Trail of the Spellmans Read Online Free PDF Page A

case on the Spellman docket that I haven’t mentioned.

WALTER PERKINS
    W alter Perkins’s “case,” if you can call it that, was simple enough. During his intake meeting (in those glorious pre-code-phrase days), he explained that he needed a responsible person to check on his apartment now and again, when he was out of town. I suggested a neighbor or a friend might be more appropriate for the position and he explained that sometimes he needed someone to check on his apartment even when he was in town but indisposed. I asked him how often he thought these services would be required and he explained that it could be one time a month or weekly or daily, making a stab at sounding casual, but the crack in his voice gave him away.
    At the first meeting, Perkins struck my mother as nervous and edgy, and his attempt to present the job as commonplace gave him a ticlike laugh, underscoring the lie. My mother told Mr. Perkins that she would check our schedule to see whether we could take the case. This wasn’t our typical investigative fare and something about the simplicity of the job didn’t sit right with Mom.
    She then proceeded to engage in a rather lengthy investigation of our potential client—a habit we discourage, for cost-cutting purposes. Walter Perkins is a math professor, without any criminal records or civil suits in his wake. He was recently divorced, but the settlement appearedamicable. Still, my mother’s suspicion spread like a bad rash.
    Over the course of three days she made inquiries to be certain we weren’t getting saddled into cat-sitting, dog-sitting, botanical gardening, or checking in on a home that was not, in fact, Walter’s. When she had exhausted all of the most inconvenient possibilities, we took the case. Or, more specifically, I persuaded her to take the case. Times are rough; we can’t turn down easy work just because it isn’t in our usual repertoire. Walter made an unlikely request, but there wasn’t anything unethical about it. After Mom agreed to my demands, her only stipulation was that I handle all direct communications with Walter, who she said had the distinct whiff of a Scharfenberger. 1 I couldn’t smell it, so I phoned my new client; we negotiated an hourly rate and he handed me the keys to his apartment.
    In the two months we’d worked for Walter, I’d grown quite fond of him as a client, though I’d only met him once in person. Our interactions usually followed a similar chain of events:
    Walter phones. He thinks he left the stove on. Or perhaps his apartment door is unlocked. Sometimes a window is ajar (he is on the fourth floor, so I’m not exactly sure what he’s worried about—flies?); sometimes the bathtub might be overflowing. 2 Or an appliance is left plugged in. Or an errant sock accidentally fell from the laundry basket. Sometimes his fears are more catastrophic.
    The apartment is burning, flooding, collapsing for no good reason. These fears abate when I visit Walter’s home and assure him nothing is amiss. In fact, the only time anything was ever amiss in Walter’s apartment was after I checked it for a gas leak and Walter noticed my footprints on the unblemished beige carpet when he returned home from work. This disturbancewas quickly remedied by my removing my shoes and combing the carpet upon departure, each visit.
    As it turned out, Walter didn’t travel, but he was close to losing his job because of his abrupt departures from the campus, which sometimes took place midlecture, even midsentence. They apparently gave him the appearance of a convict making a run for it. Now all Walter had to do was make a quick call from his office or send a text message from behind the lectern.
    It was 3:42 when I reached Walter’s apartment. After entering and checking the burners, I phoned him with the usual good news.
    “All clear,” I said.
    “Thank you,” Walter replied, sighing deeply, as if he had been holding his breath.
    “Anything else?” I asked because