Chapter 9
About twenty-five minutes later, Benjamin reached the apartment building where Catalina lived. Traffic was still heavy. Many restaurants were just closing, but the bar scene was about to ramp up, and theatergoers were streaming out of the theaters north of Market Street hunting for available taxis.
It took him another ten minutes to find a spot to park his car.
It wasn’t exactly legal, but he parked there anyway, because one of the perks of having a car registered with Scanguards was that they were treated the same way as a police car—they could park anywhere they wanted.
Should a meter maid run his license plate, she would realize instantly that he was law enforcement and was not to be ticketed or towed.
In general, he didn’t abuse those privileges, but tonight he had no patience to circle the same four blocks another dozen times in the hopes of finding a legal parking spot.
He switched off the engine, got out, and locked the car.
Catalina’s apartment building was on the next block.
He crossed the street and walked up to the entrance.
It was ajar. Not a surprise. In this neighborhood, security at many of these buildings left much to be desired.
Either a delivery person, a visitor, or a resident hadn’t locked the door properly, or the door’s lock didn’t snap in anymore. Either way, the door was open.
The elevator was out of order. Catalina’s flat was on the fifth floor.
He walked up the dimly lit staircase, determined not to leave her flat until he’d made sure that she wouldn’t continue on the path of crime she was currently on.
He hadn’t saved her life the previous night just for her to throw it away on a life of crime.
There were ten flats on the fifth floor.
Catalina’s was the last at the end of the long corridor.
He knocked on the door and waited. No sounds came from inside the flat.
He knocked again. But there was no reply.
Fine, if she wanted to pretend she wasn’t home, he knew how to deal with it.
He pulled Catalina’s lockpicks from his pocket and went to work.
Learning how to use lockpicks was part of Scanguards’ curriculum for all bodyguards.
He’d learned it almost twenty years ago, and he was proficient in it.
Scanguards didn’t teach their employees this skill so they could break in and steal things, but rather to make sure they could access any home or business in case of an emergency, such as to rescue a client.
Benjamin heard the familiar click that indicated that he’d unlocked the door.
He put the lockpicks away and opened the door quietly.
It was dark inside the foyer, but he could see light shining from underneath one of the three doors ahead of him.
He entered and closed and locked the door behind him as quietly as he could.
At the door below where he saw light, he paused for a moment, listening for sounds from inside, but again, he heard nothing.
He turned the doorknob and opened the door to look inside the room.
Along one wall was a small kitchenette, on the other side a living area with a bed behind a partition to create a separation.
The room was empty. When he checked what lay behind the other two rooms—one a bedroom, the other a bathroom—he knew Catalina wasn’t home.
He returned to the living area, where a light burned over a small dining table that was packed with books and papers.
He looked through the items. The books were about the legal system, chain-of-custody rules, appeals, and similar legal topics.
There were a few instruction manuals for locks and safes, as well as a transparent practice lock commonly used to learn and practice lockpicking.
A few letters, mostly bills, were strewn on the table. He picked them up. Some were addressed to Catalina Vargas, others to Santiago Vargas. He dropped them back on the table. Was Catalina married? Was that why she’d said that her life was complicated?
He looked back at the bed in the living area.
If she and Santiago were married, why were there two separate sleeping areas?
Were they separated or in the middle of a divorce, and that’s why they slept in separate rooms?
Fuck! This was looking more complicated than he’d expected.
He sat down on the rickety chair and leafed through the stack of files.
The largest one was a transcript of a court case.
Since court files were public record, anybody could request a copy from the court—for a fee, of course.
So whose court case was Catalina so interested in that she would spend money to get a copy?
Money she most likely didn’t have, as he could tell from what he saw in the flat.
Every piece of furniture seemed to be second-hand, and there were no items of obvious value.
The TV was small and old, the books were from the library, and the computer on the coffee table was also an older model.
If Catalina had been a burglar for a while, she had nothing to show for it.
Unless, of course, she kept the loot hidden somewhere else. But somehow, he doubted that.
A quick look into the bedroom closet, and it was clear that she didn’t spend money on fancy clothes either. Nor shoes or handbags. There was no jewelry anywhere, nor any cash. He returned to the living area and looked at the court file.
The first name that jumped out at him was Santiago Vargas. He was the defendant in a criminal case. He was about to start reading the file when he heard the sound of the apartment door being unlocked.