In the garage, Martinelli was getting another good look at Georgia. Martin was busily calling her shots, directing where she should stand, or sit, to take her photos. He was being very thorough, collecting accurate forensic evidence. Turned out, she had taken no pictures in the garage, prior to this, only some of the exterior, and the entrances.

“The other thing I saw from this garage plan,” Martin observed to Martinelli as Georgia went through her paces, “though I didn’t want to say it upstairs, is that, gauging from the angle, the picture was taken from Kitty Doyle’s parking space.”

“Of course, why not? Here we go again with her.”

“I’m beginning to feel like Mrs. James.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll have to go back and look at my notes. Find out what time Doyle said she was in the garage that night.”

“Wouldn’t matter, anyway. Anyone with access could have taken it, whether her car was there or not.”

“I suppose. Holding a camera at arm’s length, you mean, out over where the car hood would be.” Georgia said she was done and they all trooped back up to the lobby, and outside. She left for the station; they made for the gym, Rusty Mangold’s gym, to question Peter.

“Let’s see what the trainer’s got to say for himself, now.” Inside, they requested to see Peter. They were referred instead to the manager, who complained that full-time memberships were dwindling, just like everything else in this economy, except for trouble. Still plenty of that to go around, wasn’t there, and our city soon full again of flabby people. He was sorry that he’d had to let some of their trainers and other staff go, and Peter was one of them, a couple of weeks ago now, it was. He’d been paid in full on his last day. He was keeping Peter’s info on file for when business picked up again, and when did they think that would happen. No, he didn’t think he could share that info with the police. He’d have to check on that first, with his human resources department. His franchise was a national chain, and there would be a procedure to follow, for sure.

“That guy could talk your leg off. You wouldn’t have to exercise it at all.” Martinelli disliked references to flab. It was no better coming from the manager than from his wife.

“So much for comparing Peter’s and Hans’ stories.”

“Maybe we can extract Peter’s contact information from Hans?”

“Guess we’re about to find out. I’m going to check out Georgia’s pictures, then our file notes, then try again later at the POPS.”

*********************

Hans arrived home to the unwelcome news that the cops wanted to see him, again. He didn’t know what they wanted and he didn’t know how to put them off. He was worried about being caught in their web, or worse, of contradicting himself. He couldn’t really remember the details of the previous interviews. Why hadn’t he written down everything he’d ever said to anybody about all of this? Up til now, he was fairly sure he hadn’t actually lied. Why, when he’d had no part in this, should he feel like he was turning into a liar? He’d never thought of himself as anything but honest, and direct. He wasn’t vain about his character but he thought he knew who he was, at the very least.

He’d come to terms with Peter’s character, too, with time and space, and now Sebastian, between them. Hans had persuaded himself in the interim that some of Peter’s story could have been fiction anyway, contrived in the jealousy that was Peter’s defining style. There was no need at all to repeat any of that hearsay. If he couldn’t tell if it were true, he shouldn’t pretend to anybody else. Rusty could have ended up how he did in any number of other ways. No dilemma – at all – for Hans. He had a new lease on life to protect at the POPS, and an established clientele.

And in spite of the fact that it was Kitty’s threat that had first compelled him to buy her unit, that had all turned out rather well, in a very short time, due to his considerable savvy and negotiating skill.  At very little expense to himself and in the same building, he would soon acquire the larger space that he craved, rid himself forever of that woman, and sell his own unit to his new, close friend. His eastern, and preferable, view might someday be impacted by new construction but he was less concerned than were others at the POPS about the immediacy of that happening. Kitty’s threat, to send in a picture she said she’d taken but that he had never seen, apparently hadn’t materialized. He assumed she had made up the whole story just to get what she wanted at his expense – a way out – and she was crazy enough to say or do anything. He was surrounded by fools.

His unit doorbell rang into these reflections. It was Martin.

“I have some questions.” Hans waved him through the open doorway.

“Just to confirm what you told us previously,” Martin had done his homework, “you were out of town the night Mangold died, and can prove that.” Hans was relieved at this refresher course and resisted the temptation to start taking notes for his own records. “You invited no visitors to your unit while you were away. You live here alone, own a parking space – but have no car – and you’re not renting it to anyone. You are buying Miss Doyle’s unit and are selling yours to the Cabots.”

“Sounds right.”

