Read Online Water to Burn by Katharine Kerr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katharine Kerr
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number. When I called, the realtor was more than glad to meet us at the property.
While I looked over the inside of the building with the realtor, Ari prowled around the outside and sized up the neighboring apartment houses as well as the building itself. As I walked through the two flats, the realtor, a skinny dour sort in a gray suit and a pale green turban, kept peering out of various windows to keep track of him.
“May I ask what your partner is looking for?” Mr. Singh said eventually.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s a cop. They’re suspicious by nature, cops.”
“I suppose this is so.” Mr. Singh hesitated, then shrugged. The upstairs flat turned out to be a very typical San Francisco railroad flat, though a nice one with hardwood floors. It had a modern kitchen opening off the back door steps, which seemed solid when we climbed them. From the kitchen, a narrow hall led to a sizable bedroom and bathroom and eventually to a big living room with a squared-off bay window that let in afternoon sunlight. When I sampled the vibrations, I felt nothing but the usual lingering traces of domestic bickering and laughter, probably from a large family.
Downstairs, however, struck me as peculiar. From the upstairs flat, we went down the front stairs and out of the front door to a glassed-in porch and the door into the downstairs flat. It opened into an oddly shaped room with a closet that implied it had once been a bedroom, except that on the far side it opened directly into a tiny living room with the obligatory bay window. Beyond that, a hallway led down to a minuscule bathroom, a randomly assembled kitchen, and a huge proper bedroom with windows looking out to the graveled yard and the garages.
“This place is put together kind of weirdly,” I said.
“Yes, I am afraid that is true.” Mr. Singh paused to look out of a bedroom window at Ari, who had opened one of the garage doors and was peering inside. “What is he doing now?”
“I can only guess.” I finally thought up a plausible reason for all the prowling. “But he’s getting a new car this week.”
“Ah.” Mr. Singh smiled in relief. “Of course. He wishes to ensure it will be safe. With the lower flat, you would also gain access to the garage directly under the building, but the rain does run under that door. The outside garages are quite sound. The property management firm had our maintenance man look all the garages over.”
“His name isn’t George, is it?”
“No.” His puzzled frown reappeared. “Why—”
“Just a thought. Sorry.”
Mr. Singh led the way into the narrow beige kitchen—beige walls, stove, refrigerator, the works, all the same ugly yellowish tan. The paint and the counters looked brand-new, as did the stove. While Mr. Singh scowled out the window at Ari, who was taking pictures of the back of the house with his cell phone, I opened myself up to the vibrations. Immediately, I smelled gas and felt despair. I shut down fast.
“Someone killed themselves here, didn’t they?” I said.
Singh winced, then forced out a weak smile. “You are very astute,” he said. “I am afraid that this is true. A very sad case, a woman who had taken many drugs, or so the police told us.”
“I see. That’s why it’s been standing empty so long.”
“Yes, many people who rent here in the Sunset are arrived from China. They will not take a house where someone has recently died.”
“I see. Well, that won’t bother me, particularly. I’d only use this flat for business, if the zoning’s okay with that, anyway. I’m moving into Internet marketing, and I’d like a separate office and storage space.”
His dour mood lifted. “The zoning will be no problem. May I ask what you will be selling?”
“Souvenir objects from the Holy Land—Israel, that is.” Although I was lying at the moment, it occurred to me that I’d found a good cover story. “Thanks to Ari, I have connections.”
“Ah, of course. And then you
While I looked over the inside of the building with the realtor, Ari prowled around the outside and sized up the neighboring apartment houses as well as the building itself. As I walked through the two flats, the realtor, a skinny dour sort in a gray suit and a pale green turban, kept peering out of various windows to keep track of him.
“May I ask what your partner is looking for?” Mr. Singh said eventually.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s a cop. They’re suspicious by nature, cops.”
“I suppose this is so.” Mr. Singh hesitated, then shrugged. The upstairs flat turned out to be a very typical San Francisco railroad flat, though a nice one with hardwood floors. It had a modern kitchen opening off the back door steps, which seemed solid when we climbed them. From the kitchen, a narrow hall led to a sizable bedroom and bathroom and eventually to a big living room with a squared-off bay window that let in afternoon sunlight. When I sampled the vibrations, I felt nothing but the usual lingering traces of domestic bickering and laughter, probably from a large family.
Downstairs, however, struck me as peculiar. From the upstairs flat, we went down the front stairs and out of the front door to a glassed-in porch and the door into the downstairs flat. It opened into an oddly shaped room with a closet that implied it had once been a bedroom, except that on the far side it opened directly into a tiny living room with the obligatory bay window. Beyond that, a hallway led down to a minuscule bathroom, a randomly assembled kitchen, and a huge proper bedroom with windows looking out to the graveled yard and the garages.
“This place is put together kind of weirdly,” I said.
“Yes, I am afraid that is true.” Mr. Singh paused to look out of a bedroom window at Ari, who had opened one of the garage doors and was peering inside. “What is he doing now?”
“I can only guess.” I finally thought up a plausible reason for all the prowling. “But he’s getting a new car this week.”
“Ah.” Mr. Singh smiled in relief. “Of course. He wishes to ensure it will be safe. With the lower flat, you would also gain access to the garage directly under the building, but the rain does run under that door. The outside garages are quite sound. The property management firm had our maintenance man look all the garages over.”
“His name isn’t George, is it?”
“No.” His puzzled frown reappeared. “Why—”
“Just a thought. Sorry.”
Mr. Singh led the way into the narrow beige kitchen—beige walls, stove, refrigerator, the works, all the same ugly yellowish tan. The paint and the counters looked brand-new, as did the stove. While Mr. Singh scowled out the window at Ari, who was taking pictures of the back of the house with his cell phone, I opened myself up to the vibrations. Immediately, I smelled gas and felt despair. I shut down fast.
“Someone killed themselves here, didn’t they?” I said.
Singh winced, then forced out a weak smile. “You are very astute,” he said. “I am afraid that this is true. A very sad case, a woman who had taken many drugs, or so the police told us.”
“I see. That’s why it’s been standing empty so long.”
“Yes, many people who rent here in the Sunset are arrived from China. They will not take a house where someone has recently died.”
“I see. Well, that won’t bother me, particularly. I’d only use this flat for business, if the zoning’s okay with that, anyway. I’m moving into Internet marketing, and I’d like a separate office and storage space.”
His dour mood lifted. “The zoning will be no problem. May I ask what you will be selling?”
“Souvenir objects from the Holy Land—Israel, that is.” Although I was lying at the moment, it occurred to me that I’d found a good cover story. “Thanks to Ari, I have connections.”
“Ah, of course. And then you
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