Most Wanted

Chapter Thirty-six

Christine took pictures as she ascended Linda Kent’s staircase and stopped at the landing outside the apartment door, where Kent had set up a smoking area. There was a gray folding chair with worn cushions set against the wooden railing on the right, and to the left, nearer the door, was a metal tray table with newspapers folded to the crossword puzzle, a few red Pilot pens, and an overflowing beanbag ashtray.

The date of the newspaper on top was Sunday, and the crossword puzzle was half-completed, sadly. She took photos of the sitting area, then turned to her left, taking more photos and confirming that Kent had not only a perfect view of Robinbrecht’s staircase and back door, but even into her kitchen, which had a window across the way, though it was darkened now.

Christine put her phone back into her purse, took out the apartment key, opened the screen door, and unlocked the front door, though she hesitated at the threshold, at the violation of Kent’s privacy. Christine didn’t know what she expected to find, but she wanted to learn as much as she could while she had the chance. She resolved to do a quick walk-through and she closed the door behind her.

The front door opened into a small, square kitchen, which was surprisingly neat. White wood cabinets ringed the room, but looked as if they had been wiped down regularly, because they and the buttercup-yellow countertop, of Formica, showed absolutely no dirt, crumbs, or even pen marks. If there was liquor around, it was hidden. On the counter next to the door was a pack of Virginia Slims, with a transparent blue lighter on top. A toaster oven, a coffeemaker, and a small television sat next to the refrigerator, and the dish rack was empty. A round wood table in the center of the room was equally clean, holding only a stack of napkins, and a saltshaker.

Christine swallowed hard, chastising herself for barging in, but made herself stay on task. She took her phone from her purse and snapped a few pictures, then walked through the kitchen, getting the layout of the apartment. To the left was a bedroom, to the right the bathroom, and beyond that was another bedroom that Mrs. Kent had converted to a living room.

Christine walked through, taking pictures, but nothing she saw seemed helpful. The furniture in the living room was inexpensive and generic, and there were no magazines or books around, except for stacks of crossword puzzle and Sudoku books on the coffee table. Christine realized she was looking at the evidence of a life that was lonely, and she wasn’t seeing anything that Kent did to nurture herself or feed her interests.

Christine left the living room and walked into the bedroom, but she stopped at the doorway, not wanting to invade Kent’s privacy more than necessary. She took a picture of a bedroom that was as neat as the rest of the house, with a carefully made bed and a bare wooden chair that contained a stack of freshly folded and laundered clothes. A pair of pink flip-flops sat side by side in front of the bed, where they had been taken off, presumably.

Christine left the bedroom, heading back toward the kitchen, mulling it over. If Kent usually had her last cigarette around midnight, and the police had estimated that the time of death was about that time, it made sense to think that Mrs. Kent fell after she smoked her last cigarette or while she was smoking. Then Christine realized something didn’t jibe.

Kent’s flip-flops were beside her bed, as if she had just taken them off. So why did she take them off before she went outside for her cigarette? The landing of the stairwell was wood, and most people would have been wary of splinters, which meant that Kent would’ve kept her flip-flops on. But Dominic had said that she was barefoot when he found her at the foot of the stairs.

Christine tested her theory by viewing it the opposite way. Kent could’ve gone outside barefoot, and it fit with her profile, too. It’s not as if Kent were so conventional; her arms were covered with tattoos. She liked the Ramones. So the fact that she was outside barefoot probably didn’t mean anything.

Christine walked to the kitchen, opened the door, and was just about to leave when her gaze fell on the pack of cigarettes with the lighter, sitting on the counter by the door. Christine thought about it a moment, trying to reconstruct what happened that night. Kent presumably fell during or after her last cigarette of the night. So why would her lighter still be inside, on top of her pack of cigarettes?

Christine considered it, wondering. The landlord’s rule was, no smoking in the apartments. So Kent had gone outside to smoke. But people who smoked outside didn’t light up inside, did they? Christine wasn’t a smoker, but her late mother-in-law had been and her mother-in-law hadn’t smoked in her house. Her mother-in-law kept her cigarettes and lighter by the door, and her smoking ritual was the same every time; her mother-in-law pulled a cigarette from the pack, then stepped outside with her lighter. Her mother-in-law lit up the cigarette outside, smoked it, came back inside, and put the lighter back on top of the cigarette pack.

Christine blinked, eyeing the cigarette pack and the lighter. She considered the darker possibilities, the one she had come here to explore, that Kent’s death hadn’t been an accident, then tried to reconstruct an alternate scenario. If Kent wasn’t killed while she was outside smoking, then there had to be some reason for her to be outside.

Christine thought about it. Perhaps Kent had already gone to bed, or was just about to, and had taken off her flip-flops but not her clothes. What if there was a knock at the door and she was going to answer it, but it had been the serial killer, coming to silence her because she had seen him go up Robinbrecht’s staircase? What if the serial killer had entered as soon as she opened the door, pushed her inside, and silently broken her neck?

Christine realized that that scenario made perfect sense, and it also answered the question that had been bothering her, why hadn’t the neighbors heard anything? Some of the neighbors had been asleep or on Ambien, but not all of them. Somebody should’ve heard something when Kent slipped and fell down the stairs; a cry for help, an exclamation, profanity, or the horrible sound of someone falling down a wooden stairwell, a bumping as she rolled down the stairs.

Christine felt the realization dawn on her. No one heard that because none of that happened. The killer could have killed Kent in her kitchen, then carried her quickly down the stairs, placed her at the bottom, and left by the alley, with nobody seeing him. Christine felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She realized that the alternative scenario was completely possible, and it reconciled with what she had learned tonight from the neighbors.

She took one last look around the kitchen, then headed for the door.