Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

“No, but Jimmy was always forgetting his keys and getting locked out, so he kept a key in the potted plant by the elevator.”

“Let’s take a look at his condo.”

* * *

—

The condo building was an ugly yellow brick cube on the edge of the Burg. It had originally been divided into apartments, and it was almost as old as the La-Z-Boys. The interior was dark and utilitarian. The halls were narrow. Jimmy lived on the third floor.

“Jimmy moved here after the second divorce,” Grandma said, taking the key from the potted plant. “He liked the location. He wanted to stay in the Burg.” She opened the door to his unit and flipped the light switch.

The shades had all been drawn, and even with the lights on, the room was dark.

“Jimmy didn’t care much about decorating,” Grandma said. “He felt comfortable with this old stuff. He said it suited him.”

“I guess you get used to something, and you don’t want to change,” Lula said. “Anybody know the age of this building? This wallpaper looks like it’s been on here about fifty years.”

I knew several people had thoroughly searched the condo, but nothing looked disturbed. The two rolled-arm chairs in the living room had a floral print that was faded and threadbare. The cushions in the green velvet rolled-arm couch were in need of plumping. Magazines and newspapers were stacked on a small coffee table. Table lamps had shades that were yellow with age.

“I don’t like to be a critical person,” Lula said, “but this is a big disillusioning experience. I can’t see the mob’s number-one hit man sitting in this sad chair covered in Martha Stewart fabric. It’s not even new Martha Stewart fabric. Where’s the liquor cabinet? Where’s the gun safe?”

“Jimmy didn’t drink,” Grandma said. “And I never saw him with a gun.”

“Maybe he wasn’t really a killer,” Lula said. “Maybe he was a big fibber. Like, the old guys would get together and talk about things they never did.”

I recognized the decorating style. There were a lot of houses in the Burg that were exactly like this. Houses that had aged with their owners. Houses that had passed from one generation to the next with few changes. A new refrigerator. A new hot water heater. The wallpaper was unchanged because someone’s grandma had picked it out when she was a bride, and it provided a treasured connection. Sometimes a new owner like Jimmy would come in and have no real connection, but the space just felt right. It felt familiar. It was the fits like an old shoe syndrome. I suspected if Grandma moved into the space, she’d gut it and decorate it like the Jetsons’ penthouse.

“Jimmy sometimes forgot his condo key, so let’s assume that he absentmindedly left the La-Z-Boys keys somewhere,” I said. “Everyone else was looking for places he might hide the keys. Let’s go on the premise that the keys were lost, and he ran out of time to find them.”

After an hour we still didn’t have the keys. We found an old lottery ticket and some loose change in the couch. We found a TV remote in the freezer, and a lot of expired food in the small pantry.

“He’s got a can of beans in here looks like it’s as old as the wallpaper,” Lula said.

“Jimmy didn’t cook,” Grandma said. “He ate out all the time. He didn’t even make coffee. He got his coffee at the Starbucks down the street. All he ate at home was ice cream. He liked his ice cream.”

“He has a stacked washer and dryer but no laundry detergent,” I said.

“Yep. Sent it out. Linens, towels, clothes, everything. It all came back folded and ironed.”

“Do you know what service he used?”

“Blue Ribbon. It’s the best. We take our dry cleaning there sometimes,” Grandma said. “They came and picked it all up for Jimmy and brought it back two days later.”

“I’m starting to like this guy,” Lula said. “He had a good lifestyle going. He didn’t do nothing for himself.”

I called Blue Ribbon Cleaners and asked for the manager. I explained that I was calling for Jimmy’s wife and that she was inquiring about clothes that might have been left there.

“Well?” Lula said when I hung up. “How’d that go?”

“The manager said all clothes had been delivered to Jimmy the day before he left for the Bahamas.”

We locked the condo, returned the key to the planter, and stepped into the elevator.

“We’re missing something,” I said. “What about Jimmy’s car?”

“It’s probably in the garage under the building,” Grandma said. “He had a slot for it. He was number seven.”

I punched G on the elevator button, and the doors opened to the garage.