“Explain this picture.” Martin held out a color copy of the original. “It shows a car in your space on the night you say you weren’t here.” Hans’ eyes flew to the imprinted date stamp glowing vaguely yellow, a warning in the corner; he tried to conceal his horror at the image laid before him, an unwelcome offering from an unwanted donor. Even though he had spent relatively little time in the POPS garage, this was undoubtedly Peter’s car, in his designated parking space. This was too awful a proof, his pious self assurances only a thin sham. His thoughts tripped, reverberating over the heckling voice of Kitty Doyle. What had she done? After he’d done what he’d done?

“I can’t.” Hans heard his own uncertain voice say. It was not what his internal, inaudible voice was screaming.

“Do you recognize the car?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know the person who owns this car?”

“Yes.”

“And did this person used to live here with you?”

“Yes.”

“But that person, let’s call him Peter Pentalent, shall we, moved out some time before Rusty Mangold died here?” Hans had to locate his lost breath before replying.

“Yes.”

“And Peter was Rusty’s trainer at the gym, and brought him here that Sunday night, and killed him?”

“I’m afraid he’s suffering from toothache and had to make an emergency visit to the dentist. I’m wearing his hat today, as best I can.”

“My sympathy to him.” Martinelli regarded dentists as even worse to see than lawyers, and equally outrageous in what he ended up paying them. Whenever the dental office called to schedule him for an appointment, he always grumbled to his wife that it meant a car payment must be due on the dentist’s Bimmer. He didn’t have to work inside the mouths of people but he had to know way too much about their inner lives, weak underbellies and all, and he didn’t get paid like dentists did. “We need to go down to the garage. We know the way.” Down in the garage, they walked the aisles. “Not seeing that car anywhere, are you?”

“No, but it could be gone for the day. Let’s look for a space that matches.”

“We’ll have to do this again at night, when more of the cars are here. Needle in a haystack, if you ask me.”

“It’s not that bad. This photo is not only date stamped the day before we found Mangold, but time stamped about the time of death, that night. If we find something even close, we can get forensics in to measure. Look for something that doesn’t get moved, like an overhead light fixture.” They went round again, slower this time, stopping and taking the long view shown in the picture at every space until they got the lay of the place in their minds. After that, they began to see its variations and details more readily.

“Hold up a sec.” Martin did in fact hold up his picture, at arm’s length, toward an angular view of a row of parking spaces. “See that?”

“No. What?”

“That light fixture, over that, what is it, some kind of storage or mechanicals unit? And look, here are some numbers on the floor. I can see some of these numbers now but if the cars were parked, no way.”

“So if the cars were here and matched, we have a go?”

“Think so. Who’s parking space would this be, then?” Martin stepped forward to be sure of the number, its paint nearly worn off, on the garage floor. “That’s the one we need to know about.”

Well-pleased with his detection, Martin took a picture of his own, pending the arrival of the experts, maybe even in the person of Georgia Mendel. Earlier, Gina had let him down, had nothing to report, as they passed each other in his haste to leave the station. She hadn’t had a chance to ask her sister about what, if anything, she’d taken in the garage: they’d been so busy with the kids this morning. Martin never could understand this excuse but then he’d never had kids. Maybe he should just take her word for it, that kids disrupted plans, rather than ask her to explain it to him. She’d just tell him a joke instead, anyway, but it would be a good joke. They returned to the lobby.

“Mrs. James, is there an up to date list of what parking space number goes with what owner?” Gervase had shown them one but they obviously couldn’t confirm that with him today.

“Sure.”

“Can we see it?”

“That would be with the records. I have those upstairs, someplace. Can I get back to you, tomorrow maybe?” Martinelli realized it would be better to wait than to push here, despite Martin’s impatience.

“First thing work for you? It’s important.” Mrs. James looked a bit startled.

“Yes. I’ll dig around for those tonight.” Mrs. James looked a bit startled. “Shall I call, or will you come back?”

“We’ll be back and hope that Gervase will be, too. Thanks, Mrs. James.”

***************************

When they returned on Thursday morning, they had Georgia, camera-ready, in tow. Mrs. James was hovering, clearly fussing over an ungrateful Gervase.

“No need to bother, Mrs. James, but thank you. It’s such a little thing, not to worry.” She left him to attend to Martin and Martinelli.

