Read Online How to Paint a Cat (Cats and Curios Mystery) by Rebecca M. Hale - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
Ads: Link
were sometimes the only ones to suspect the private alliances that subtly dictated voting patterns and back-room favoritism.
So when the PM received an urgent message from his trusted network of cleaning professionals, he broke his self-imposed isolation and proceeded immediately to City Hall.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, he bent toward the janitor’s shoulder. “Now, what did you have to show me?”
• • •
THE JANITOR ROLLED his bucket along a dimly lit hallway, motioning for the PM to follow. After checking to see that no one was watching, the man pushed open a doorway leading into a long narrow room holding several rows of pre-fab office cubicles. He bumped the bucket over the threshold and then waved the PM inside.
The PM stood in the outer hallway, hesitating. He had been to this location several times before. Spider’s old desk was located at the far end of the rows of cubicles.
“This way, sir,” the janitor urged in a hushed voice.
Sucking in a deep breath, the PM pushed his feet forward.
The janitor steered the mop bucket down an open space between the wall and the cubicles. As he passed each workstation, he leaned over the partition wall to ensure it was unoccupied.
The place was deserted. Most of the interns were still on their holiday vacation.
The PM clenched his hat, nervously bending the brim as the janitor reached Spider’s cubicle at the end of the aisle.
The desk had been cleared of the many folders and files that Spider had accumulated. Presumably, they had been taken into evidence by the police. Only a few stacks remained on a nearby bookshelf, mostly copies of proposed legislation from last fall’s session of the board of supervisors.
On the empty desk space, a makeshift memorial had sprung up. Friends and well-wishers had dropped off notes, cards, and various trinkets symbolizing the intern’s life.
Spider’s bike, painted the same burnt-red color as the Golden Gate Bridge, leaned against the side of the desk. A plastic helmet, purchased by Spider’s mother, but rarely worn by her daredevil son, hung from the handlebars by its chin strap.
The PM turned away, unable to look any longer.
The janitor propped his mop handle against the cubicle wall. Stepping around the desk, he crouched in front of a ventilation shaft on the rear wall. With a last glance over his shoulder, he ran his fingers along the edge of the metal grate cover and prized it from its fittings.
“I was cleaning down here this morning when I noticed the cover was a little loose.” The janitor grunted as he set the grate on the ground. “I thought it just needed to be tamped back into place.” He moved away from the opening so that the PM could see inside. “But then I saw this.”
Holding his bowler against his chest, the PM edged toward the shaft. The janitor fished a small flashlight from one of his many pockets, switched on the light, and aimed the beam into the hole.
There was an extra space inside the wall, beneath the opening for the metal funnel connecting the vent to the rest of the building’s heating system. Inside the cubbyhole rested a cardboard box stuffed with papers, binders, and several expandable file pockets.
“And this is how you found it?” the PM asked, turning from the vent to look at the janitor. “Are you sure it was Spider’s?”
At the man’s shrugged response, the PM took the light and returned his attention to the cardboard box. With a gloved hand, he pulled out a sheath of loose papers and aimed the beam at the top sheet. The unique scrawling, a cramped print style, provided the confirmation he was seeking.
“Have the police seen this yet?” he asked, still skimming the handwritten words.
“No,” the janitor replied, sheepishly staring at the ground. “They were all over this place the day after . . .” He sighed ruefully and shook his head. “The day after Spider’s death, but I guess no one thought to check the vent. I thought I’d give you a look
So when the PM received an urgent message from his trusted network of cleaning professionals, he broke his self-imposed isolation and proceeded immediately to City Hall.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, he bent toward the janitor’s shoulder. “Now, what did you have to show me?”
• • •
THE JANITOR ROLLED his bucket along a dimly lit hallway, motioning for the PM to follow. After checking to see that no one was watching, the man pushed open a doorway leading into a long narrow room holding several rows of pre-fab office cubicles. He bumped the bucket over the threshold and then waved the PM inside.
The PM stood in the outer hallway, hesitating. He had been to this location several times before. Spider’s old desk was located at the far end of the rows of cubicles.
“This way, sir,” the janitor urged in a hushed voice.
Sucking in a deep breath, the PM pushed his feet forward.
The janitor steered the mop bucket down an open space between the wall and the cubicles. As he passed each workstation, he leaned over the partition wall to ensure it was unoccupied.
The place was deserted. Most of the interns were still on their holiday vacation.
The PM clenched his hat, nervously bending the brim as the janitor reached Spider’s cubicle at the end of the aisle.
The desk had been cleared of the many folders and files that Spider had accumulated. Presumably, they had been taken into evidence by the police. Only a few stacks remained on a nearby bookshelf, mostly copies of proposed legislation from last fall’s session of the board of supervisors.
On the empty desk space, a makeshift memorial had sprung up. Friends and well-wishers had dropped off notes, cards, and various trinkets symbolizing the intern’s life.
Spider’s bike, painted the same burnt-red color as the Golden Gate Bridge, leaned against the side of the desk. A plastic helmet, purchased by Spider’s mother, but rarely worn by her daredevil son, hung from the handlebars by its chin strap.
The PM turned away, unable to look any longer.
The janitor propped his mop handle against the cubicle wall. Stepping around the desk, he crouched in front of a ventilation shaft on the rear wall. With a last glance over his shoulder, he ran his fingers along the edge of the metal grate cover and prized it from its fittings.
“I was cleaning down here this morning when I noticed the cover was a little loose.” The janitor grunted as he set the grate on the ground. “I thought it just needed to be tamped back into place.” He moved away from the opening so that the PM could see inside. “But then I saw this.”
Holding his bowler against his chest, the PM edged toward the shaft. The janitor fished a small flashlight from one of his many pockets, switched on the light, and aimed the beam into the hole.
There was an extra space inside the wall, beneath the opening for the metal funnel connecting the vent to the rest of the building’s heating system. Inside the cubbyhole rested a cardboard box stuffed with papers, binders, and several expandable file pockets.
“And this is how you found it?” the PM asked, turning from the vent to look at the janitor. “Are you sure it was Spider’s?”
At the man’s shrugged response, the PM took the light and returned his attention to the cardboard box. With a gloved hand, he pulled out a sheath of loose papers and aimed the beam at the top sheet. The unique scrawling, a cramped print style, provided the confirmation he was seeking.
“Have the police seen this yet?” he asked, still skimming the handwritten words.
“No,” the janitor replied, sheepishly staring at the ground. “They were all over this place the day after . . .” He sighed ruefully and shook his head. “The day after Spider’s death, but I guess no one thought to check the vent. I thought I’d give you a look
Similar Books
