The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross 25)
“That right?” the super said, raising one bushy gray eyebrow. “She never mentioned it, but why would she? How long ago?”
“Few months.”
“Big money and she lived here for months?” Feiffer said, incredulous.
What could I say? The man knew his place in the market.
“Could we see your copy of her lease?” Sampson asked.
“Why?” he said, suspicious again.
“I gather you have no forwarding address since she skipped out, but there will be bank and reference information in the lease agreement that might help us figure out where she’s gone.”
Feiffer considered that and then nodded.
After confirming that Rodriguez had indeed removed all her possessions, we were on our way out when I noticed some newspapers in a brown paper bag behind the door. I picked the bag up, hoping they’d give us an idea of how long she’d been gone.
I pulled out a stack of loose newspaper sections and flipped through a few.
The sections were all from the Washington Post, several going back a month or more, front pages mostly, with a few Metro sections thrown in. I kept looking through the newspapers as we rode down and noticed something that quickly became a troubling pattern.
I kept it to myself until Feiffer had gone into his apartment and we were alone in the lobby.
“We’re keeping these papers,” I said, slipping them back in the bag.
“Why’s that?” Sampson asked.
“In almost every section there’s a story about Gretchen Lindel or one of the other missing girls.”
“So maybe Lourdes Rodriguez had reason to sneak out in the middle of the night.”
“Maybe she did.”
Feiffer emerged from his apartment with a file marked APARTMENT 805—L. RODRIGUEZ. I flipped the file open, took a glance at the standard rental-agreement form, and then zeroed in on a photo of the tenant stapled to the contract.
“Huh,” I said, seeing Rodriguez in a whole new light. I took a picture of the rental agreement and the photo, then handed the contract back to Feiffer.
“That it? I’ve got to go find that cat.”
We thanked the super for his time and left. The second the front door clicked behind us, Sampson said, “What did you see on that lease?”
“My poker face didn’t work?”
“I have known you since we were ten.”
I pulled up the shot of the picture stapled to the contract.
“Lourdes Rodriguez?” I said. “I know her by another name.”
CHAPTER
97
THE ULTRA-LUXURY UNION Wharf apartment complex on Fell’s Point was the most expensive place to live in Baltimore, costing five times what Lourdes Rodriguez had been paying at Feiffer’s. We’d used the bank account and other information on Rodriguez’s old lease to track her to her new digs.
A small moving van was snarling traffic on South Wolfe Street. The front door to one of the apartment buildings was propped open for workmen carrying furniture wrapped in blankets. We followed them inside and up the stairs to 2E.
The door was open. Reggae music was playing. The workmen went in. So did we.