“Good morning, again.” she said. “Here’s that list you asked for. The spaces travel with the unit, are deeded.” Mrs. James handed it to Martin, and corralled Georgia for a chat.

“What’s worse, Gervase, the pain or the payment?” Martinelli joked. Gervase smiled toward Mrs. James.

“Possibly the cure.”

“You up for a few questions?” Martin now had his parking space numbers and owner names matched up, and was ready to ask some.

“Sure.”

“According to this list that Mrs. James gave me, this parking space goes with the unit belonging to Hans Knopupik. That sound correct to you?”

Gervase only nodded. Maybe his teeth still hurt.

“Hans told us he didn’t have a car and also that he didn’t currently have the space rented out. Can you identify whose car this is, parked in his spot?” Martin handed Gervase the picture; he appeared thoughtful, even a bit perplexed.

“Haven’t seen this car around for awhile, nor the guy who drove it. He’s a friend of Hans’. Never a unit owner here, though. Peter, I think his name was. Ask Mrs. James, she’d remember.”

“Would you say you hadn’t seen him around much, even before you found Rusty Mangold in the pool?”

“That I’d have to think about. But wouldn’t Hans know that, for sure?” Gervase indicated by this reply his assumption that Hans would tell the truth about this. Martin wasn’t so sure. ” But if I had to say,” Gervase pictured Hans and Sebastian together that day at the elevator, only a week after the drowning, “I’d say that I haven’t seen him around, for a couple of months, at least.”

Mrs. James did confirm to Martinelli that Peter was the name of Hans’ friend, though once again, she’d have to go up and check her records, this time the cookbook committee notes, to see if she even had his last name written down anywhere.

“Committee? Thought he wasn’t a resident.”

“True, he was never an owner. He heard about the cookbook project from Hans, and volunteered. He was one of the first to contribute a recipe – for banana bread – it was. But Hans told me a week or so ago that Peter wouldn’t be on the new committee, and to forget about including the recipe. I suppose I assumed that they were no longer, well, ‘good’ friends.’” Martinelli was putting this together with what he remembered of the gym trainer. Now that they had Peter placed at the scene, or at least in the garage, they’d see just how good he was at concocting, in this case, a good story. In the meantime, they would speak again with Hans.

“Gervase, would you please call up to Hans’ unit and tell him that we’re here to see him.”

“Sure, but I saw him go out awhile ago.” Gervase buzzed the unit but Hans did not respond.

“I’ll leave a note for him in his mailbox.” Martin prepared to scribble a note.

“Or, you can do what we do, too, Mr. Martin and slip it under his unit door. Residents don’t always check their boxes. I can take that upstairs for you.”

“Thanks, Gervase. Georgia, sorry to keep you waiting so long. Let’s go down and get those photos now. Goodbye, Mrs. James.”

“This isn’t going to be a regular appointment, I hope? We’re on a tight schedule.”

“Probably not.” She thought she should keep her escape options open.

***************

“Miss Hayes?” Gina turned to see a clerk standing in front of her desk.

“Yes?”

“This piece of mail arrived over the weekend. It’s different but it scanned clean. We found no prints on the contents. The only address is Martin, Milwaukee Police. There are several people around here with that name, so we’re asking you.”

Gina took the already opened envelope and examined the contents, to see if she could figure out which Martin it might be for. It was a photo of a car, taken inside a garage, and was printed on an plain piece of white copy paper. There was no writing on the back of the picture, and other than a camera designated date, no marks on the face.

It was five o’clock and she was ready to go home. The day after a long weekend was always a catch-up day and she was tired of dealing with details. She placed the photo back in its envelope and was about to toss it in her ‘In’ tray to deal with tomorrow, when on a whim, she took it with her, walked down the corridor and looked in at the M&M’s doorway.

“Hey, Martin, don’t you ever go home?” Martin looked up, distracted from a spread of scribbled notes he appeared to be consolidating onto a calendar page, and grinned at her.

“Only if you would come with me, gorgeous Gina.” They did this schtick together, feeling safely separated by her more advanced years and her disdain of his still boyish charms. They only did this when in private, for their own amusement, mindful of other, prohibited interpretations.

“In your dreams, lucky boy. Look, I’ve just been handed this, from the mail room. It’s clean but sent anonymously, to a Martin, Milwaukee Police. You’re a Martin. You deal with it. I don’t get paid enough to think, like your overpaid detective class of cop.”

