In Plain View by J. Wachowski

life, remember?”
    The address took us to an ugly prefab apartment building at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was two-stories high, not a single open window and surrounded by a scruffy vacant lot. At the back of the building, you could just make out a set of railroad tracks that cut toward the city. We parked in the front lot alongside a convention of rusty muscle cars.
    The bumper stickers on the car we’d parked behind said, “You’ll Get My Gun When You Pry It Out of My Cold, Dead Hand” and “I Can Be One of Those Bad Things That Happen to Bad People.”
    Definitely the kind of place that could accommodate a suicidal depressive.
    “Let’s check it out,” I said. I didn’t sound thrilled.
    “Camera?” he asked. He didn’t either.
    “Find out if it’s the right address first.”
    “Good idea.”
    There was a sidelight window beside the steel security door entrance with the sign Attack Dog on Premises prominently posted. We stood out front for a while buzzing the bell; nobody came.
    A young guy in a cloth coat and a Grateful Dead T-shirt came flying out and Ainsley grabbed the door. The kid never looked back. I walked in. Ainsley followed.
    The buzzer label and a pile of junk mail helped me figure out which apartment was Tom’s. Ground floor. Right in the middle. Worst spot in the place. Rent must have been nothing. I rang the bell. Twice.
    “If the guy’s dead, he’s not going to be answering the door anytime soon,” whispers Ainsley Wiseguy Prescott.
    “Yeah, well, I don’t want any nasty shocks when I peep in the windows.”
    “There are no windows,” Ainsley said, inspecting the dim, grungy hallway.
    “Not in here anyway.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.
    Ainsley stared back, computing that thought.
    “See if anyone else is home.” I pointed to the other doors on my way out. “Ask if they knew Tom. Tell them we’ll put ’em on TV if they talk to us.”
    Knowing which apartment was the mysterious Mr. Jost’s, I was able to tromp around the outside of the building and find his window. There was nothing to see through the small frosted-glass rectangle that I was guessing looked into the bathroom, but there was a sliding patio door. Luckily, the curtains weren’t quite closed. I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed them to the glass to cut the glare. It was strangely quiet out there and the act of peeping in on someone else fired up the prickle of my guilt-o-meter.
    Feet came crunching through the grass.
    I jumped back from the window, heart pounding. This place made me more nervous than it should have.
    “Strike out,” Ainsley called in his version of a stage whisper. “The super is only around in the evenings, according to the neighbor. What are you doing?”
    “Looking.”
    “Looking for what?”
    “Don’t know until I see it.”
    Ainsley came alongside me to look.
    Tom Jost kept a simple studio apartment, furnished in late-century garage sale—one folding chair, one Formica table, one lumpy recliner. The place was damn tidy. His small single bed was made up with brown blankets and military care. White walls. No posters. No art. The only personal item I could see was a photo of a couple in a paper frame, the kind you pay five bucks for after you get off a ride at the fair. I’d seen several of Jenny and her mother around the house.
    “Go get my camera case from the van, would you?”
    “Would that be legal?”
    “Not for pictures, Mr. Worrywart. I want the telephoto.”
    It worked better than I expected. With my camera against the door and a polarizing filter, I could read the faces in Tom’s photo. It took a second before I recognized her. Fairy-tale Rachel looked quite a bit different wearing modern dress with her hair down.
    “Got him. This is our Tom, all right.”
    “Are you done yet?” Ainsley was doing the college boy’s version of furtive: hands sunk deep in his pockets, head bobbing, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon as he glanced back and forth. “Let’s get out of