Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) by Judith A. Jance Page B

eventually. He was short, round, and effusively helpful. When I clued him in as to what was going on, he was suitably distressed. With keys jangling nervously on a heavy key ring, he led me to the elevator of the five-story complex.
    â€œI’ve been managing condos for three years now,” he said, shaking his head. “Never had one of my residents get murdered before, although I guess Don Wolf was a likely enough candidate.”
    To look at him, Jack Braman didn’t appear old enough to be out of high school for three years, to say nothing of managing condos.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?” I asked.
    Braman shrugged. “From what I understand, he had a wife down in California somewhere, but being married sure as hell didn’t seem to slowhim down none. If you catch my drift,” he added.
    â€œYou mean Don Wolf had female visitors?”
    â€œConstantly.”
    â€œThe same one or different ones?”
    Jack Braman shook his head. “Different ones, although there was one who was here so much I was starting to think maybe she was his wife. But there were younger ones as well. Girls who were closer to my age than his.”
    â€œHookers?” I asked.
    â€œI wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “Not for sure, but I guess they could have been.”
    Flushing furiously, Jack Braman turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door to Don Wolf’s apartment. As soon as he did so, the appallingly unmistakable odor of death gushed out into the hallway.
    Braman’s eyes widened. He gagged and choked and almost fell. “My God. What’s that awful smell?” he demanded.
    Had Jack Braman ever been a homicide cop, he wouldn’t have had to ask. I reached out a hand to steady him and to keep him from stepping forward into the apartment and possibly destroying evidence.
    â€œGo call nine one one,” I said. “Tell the dispatcher to send a patrol car and a crime scene investigation team. Tell the operator to notify the medical examiner’s office.”
    Braman looked at me through watering eyes. “Medical examiner?” he repeated. “That means somebody’s dead here. I thought you said DonWolf died somewhere else. Out on the water or something.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œBut what’s this, then?” Braman asked weakly. His color had gone so bad I was afraid he was going to pitch forward flat on his face. “If somebody’s dead in here, who is it?”
    â€œThat’s what we have to find out,” I said. “Go make the call. Hurry now.”
    Shaking his head, Jack Braman shambled away. Meanwhile, I sidestepped around the door, avoiding the usual traffic pattern, and eased my way into the overheated room.
    If this was Don Wolf’s apartment, the place was totally in character. It was neat as a pin. Nothing in the elegantly appointed living room appeared to be out of place. The door had been locked when Jack Braman opened it, and there was no sign of forced entry.
    Trying not to disturb any footprints, I skirted the edge of the fine white carpet as I headed for the hallway. There the reek of decaying flesh seemed far worse than in the living room. Breathing through my mouth and using a handkerchief to grip the knob, I opened a closed bedroom door. Even though I’d had ample warning, the overpowering stench inside left me gagging.
    Because the blinds were closed, the room was enveloped in a dusky gloom. Even so, it was still possible to see the grim spatter pattern of blood and gore that had been sprayed across the headboard and the wall over the bed where a lump ofpathetically still humanity lay concealed beneath a brightly colored comforter.
    Obviously, the person on the bed was dead. Once upon a time, I would have rushed forward just to make sure there was nothing I could do. Once, but not now. This isn’t the good old days. When it comes to murder cases, investigating officers find themselves on