“What’cha got there?” Gina set her burden down on top of his papers, adding layers to his evening workload. He observed the minimal address on the standard envelope and extracted the meager contents. “This it?”

“As you see. Is it yours?”

“Might be.” Martin inspected a picture of the back of a car, on the driver’s side. Apparently taken inside an underground garage and at a fairly wide angle, there was a partial Wisconsin license plate visible. The car was an older import that meant nothing to him but the date imprinted on the photo, and the layout inside the garage began to ring his bells. “Enough to run for matches, for sure. Thanks, Gina. Ask your sister if she took any pictures in the POPS garage, would you, on the off-chance? I don’t remember seeing any.”

“Aw, you just want me to call you back later, don’t you? Night, sweetheart, and I’ll tell all in the morning.”

Gina did go home meaning to ask Georgia. As it was a Tuesday night, she expected to find her sister alone and relaxed, her nieces away with Greg, for the last time before their amended schedule changed yet again the following week, this time for all of summer vacation. Gina had arrived home on Monday night later than she had expected, as her day of touring at Asphodel Meadows had delightfully segued into a lengthy dinner. There’d been no time at all to talk with Georgia. Gina was hoping for this leisurely chance to bring Georgia up to speed on her rural encounter with Bert. She didn’t know that Georgia had her own news to divulge.

Nobody was home. Georgia had left a note saying she was called in to work and to expect Greg back with Poppy and Pansy at the usual time. Gina sighed and rummaged in the refrigerator for leftovers. What she found failed to inspire and she wistfully remembered yesterday at this time, the feast of courses that Bert had so handily prepared while an enclosing evening mist swirled up against the windows. Tonight, it was a lovely evening, so she went for a walk around the neighborhood, before resuming her Aunt Gina role. Greg arrived just after seven.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Gone to work. It’s just me, tonight, you poor things.” Gina gave Greg a quick smile, thinking he must feel this way sometimes, as well.

“Awwwww. I wanted to show her something.” Pansy moaned briefly before distraction set in and she occupied a living room couch.

“Don’t even think of turning on the TV.” Gina shouted in that direction. “You have school in the morning.” She’d soon have to think of another excuse. School days were numbered now.

“But it’s so early and it’s not even dark!” Poppy protested, in the way that children do on the beckoning evenings of early summer.

“Then go outside and play for a few minutes.” The girls ran out the side door, and soon Greg and Gina heard the bounce of the basketball on the driveway, and the shrieks of the other kids joining in the game. Greg turned to move his endangered car out of their way.

“How was your holiday, Gina? They said that you went to experience country life.” He refrained from telling her they’d been chanting ‘Old McSteinhardt’ for days.

“How the other half lives, mostly. Yours?”

“We had a really good time together.” Gina looked dubious. “At least, I hope that’s what you’ll hear. Maybe we were all a bit surprised. We’ll all talk again soon, about summer schedules.”

*****************

Martin quickly finished up his syncing of R.M.’s promptly sent and self-reported visits to the POPS, and set that fizzled out line of inquiry aside in favor of this new clue. He came up with half a dozen possibilities for vehicles with that partial number and only one came close to the older, tan colored import in the picture. It was owned by a Peter Pentalent. That was the name of the trainer they’d interviewed at Rusty’s club. How many of those could there be? Martin searched, checked for a previous record on this name, and found nothing.

He was itching to get back into that garage, get a visual match on the layout, and hoping that ‘once you’d seen one underground garage you hadn’t seen them all’. There must be something he’d be able to find to nail down that identification. He supposed that if he really had to, he could summon up one of the residents to let him into the building, or even as R.M. had suggested, to just stand around outside and take his chances on meeting somebody at the door. It was too late to talk to Gervase, or anybody else of interest. That would have to wait until morning. It would be a long day tomorrow, too. Martin locked up the photo in his desk, and headed out.

“We have a few questions for you, too, Mr. Cabot.” Sebastian was taken aback. He’d come in expecting to hear a report of the activity from R.M., not find two cops in his place.

“I’ll call you, later.” R.M. reassured Sebastian. “Let you know how things went.”

“R.M. and I will be down in the meeting room.” Martinelli left with R.M., while Martin stayed to ask his questions of Cabot.

“How did you come to choose him to sell your condo? Friend of yours?”

