Sampson and I entered a foyer featuring 1970s decor that showed the dings and scratches of time and neglect.
“Not where I’d be living if I’d inherited a boatload,” Sampson said.
I agreed, thinking that I’d expect a woman in her early thirties with newfound wealth to choose to live in one of the newer, more luxurious apartment buildings in downtown Silver Spring or …
A door to our right opened. A television blared the patter of an announcer for American Ninja Warrior. A nebbishy man in his sixties shuffled out of the apartment wearing a maroon bathrobe over his clothes, slippers, and a blue-and-white yarmulke on his head.
He squinted through round glasses. “You the cops?”
“You the super?” Sampson asked as we showed him our identifications.
“Lord of the castle,” he said. “Arnie Feiffer. How can I help, Detectives?”
“We’d like to go knock on Lourdes Rodriguez’s door,” I said.
“Why? What’s she done?”
“We just want to ask her a few questions about her prior workplace.”
Feiffer hesitated, then said, “I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“C’mon, then,” he said, and he shuffled by us, heading to the elevators. Posted on one of the two was a handwritten sign that read Out of Service.
We rode the creaking, shuddering lift to the eighth floor. The doors squealed open, and we stepped out into a musty hallway with dingy rugs.
We walked down the hall to apartment 805 and rang the bell. There was no answer. We knocked, but no one came to the door. I was about to suggest we leave business cards with a note asking her to call us when from inside we heard the high-pitched mewing and cries of a cat that sounded very upset.
“A cat?” Feiffer said furiously. “No cats. No dogs. The lease is clear.”
After a glance at me, Sampson said, “It’s within your rights to remove the cat from your property. We’ll help. It’s the least we can do for you.”
The superintendent studied us suspiciously. “You’re not looking to get around a warrant, are you?”
Sampson said, “If we wanted to do that, we’d tell you we smelled gas.”
“I run electric,” Feiffer said as the cat’s cries turned frantic.
“Sounds like it’s hungry,” I said. “We could always call in Animal Control for suspicion of neglect on Ms. Rodriguez’s part. They could get us in.”
The super didn’t like that and grudgingly dug under his robe for a key ring. He found the master key and used it to turn the dead bolt and unlock the door.
Feiffer pushed the door open. A filthy yellow-and-orange tabby sprang out and darted between our legs before any of us could grab it. The cat sprinted down the hall, took a sharp right, and disappeared.
“I’m getting too old for this crap,” Feiffer said with a moan, his palm to his forehead.
I saw he wasn’t talking about the cat but about the apartment. The place was empty and swept clean.
CHAPTER
96
FEIFFER TRUDGED INTO the modest one-bedroom apartment and we followed.
When he reached the living area, he gazed around in disbelief. “She never said anything about leaving.”
“We heard she’d inherited a lot of money,” I said.