the asphalt was cracked, several potholes gouged into the surface, and the paint on the trim of the building was peeling. The few shrubs that were the complex’s meager attempt at landscaping were still dusted with snow and shivered in the breeze.
Pescoli led the way as they climbed the exterior staircase and rapped loudly on the screen door of Unit 212.
No response.
But it felt as if someone was home. Though the curtains of the largest window facing the porch were drawn, there was a thin gap between the panels, just enough space for the flickering blue light of a television to pass through.
Pescoli pounded again, more determinedly.
This time, she got a response.
“Coming!” a raspy voice called from inside the unit as the sound of frantic tread reached Alvarez’s ears.
“I hope there’s no back exit,” she said.
“Probably only a second-story window,” Pescoli said.
“Swear to God, Joe and I had an apartment that was identical to these when we were first married.” Nonetheless, Alvarez jogged back down the stairs and took a peek behind the building to find out that her partner was right, there wasn’t even a small back deck for the upper units or patio for the lower ones.
Perfect.
She hurried up the stairs again and heard Pescoli pound on the door for a third time. By the time she reached the door, Pescoli had already fished her badge from her pocket and the irritated voice from within called, “Hold on to your damned horses, will ya?”
The door opened and a heavyset woman wearing too much makeup and too little clothing stood on the other side of the screen door. Her white-blond hair was a wild tangle, her mascara thick and clumping, shiny green shadow shimmering on her eyelids, the rest of her face washed out and pale. Struggling into a bathrobe that was two sizes too small in an effort to hide the fact that she’d been lounging in a nearly see-through T-shirt and underwear, she was already talking as the door swung wide. “Whatever it is you’re peddling, I don’t want—oh, shit!” She looked up just as she tried to cinch the gaping terrycloth together with a tie and saw their badges. “Now what?”
Quickly they introduced themselves, and Pescoli asked if she was Wanda Verdago, though they’d seen her picture enough times to make a visual ID. “Well, yeah, I’m her, but what the hell do you want with me? I already talked to the cops.”
“I know, but we have a few more questions.”
“About that shithead Maurice?” she asked, her features pulling together into a knot of distaste. “God damn, I regret the day I met that son of a bitch.”
“Can we come in?”
“Hell, no!” she said automatically, then seemed to think better of it. ?
?Oh, crap. Sure. Why not? Just give me a sec, would ya?” And before they could answer, she closed the door, locked it, and left them on the concrete porch that connected four units and where a scrawny fake fir tree sat in a plastic pot, decorated in lights that didn’t so much as twinkle.
Wanda appeared a few minutes later, her blondish curls clipped away from her pale face, navy sweatpants and an oversized striped shirt replacing the pajamas. She was still barefoot, her toenails shining a deep holiday red. “Come on in and excuse the mess,” she said, unlatching the door and leading them past a small entry hall and into the living room where a shag rug from somewhere south of 1972 had been stretched across the floor and shampooed so often the burnt orange had faded to a dull, hairy apricot tone. Judging by the rolling lumps in the carpet near the hallway, it was in serious need of another stretch at the very least. The house smelled of microwave popcorn, and a few tiny white kernels were visible on a dusty table where a solitary green candle burned but did little to cover up the buttery odor.
“I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you want to know,” she said, dropping onto a corner of a once-sleek couch where the cushion definitely sagged, indicating she’d plopped into her favorite spot. An aluminum tree dominated one corner of the room, a flat-screen TV placed opposite the sofa.
“Well, that would help,” Pescoli admitted.
She snorted through her nose, a sound of disgust. As Pescoli and Alvarez took seats in the two floral occasional chairs, Wanda cast a rueful glance at the television, then plucked a remote from the coffee table and paused some game show.
“Do you have any idea where he’d go?” Alvarez asked.