“No. We also considered selling it on our own. Mrs. James suggested that my brother and I add his name to our short list of Realtors to interview. She gave him a strong recommendation. He’d sold her her unit plus, she said, he’d stayed very familiar with the building since it was constructed. She sees him around and they talk.”

“So you spoke with other ones, too, before you decided who to pick?”

“Yes, remember we’d set up those meetings for the Monday morning, it turned out, after the drowning. Your people said we had to reschedule ’cause nobody was allowed in that day.”

“Yes, we said that after the deceased was discovered in the pool.” This restatement of facts went right over Sebastian’s head; he was busy wondering what this was all about.

“And you and your brother have no other connection with R.M., of any kind?”

“None. Wait, is he in trouble, or something?”

“Just routine questions. We’re still investigating incidents.”

“Incidents, with an ’s’?” Sebastian supposed he must mean about the girl with the broken arm. Mrs. James had told him.

“Yes. Tell me when he’s been in the building, either with you or without you, about selling your place.”

“The next day, early afternoon, when we first met him. Then, we had more questions and I met with him, that would have been, let me think, Wednesday afternoon.” Martin started to take notes. “Then that Saturday, at noon, he and his wife came to take pictures here, to get the listing ready for putting in MLS.  On Monday, it was mid-day. I was out. He came back to set up the lock box, for showings to begin. He called me to bring over the correct keys, so I stopped back. He showed it quite early Wednesday morning and again on Saturday, about mid-day. Then today, he was here for having in these other Realtors. That’s it, I think, for us.”

“Thank you. Please let us know if you think of any other times.” Martin put away his list, adding, “Here’s our number. Where were you, the Sunday night of the incident?”

“Matthew and I were here, sorting stuff out, getting our questions ready to talk to the Realtors about selling. I must say, R.M.’s been totally helpful and honest with us about everything.”

“Right. Good luck selling your place. Very nice.” Martin would need a rich wife, a Mrs. Martin, to afford a place like this, he judged, as he went down to the meeting room. It was a quick trip this time, the elevator oddly ready and waiting for him. When he joined them in the meeting room, R.M. was still answering Martinelli’s questions.

“I had kids, back in the dark ages, so sure, I had to be able to fix their bikes.”

“Carry wire cutters when you’re here?”

“There’s a tool-kit in my trunk. Sometimes I have to adjust yard signs and wire cutters come in handy. I don’t bring tools inside, normally.”

“Did you put your car in the garage the day you came to put in the lock box?”

“Never had my car in the garage. Always park on the street. Look, I’d never hurt a kid, if this is where this is heading. Can I tell you something about condo buildings?” As the pair facing him said nothing, he continued. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about the drowning, or whatever you are calling it. I’m guessing everybody here has. In my experience, it’s easier to get into a building than not, way easier than it should be. In the fifteen years I’ve been working the downtown area, in all that time, I’ve only ever been challenged twice by a resident, questioning who I was, or why I was trying to get in. If you just wait around outside, then make like you have a key when someone comes along, most people, going out or in, just let you in on the way by. If you carry a camera, or a toolbox, or food, even better. The key you have to get in might as well be your own house key, for all they look to see if its the right one. Same with those fobs.” Martinelli let out a sigh. R.M. continued.

“And in buildings with a concierge, a Gervase, once those people got to know me, they’d hand me keys to any part of the building. I earned their trust. Hell, most of the time, they’re so bored and grateful to bullshit with anybody from outside for a few minutes, they’d do anything to help you. Gervase is better than most at screening but he’d give me access anytime because he knows I’d never work him over.” Martinelli shook his head. Annals of true crime this was; the first-time average guy, turned criminal, who just knew he could get away with it because he was trusted.

“Course, this can happen in other kinds of properties, too, but in condos, it’s noticeable. You don’t like to advertise security problems but they do exist, and mostly because of the people who live in the buildings, letting people in, assuming they must be OK or there for a reason, or like me, someone they recognize as being around. There are buildings I’m in frequently, for short periods working a deal, that I then don’t get back to for another couple of months and then it’s just the same all over again.”

Martin asked R.M. to make a note of all the times he’d been in the building in the last month, and where he’d gone. R.M. said he’d have to go back and consult his work diary. It was too many to remember off-hand but it would be all in there. They let him go.

“So, how’d you put the quarter in him?” Martin asked Martinelli.

