Read Online Hard Cold Winter by Glen Erik Hamilton - Free Book Online

gate to the parking level began to rise. A late model Acura flew up the short ramp from the garage and zoomed down the street without pausing. I ducked under the gate before it closed again. A good omen.
    Kend’s driver’s license had listed his unit as #D8. I found the garage stairwell and went up. The fourth-floor hallway was dead quiet, andcarpeted in a deep wine color that matched the accents on the wallpaper. Nicer than any room in my house.
    Number D8 was at the end of the hall. It had a cream-painted door, like all the other apartments. And like the others, a Baldwin brand single-cylinder, jimmy-proof deadbolt. I rang the bell. No answer. I could barely hear the chimes from out in the hallway. Another point on my side. High quality condo equals good soundproofing.
    I opened Dono’s vinyl case. Inside, held in place by elastic loops, were a dozen key rings. Each ring had multiple keys. All of the keys had their jagged cuts filed down to stubby points.
    Bump keys, arranged by brand name—Schlage, Kwikset, Master, and more—and by type of lock. I took out the Baldwin ring, and picked the key that matched the 8200 series. It went into the lock like it was coated in goose fat.
    The hallway was still quiet. I took a screwdriver from the case, put a little tension on the bump key, and tapped it with the screwdriver’s rubber handle. A couple more taps, and the pins inside the lock lined up neatly on the shear line, and the key turned.
    Now came the fun part. I stepped inside and closed the door.
    Ten seconds. The air inside the condo was stale and odorless. Twenty seconds. No blaring siren. I locked the door behind me.
    The entryway was wide enough to allow for a bench, and a wrought iron coatrack hung with half a dozen coats. A man’s coats, mostly, leather and microfiber jerseys and Gore-Tex from a higher price range than most outdoor enthusiasts could afford. There was one woman’s jacket, a sleek waterproof raincoat in dark green. Assuming it was Elana’s, she might have chosen it to match her eyes.
    There was a narrow chance that the condo had a silent alarm. I searched around the entryway for a telltale keypad, and found only a closet stuffed to the ceiling with more clothes and shoe boxes.
    His home was spacious. I guessed it at two bedrooms and maybe thirteen hundred square feet. But despite the size, the apartment felt stifled, like a cocoon. The soundproofing blocked any exterior sound, creating a private little world.
    The first piece of furniture after the bench was a thin table with a stack of junk mail on it. The envelopes were addressed to Kendrick B. Haymes, or K. B. Haymes, or to just to Resident.
    The flat anonymity of Resident summed Haymes up for me, too. Beyond his famous name, he was a blank. Had Kend been a violent whack job who’d killed his girlfriend in a rage and then taken the express train to Hell himself? Was he just some sorry bastard tormented by depression or fear? That was another kind of victim, I supposed. But any pity I might have felt was swept away by the memory of Elana’s wings.
    Kend must have had friends, other than his girl. His phone had given me a few names and numbers. Maybe I could learn more here, find the people closest to him. Or I could paste the pieces of his life together myself. Figure out what he was thinking behind that crooked smile in his license picture.
    You think that will explain anything? Willard had asked.
    I started in the bathroom, checking the medicine chest. Kend had a Mantelukast prescription for seasonal allergies. Elana had a mild antidepressant. I’d taken shit a lot heavier when I’d been in therapy. There was nothing in the cabinets to imply Kend was bipolar or fighting anything more serious than clogged sinuses. Nothing that might signal that the poor bastard was a risk for suicide. Unless of course he’d decided to flush his meds.
    In the living room, a brocade sectional couch took up a majority percentage of the living space. Broad