Chapter Eleven
The address for Cynthia Woodruff listed in the police report was for an old brick building in Northwest Portland. Johnson called his wife and said he might be late. Then he parked near the building and walked up three flights to Woodruff’s apartment.
When the investigator knocked on Woodruff’s door and got no response, he walked down to the first floor where the landlord lived.
“Mr. Fong?” Morris asked the man who opened the door.
“Yes?”
“I just came from Cynthia Woodruff’s apartment. I need to talk to her, but she’s not in. I was wondering if you might know where she is.”
The landlord eyed Johnson suspiciously. “Why do you want to talk to her?”
Morris handed the landlord his card. “Sorry, I should have explained. Miss Woodruff worked for a man named Terrance Cogen. He was murdered recently. I’m an investigator.
My boss is representing the person who was arrested for the crime.
He says that he’s innocent, and we think Miss Woodruff may be able to prove he is. That’s why I have to talk to her.”
“Good luck with that. Woodruff took off without paying her rent. If you find her, let me know.”
“That’s too bad, and I’ll definitely get in touch if we find her.” Morris paused. Then he pretended to get an idea. “Say, do you think you could let me into her place? She may have left something behind that will help me find her.”
Mr. Fong hesitated. Then he shrugged.
“Normally, I wouldn’t, but I don’t owe her anything, since she stiffed me. Wait a minute while I get the key.”
A few minutes later, Morris was standing in the dark entryway of a one-bedroom apartment. Hot air had been trapped in the confined space, and Morris detected the faint smell of cooked meat.
A couch stood against the wall that had a door that led into a tiny bedroom.
Women’s magazines with suggestions for meeting men and enhancing a woman’s sex life were strewn across a coffee table.
A television was attached to the wall beside a window across from the couch and coffee table.
The window looked out on a park, the only thing that brightened the dismal space.
A sink, stove, and small refrigerator stood against another wall.
Lying in an unwashed frying pan on the stove were the remnants of a hamburger.
A plate with a half-eaten burger and a glass half-filled with beer sat on a place mat on a yellow Formica-topped table.
Woodruff had left without finishing her meal.
Had a frenzied call from Billy Kramer made her flee?
In the bedroom, Morris saw more indications of a hasty exit. The door to the room’s only closet was wide open. There were no clothes on the hangers, and several hangers were spread across the floor.
The drawers in a chest of drawers were half open. Morris looked in them and found a single sock pressed against the back of one of the drawers, the only indication that it once held Cynthia’s clothing.
Morris spent a few more minutes searching the apartment. Mr. Fong was waiting for Morris in the hall outside the apartment.
“Did you find where she’s gone?” he asked.
Morris shook his head. “Did Miss Woodruff own a car?”
“Yeah, but it’s not here. I looked.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much. She kept to herself. Until now, she paid her rent on time. I know she had a job as a maid for some rich man. She told me his name once, but I don’t remember it. She wasn’t around much during the week. I guess she was at work.
“She did have a boyfriend. He came here on occasion. I’m sure he spent the night every once in a while, but I didn’t see him here much.”
“What did the boyfriend look like?”
“He was a big guy, good-looking, well-built. I think he had blond hair.” Fong shrugged. “I don’t remember anything more about him.”
“Okay. Thanks. You’ve been a big help. If Miss Woodruff gets in touch or if you think of anything else, will you give me a call?”
Fong said he would, and Morris walked to his car. Jack Blackburn had described Billy Kramer, and Morris was certain that Kramer was the boyfriend. The big question was whether Kramer and Woodruff had fled because they were guilty of murder or for some other reason.