The Naked Typist

18

Steve dropped a quarter in the pay phone, called the office.

“Tracy, it’s Steve. Did Mark call?”

“I’ll say. Every two minutes. Did you take the case?”

“Yeah. She’s our client. What’s Mark want?”

“You, basically. He’s having a shit-fit. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him to hang in there, keep getting the dope, do nothing till he hears from me.”

“Should I tell him you took the case?”

“Sure.”

“You coming back to the office?”

“In a bit. I got something to do first.”

“Where you going?”

“Tell you later.”

Steve hung up the phone, stepped out in the street and hailed a cab. He paid it off a block from Kelly’s apartment, walked over and rang the super’s bell. He was in luck-the super was in. He was a skinny Hispanic with a moustache. He read Kelly’s note, then looked up at Steve Winslow with suspicious eyes.

“How I know she wrote this?”

“You don’t know her handwriting?”

“How should I?”

“Didn’t she ever leave you a note?”

“Sure, but I should remember?” He shook his head. “Nice girl. What the cops want with her?”

“Murder.”

His eyes widened. “No?”

“Yeah. And I’m her lawyer and I need to get in.”

“You don’t look like no lawyer.”

“I know,” Steve said. He whipped out his wallet. “Here’s my I.D. Steve Winslow.” He jerked his thumb at the phone. “Call the cops. Ask ’em who Kelly’s lawyer is.”

The super thought that over. He nodded. “Okay. You say that, it must be true.”

Which was a relief. Steve was bluffing. He didn’t really want the super asking the cops if he could get into Kelly’s apartment. Not that they had any right to deny him permission. He just didn’t want to start them speculating on what he was after.

It was also a relief when the super unlocked Kelly’s door and went back downstairs, leaving him to search alone.

Which wasn’t hard. It was, as Kelly had said, the most modest of one-room apartments. The furniture consisted of a single bed, a dresser and an end table.

The box of computer disks was in the top dresser drawer, just where Kelly had said it would be. Steve opened the box, riffled through the disks.

The disk with the gold X wasn’t there.