11th hour

Chapter 77

No sooner had Conklin opened the door than I heard someone coming through the weeds behind me. I whipped around to see Cindy, her chin stuck out, rain streaming off her face.

“I need to be here. I can’t cover this story from the car.”

“This story could be nothing,” I hissed to my bulldog friend. “Despite your breaking the da Vinci code, this could be an empty house and a dead end — ”

“I know.”

“- or it could be dangerous,” I said.

“I’ll watch my step.”

“Could be a gang of crackheads living in here.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone into a crack house. Anyway, you’re both armed.”

It was futile, but I looked at my partner and said, “Please tell her, Rich.”

He put up his hands. “Not me.”

“If anything happens to you,” I said to Cindy, “Rich and I are going to be fired. Me first, of course. And then we’re both going to hate ourselves forever.”

Cindy laughed. “Give me a break.”

This was Cindy: no gun, no training, no official status, and yet the only way to stop her was to get a circus elephant to sit on her chest.

I wasn’t kidding about the consequences of letting Cindy into the house, but I was done arguing. Conklin pulled his gun and went in through the doorway. I let Cindy follow him and I brought up the rear.

The hallway was lit by the dull light coming in through the open back door. There was a narrow wooden staircase just ahead of us, and the floor above us was dark.

Conklin and I turned on our flashlights and began to climb. The stairwell was clean, odor-free, and I didn’t see graffiti, rags, needles, or any sign of squatters or druggies. In fact, it looked as though it had recently been swept.

We kept moving onward and upward, and when we got to the third-floor landing, I heard the faintest of sounds.

“What’s that?” I whispered.

“Beethoven,” said Cindy. “Sixth Symphony.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sixth. Get it? Another six. And this particular symphony — I think it’s about gardens. Don’t you hate it when I’m right?” she said, grinning.

I said, “Shhh. Keep your eyes open.”

We rounded the next flight, and the next, the music getting louder as we climbed. We came to the sixth-floor landing and faced the three doors on that level.

One was marked F, for front, I assumed. One was marked WASHROOM, and the third door had a note taped under the letter R, for rear.

Conklin shone his light on the door and I moved in so that I could read the handwritten notice: Genius at Work. Do Not Disturb.