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“I got an address for you on Candy Van Dyke. She’s in Naples. And Anne Whittemore is now Anne Michaels. She lives in Bellflower. I’ve got her address—”
“Michaels? Her name is Michaels?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay. This is a possible case I’m checking out. The victim’s name is Michaels.”
“She’s divorced. Her ex-husband’s name is Paul Michaels.”
“Shit.”
****
As soon as I walked into our house, my cellphone chirped. It was Ronnie. “Hey, where are you?”
“I just got home. Where are you?”
“I want to show you something.”
He gave me an address on 1st Street.
“What are you up to?”
“See you in a few minutes,” he said, mysteriously.
I turned around and walked out to my Jeep. Sadly, I had a decent parking spot which I was unlikely to get again. I would have liked to know what it was I was getting myself into.
Part of me just wanted to stay home and ignore whatever it was Ronnie was up to. Of course, I knew it was a property of some sort attached to a scheme to make us oodles of money. I’d been through this twice with Ronnie, I was afraid I’d be long gone before whatever his plan was came to fruition. Unless the Hamlet Gilbody thing was nothing. Maybe it was nothing.
The building was called El Matador. It was a Spanish-style, courtyard building with terra cotta stucco and deep brown woodwork. There were lots of hand-painted tiles on the stairs and surrounding a fountain. Ronnie rushed over to me as soon as I walked into the courtyard.
“Where did you park? I’ve been watching for you.”
“I’m on the other side of the park.”
“But there are spaces down there?” He pointed further down the street.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know that.”
He gave me an uncomfortable look. He much preferred it when I was predictable.
“So, is this a condo?” I asked, to get him on track.
“Keep an open mind,” he said, standing on his toes to kiss me. “It’s an amazing deal. It doesn’t look that way, but trust me, it is.”
I followed him up an outside, private stairway to a unit in the front. He kept talking every step of the way. “This is the largest unit in the building. Two bedrooms, dining room, breakfast room. Large bathroom with both a shower and a bathtub. Cathedral ceiling in the living room, coved ceiling in the dining room… oh, and a tiny little balcony off the breakfast nook. You’re going to die.”
From experience, I knew it would take a lot more than a cathedral ceiling to kill me. He opened the front door, which was heavy, scarred wood with a tiny wrought iron covered window.
Seeing me look at it, he said, “We’ll replace that with stained-glass so no one can look in.”
Actually, I was wondering if there was a way to put an alarm on it. Stepping into the living room, which did have the afore-mentioned cathedral ceiling, I immediately saw that it also had two French doors: one in the living room and another in the dining room, both of which opened onto Juliet balconies, and both of which showed severe water damage on the hardwood floor where they’d let the rain in.
“I know it needs work,” Ronnie said. “Try to use your imagination.
Wandering through the dining room I found myself in the very, very small kitchen.
“Can I imagine this room bigger?”
