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didn’t need the headache of replacing one.
    She walked briskly to the doors and was happy to note that she didn’t need a key to get into the building. An ancient buzzer was on the wall to the left, but it had duct tape over it. She let the doors shut behind her and adjusted to the light—and the smell. It was a mix of urine, weed, and something that may or may not have been boiled cabbage. Izzy didn’t want to know what it was. She took the stairs two at a time until she reached the second floor. Apartment J wasn’t hard to spot. Police tape covered the door, but no uniforms were stationed outside. Izzy wasn’t surprised. Denver PD didn’t really have the resources for round the clock surveillance, especially when a traffic cam had caught the shooter’s car headed toward the interstate just after the robbery.
    She strode toward the forbidden door, reaching into her jacket pocket. Just before she reached it, though, the door across the hall swung open. Izzy paused. An older man with gray, stringy hair and crooked glasses peered out at her. He sniffed.
    “You a cop?” he asked brusquely.
    “I’m looking for Jeter Paul,” she told him. “He’s wanted for questioning in a robbery homicide.” It was true. And Izzy added just enough authority to her voice to hopefully convince the old man she was Denver PD. If he asked to see a badge, though, things could get hairy.
    The old man sniffed again. “You’ve already tossed his place.”
    “We’re hoping he’ll return,” she replied coolly.
    The man groused. “I knew where he was, I’d turn him in myself for the reward,” he told her, putting the emphasis on ‘RE’.
    Izzy nodded encouragingly. “We hope you do. Please contact the department if you see or hear anything.”
    The door practically slammed in her face, which was just as well, she decided. She took a few long strides toward Paul’s door. Keeping her arm close to her body to obscure the view of prying eyes, she pressed the button on a short, spring-lock blade and sliced the No Entry sticker that sealed the door. She quickly pocketed the just-this-side-of-legal knife and pulled out a small, black Lock Aid. Working quickly, she maneuvered herself in front of the door, pressed the tension rod into the deadbolt’s key hole, and pulled the trigger. The cheap lock gave way immediately and Izzy turned the knob and slipped inside. Anyone looking would have thought she had a key to the place, which no doubt Denver PD had secured from the building’s super yesterday.
    Jeter Paul’s apartment was a sea of garbage. Pizza boxes, beer and soda cans littered over every flat surface. The kitchen drawers were pulled out. The police had obviously searched the place pretty thoroughly. But despite her connections within the department, things like crime scene notes were still off-limits to her. She’d have to come up with her own leads if she had any hope of tracking down the skip. Paul wasn’t technically a skip, since he wasn’t out on bail, but old habits died hard and Izzy began thinking of him as her next target as she looked around.
    In the bedroom, for the apartment only had one, the mattress had been tossed, slit open and the innards pulled out. If the cops had found anything, it was impossible to tell. Izzy was more interested in what she didn’t see: Jeter’s clothes. The drawers of a scratched, worn dresser stood open, casualties of the search for anything that might link Jeter to the robbery, but they were mostly empty inside. The closet doors were thrown open. Empty hangers were scattered across the rod. Jeter had always planned to leave town after hitting the gas station, which was a bit heartening. Anyone who had a plan, usually left a trail of bread crumbs behind. People acting purely on impulse were far less predictable.
    Attached to the back of the dresser was a large mirror. Izzy crossed the room to get a closer look. Ignoring her own reflection, she saw Scotch tape along the length of it.