“He does talk, I’ll give him that. Don’t think much will come of this, motive-wise, do you still?”

“I’ll still check his times against the ones Cabot’s just given me, if only to persuade myself. Problem I’m seeing is, the way R.M. tells it, and he’s a really believable guy, almost anyone could have got in here that night, and if one, why not two people, together? Why don’t y’all just come on down, now? Opportunity for all.”

“I mean, you might as well suspect Gervase, as anyone, as far as means and opportunity factor in.”

“The butler did it. He could have easily brought Mangold in, and cut the bike brakes. But why would he?”

“Open to your suggestions. I don’t have any. Truth be told, there are security breaches all over, not just here. Everybody goes around thinking they are living in Fort Knox, so they forget to lock the door behind them. Kinda like not checking your brakes before you take off. Speaking of which, I’m going to do, not you. Take off, I meant. You’re going back to the station to compare your own notes.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Martin began “about that realtor.”

“What, you planning to move, now?”

“On my salary?”

“What about a realtor, then?”

“He’s just beginning to bug me, the way you said about your sister.” Martinelli wasn’t listening; he was leaning way over his now stained napkin strewn desk and taking low and prudent sips from what remained of his drink. Martin waited.

“My sister…?” Martinelli sputtered it out.

“Mm, yes, you said she was always around when trouble happened but was never to blame, just under the radar, like Kitty Doyle.”

“Not enough coffee in my system, yet, I guess, ’cause I’m not following. What’s this got to do with a realtor?”

“I’ve been thinking about people we may have overlooked, other, under the radar, people.”

“And a realtor is one? Which one, now?”

“That R.M., that we see at the POPS.”

“OK, up to speed. What about him? Opportunity, motive, means?”

“Plenty of opportunity, mostly. He was outside, the morning after the drowning. Why?”

“Returning to the scene of the crime? Classic. But didn’t he have an appointment with a resident?”

“Who we never interviewed.”

“Keep going.”

“It’s like nobody sees him when he’s there, seems to be just part of the furniture.”

“True, even Gervase left him off the list of people entering the building.”

“And we only have R.M.’s word for it that he’s there, whenever and wherever he says. He could be lying.”

“And he should be different, why?”

“He has the means to get in the building, with that lock box outside, anytime.”

“But that’s only been there since the drowning.”

“But before the tampering.”

“Yes.”

“He knew where the Karon’s parking spaces were, no hesitation.” Martinelli was looking more interested, now. “He knows every nook and cranny in the building, though he called it ‘due diligence’. Maybe he’s just using his job as an excuse to get up to no good, under cover.”

“Hidden in plain sight.” Martinelli shifted around to face his steel cabinet, full of case files.”Ever tell you about the guy we nabbed at the building materials store?”

“Before my time?”

“Maybe. The security guard got suspicious. At the end of every shift, this employee left pushing a wheelbarrow covered with packing material. The guard poked around in it each time, found nothing but reported it anyway. When we investigated, we brought the guy in.”

“And? You asked him what he was stealing?”

“Wheelbarrows.”

“Bit early, isn’t it?” Martin looked resentfully at his now cold coffee.

“OK, OK.”  So, opportunity, yes. Gervase screens visitors but R.M. could easily get by, based on familiarity.”

“And means, too. What if he’d had keys from before, another time. He says he’s been working the building since construction. What if he let Mangold in?”

“I’ll bite. Why would he?”

“Not sure. They’re both realtors. Maybe there’s a business connection we don’t know. That Hans has a connection with Kitty that we had to weasel out of him. Maybe there’s a vendetta against the uncle.”

“A little far fetched. What about motive?”

“Hey, we’re just talking. Aren’t we supposed to figure things out?”

“Not sure I can detect why R.M. would hurt the girl. Can’t figure that out about anybody, really.”

“Some other personal connection or conflict? Or, how about in cahoots with another resident, a set-up?”

“Alright. Let’s talk to him. You organize it. I’m going to go soak my shirt.” Martin reported back that R.M. would be hosting an open house for other agents at the POPS today. He could see the officers there, after that, if that was acceptable.

Martin and Martinelli went up to the unit a little early; they wanted to check out if R.M. was doing what he said he would be. Gervase had admitted quite a few groups of realtors today, explaining that they often arrived in packs, on tour days. R.M. was just saying good-bye to a colleague, and welcomed them as if they were about to tour the place themselves. Martin figured it would be as good a place as any to talk to him, though the furnishings were mostly gone. They all leaned on the breakfast bar, R.M on the kitchen sink side, the police team facing him on the other while gave each of them his business card.

