“No.”
“What about the old man? The first-floor tenant?”
“No. I didn’t see anybody. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“I want to know. Then what did you do?”
“I went to the car and left.”
“Were you wearing your sunglasses?”
“Of course not. It was nighttime.”
Jake tried to imagine it. “Did the place have a security guard, like a gatehouse at the front?”
“No, you just drive in.”
“Did you see any security cameras around or any security guards?”
“There was no security guard, and it was too shabby to have any surveillance cameras.”
“How long would you say you were there?”
“Talking with him? Five minutes. Before that, snooping around? About ten minutes. I took pictures.”
“You took pictures inside his apartment?”
“You’re not going to believe what I saw.” Pam looked at her iPhone, and Jake came over as she thumbed through to her camera roll, a multicolored grid like an electronic mosaic. She looked over at him, then edged backwards again. “Forget it. I don’t have time to look at them. I have to get to work.”
“You’re not even going to stand next to me now?”
“You think everything is fine, just like that?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Nothing’s fine, nothing. You got us into this mess. You ruined our lives. You ruined ourson.”
“Honey—”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me. I don’t want to talk about it now. I have to get to work. If I get in any later, people will start asking questions.”
“Can I see the pictures?”
“You can’t see them in the sun, anyway.” Pam waved the iPhone at him. “He keeps a bulletin board over his desk and it has lots of pictures of Kathleen. He was stalking her. You were right, okay? Is that what you need to hear?”
“So you took pictures of his desk.” Jake wondered if her fingerprints would show up anywhere. “Was his computer there?”
“Yes, a laptop. I took a picture.”
“The police said that whoever killed him took his laptop and phone. Did you see a phone anywhere?”
“No, I assume he had it with him. Maybe it will show up in the photos. You can look for yourself.” Pam hit a few buttons on her iPhone. “I’ll email—”
“No, don’t email—”
“Why not? I just did.”
“Pam, think about this.” Jake realized that she hadn’t thought it through, probably because she’d been so upset. “The police are looking for a brunette who had an argument with Voloshin right before he was murdered. They suspect he had a girlfriend, but we know that woman is you, unless another brunette came by later, like maybe Kathleen’s mother, but still, I don’t know why she would—”
