I’d been told the community was gated and when I pulled up, I waited while the security guard checked to make sure my name was on the list. He gave me directions that I followed carefully, counting my left and right turns since the structures were identical. I found the correct street and the number address she’d given me. What struck me as odd, even on the most superficial observation, was that the electronic gates seemed to be window dressing. The grounds weren’t fenced, and while automobiles were only admitted after proper scrutiny, anyone could walk in from neighboring streets. I caught sight of an unmanned rear gate that was activated by cars leaving the property, but the lag time on the closing mechanism was sufficient to allow an incoming vehicle to drive through unimpeded and unchecked.
While the apartments appeared to be connected, much in the way of row houses, the three-story units were actually linked by twos, with garages at street level and two slots each for guest parking. A covered walkway led from the parking area to an enclosed garden entry, with a door that opened into a vestibule, which in turn opened into a small lobby. The interior walls were mirrored to suggest more space than had been allotted. There were fake plants and a few pieces of faux-Colonial furniture. There were two built-in mailboxes with spaces below where packages could be left. The elevator doors stood open. Inside the car, a panel had two call buttons, one for each owner. An intercom made it possible for the visitor and the resident to communicate before access was granted.
P. Joplin was listed on the left and an E. Price on the right. There was an Up button, but when I pressed it, nothing happened. I was guessing the residents operated the elevator with a key. If company arrived or if a repairman needed to be admitted, the resident sent the car from the second floor down. The doors were otherwise left in the open position, with the Up button inoperable. As was true of the exterior measures, interior security was more of an illusion than a reality. I saw no evidence of a camera in the lobby or the elevator car, which meant that the occupants of the two units above had voice contact when someone called up, but no visual verification process. The company that owned the complex had gone to great lengths to create a sense of safety while neglecting to build in true safeguards. It made me uneasy to think Phyllis was unaware of the shortcomings in the system, since for her the idea of a gated community was what had made her feel secure.
I rang her call button and waited. When there was no response, I checked my watch. It was 5:10. I rang a second time with still no answer. I pushed out the door into the garden courtyard and looked up to my left. There were lights visible on the second and third floors of her apartment. I wasn’t certain how the rooms were laid out, but it made sense to imagine public spaces—living room, dining room, kitchen, and balcony—on the second floor, with the third floor reserved for the master suite, guest bedrooms, and perhaps an office or study. A quick visual survey of neighboring units showed exterior balconies on both the second and third floors, which supported my supposition.
I returned to the elevator and pressed her call button again. It was possible she’d forgotten our date or perhaps something had come up and she’d tried telephoning after I’d already left my studio for the drive down. Or she could be picking up last-minute items at the grocery store. Or she could be “away from her desk,” which is to say, in the bathroom. Or what? There must have been half a dozen other reasons she might not be picking up the call. Even so, I didn’t like it.
I rang the button for E. Price. After a brief pause, a man said, “Yes?”
“Hi. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I was supposed to meet Phyllis here for drinks at five, but she doesn’t seem to be answering.”
“Her guest is already here.”
“I’m her guest.”
“Then who buzzed me half an hour ago?”
“Not me,” I said.
“Oh. Well, that’s odd because I ran into her as she was getting back from the grocery store and she told me she was expecting company.”
“What made you think I was already here?”
“My mistake. I assumed Kinsey was a man’s name so when you, or I should say, when a guy rang a while ago, I thought her guest was early so I buzzed him on up.”
“How do you know it was a guy?”
“Because I talked to him. I asked what he wanted and he said something about her call bell being on the fritz, which is why I sent the elevator.”
I could feel the cold, like Freon, seep from the core of me through my rib cage. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. I was in the middle of a phone call so I just left the handset on the kitchen counter while I sent the car down. I knew Phyllis was home so I figured she’d answer her door when the guy got up here.”
“What’s your first name?”
“What?”
“What does the E stand for, Mr. Price?”
“Erroll.”
“Well, Erroll, I think you should activate the elevator and let me up there. Either that or go knock on Phyllis’s door yourself and see if she’s okay.”
“You think we have a problem?”
“I think we have a big problem.”
An instant later the elevator doors slid shut and the elevator moved up.
23
Saturday, September 23, 1989
Erroll Price was waiting for me as I emerged from the elevator. The foyer on the second floor was a duplicate of the lobby below. Strong lighting, mirrored walls, fake plants, and the few pieces of furniture were meant to divert attention from the fact that there were no exterior doors or windows. This rendered the space claustrophobic, all the more so because Erroll was such a commanding presence. He was oversize: tall, big-boned, heavy set, and muscular, in a pair of faded red sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He was barefoot. His skin was the color of fudge frosting and his black hair was a glistening halo of ringlets.
“I brought a key to her place,” he said. “The deal is if she’s out of town, I take care of her plants, bring in the mail, and stuff like that. She does the same for me. I already knocked and rang her doorbell while you were on your way up.”
“Let’s try one more time.”
The door was splintered. Nonetheless, I knocked and rang the doorbell simultaneously, which netted us no response. I stepped back as Erroll pushed open the door, calling, “Phyllis? You home?”
He peered in and then held out an arm instinctively to block my forward motion. I peered past him and saw Phyllis lying facedown on the carpeting in the living room.
“Oh no,” I said.
I crossed the room and knelt beside her, wincing at the sight of her external injuries. Her left eye was blackened and swollen shut; probably her right eye as well though it was hidden by her position on the floor. Her nose was broken, her left cheek battered and puffy, and her jaw was askew. Blood oozed from her nose and mouth and saturated the carpeting under her. Her left arm was caught beneath her torso and might have been broken, judging from the oddity of the angle.
Erroll leaned down and pressed two fingers against her neck, checking for a pulse. “Phyllis, can you hear me? This is Erroll. The guy’s gone. You’re safe. We’ll take care of you.”
He rose to his feet and went into the kitchen to the phone mounted on the wall.
He dialed 9-1-1. I could hear him talk to the dispatcher, telling her the situation, the address, and the nature of the injuries.