Hanging Time by Leslie Glass Read Free Book Online Page A

warrant.”
    It was one of those unavoidable waste-of-time things. If they didn’t go to the courts downtown and get a search warrant to go into the girl’s apartment and find her telephone book, a lot of really uncomfortable things could happen, including their being charged with theft if anything was missing later. They went upstairs so April could type up the warrant request.
    Maggie Wheeler had lived in a brownstone, a walkup. There were six apartments in the building. An hour and a half later, April and Sanchez stood in the airless vestibule, studying the list of names on the intercom. There was only one name by 3. Wheeler.
    Sanchez tried the buzzer just in case Mrs. Manganaro had been wrong about Maggie’s living alone, or someone had turned up since they tried the phone number.
    No response.
    The place smelled of mold and wet plaster. There was a wet patch in the ceiling plaster that looked as if it were ready to come down on someone’s head any second. Maggie’s keys, along with the rest of her belongings, had been paper-bagged and tagged. The landlord said he couldn’t get there, but if they had the warrant, it was okay with him if they just went in. They went in.
    Once a really nice brownstone, the building was now all chopped up into small apartments. The doors to apartments 1 and 2 were on the first floor to the right and back of the stairs.
    “Three must be on the second floor,” April murmured.
    They turned to the wide staircase. April ran her finger over the thick, gracious mahogany handrail that capped the sturdy banister, then started up. The tan paint on the walls was smudged, and worn carpeting covered the sagging treads of the stairs. Maggie lived on the second floor in what must have been the brownstone’s former living room.Double doors flanked the entrance. The building was silent. No one was around to see the two detectives enter the apartment.
    Inside, the lights were off; shades covered the bay windows that fronted on the street. April reached for the light switch, and the personality of Maggie Wheeler was revealed.
    Mike whistled. “Wow.”
    The room was no more than sixteen feet square. It had clearly been cut in half in the middle. The back wall rose up to chop off half of an elegant decorative molding in the ceiling that must once have surrounded the centered chandelier. Now a cheap fixture hung there. Along the wall and at least a dozen years old, a tiny stove, refrigerator, and sink had been tacked on. Four small cabinets were centered above them. No dishes, dirty or otherwise, were visible.
    A small, neatly made double bed covered with an old red quilt was pushed against one wall. Three matching pillows had been carefully arranged at the head. There were no clothes on the floor or the one armchair in the room and no decorations. No TV, just a clock-radio. No photographs. No art. No lists of things to do or groceries to buy. The place was empty, really empty, as if Maggie had just arrived or didn’t plan to stay long.
    April quickly went through the cupboards and closet. There were enough plates and cups for four people if they didn’t eat much, a few pots and pans, and a toaster, all very clean. In the closet her clothes were neatly arranged. Nice clothes, colorful dresses, blouses, and skirts. Well, she worked in a clothing store. They had to be attractive. April fingered the belts. There were six of them hanging on a hanger, different styles and materials. April’s clothes were very businesslike. A cop couldn’t accessorize. She checked out the bathroom. Here was a surprise. Maggie used expensive soaps and bubble baths, expensive makeup in pale colors, not like the garish stuff that had been smeared on her face after she died. She’d hung up some wire shelves that were loaded down with cosmetics.
    Mike was going through a letter box covered with decorative paper when April came out of the bathroom.
    “It was under the bed,” he said.
    Her valuables consisted of a Chemical