“You never know who’s in the market. I’ve worked before with officers. I pay attention, when the force is with me.” It was an overused joke but new to them coming from a realtor. “How can I help you, then? I’d be surprised if anybody else shows up, so we can talk here. But the owner may be back soon. If this takes longer than that, we’ll have to go someplace else. Professional courtesy.”

“You’re in the building a great deal. Any particular reason?” Martin led off, with his first question.

“Monetary ones, mainly. I’ve met a lot of people here but wouldn’t describe anybody as a friend, really. I come for the business, and hope to realize a sale. That involves multiple visits with the same people. I have to be here for every showing, or another agent bringing his customers must be, for a registered showing. A Realtor sometimes concentrates on a condo building – farming, we call it. I seem to be running into a spate of business here, in spite of some recent problems. But I have to say, death and commotion aren’t good for business. We like to point to the positives, as well as reporting any negatives.” R.M. gave complete answers. Martin was skip jumping his prepared questions.

“You said before that there were certain things that all realtors do when they’re showing a building?”

“All realtors, well the competent ones – unfortunately, there are always those bad apples – follow the same procedure to allow showing a property. It gets a bit more complicated in a condo building. Gervase handles it very well. There is the individual unit for sale, of course, but also the common amenities to view, plus the garage. So, it takes a while to do, with lots of keys, and side trips. It’s handy when the building key works for the unit, too, but that’s rare.”

“And the bad apples? Anyone you don’t get along with, the Mangolds, maybe?”

“I make it a point to stay on good terms.” R.M. was surprised by the directness of that question. “So often, it happens so you have to work things out, negotiate deals with other agents, and developers, occasionally, depending on the age of the development. Morrie and I are on good terms, though I disagree with some of his choices. Same with Rusty. I did condole personally with Morrie, just after Rusty drowned.”

“Was discovered in the pool.” Martinelli threw it in, as a test.

“Can’t help repeating common knowledge, I suppose. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“How much do you know about bicycles? Have a working knowledge of repairs?” R.M. was completely thrown by this one. It finally occurred to him that they were regarding him with suspicion, not as a trusted source of real estate information. And at this moment, in strolled Sebastian.

Greg didn’t explain to Mrs. James was that he was doing some scheming of his own, on hearing it slip in fits of giggles from Poppy and Pansy that on Monday, Gina was going to ‘old Mc’Steinhardt’s farm’. He’d quickly approached Georgia to ask if she’d consider a get together, with he and the girls, his treat of course, preferably something outdoorsy, or at least active; they were turning into couch potatoes, and he’d like to nip that in the bud before school was out in a week or so. He was excessively proud that he’d accessed the school calendar online and was fully in the loop. During the long pause after he made this proposal, he scrambled for some specific ideas, kicking himself that he hadn’t researched this first, didn’t have a list of suggestions. Into the void, he threw out the first thing that came to mind.

“How about skating?” It was apropos at least but he still felt on thin ice. Pretending that he didn’t already know, he added, “And I’ll get them back to your house, if Gina wants a break on Monday evening.” So, it was all arranged, except for locating available ice and gear for the ladies; his assistant, less than busy in the post-season, could find these for him. Maybe he wasn’t so useless a father, after all.

Mrs. James knew that Hans and Sebastian were making a long weekend of packing and painting, so not much company was available there unless she wished to join the crew, or offer to feed it. Lee, after her coup in persuading her Dad to allow in a party of ping-pong players on Saturday, was holed up cramming for her impending exams. Gertie was away with friends in Chicago for the whole weekend, so no pressing cookbook work awaited. Gervase was off for the day. She turned to the cat for company but he was asleep, off in an un-interruptable routine of his own.

On a whim, she decided to bake some cookies, testing a submitted but suspicious looking recipe, and take the results up to the new association member, a Mr. Thuss, according to the decorator Ms. Fairbourn, whom she’d chatted up on previous occasions. Bachelors, as a type, generally ate anything, so she had no compunction about this intrusion. She was the secretary after all, and had performed the same self-imposed duty for every previous move-in.

“Mr. Thuss?” she asked, an hour later, of the man inside the barely opened unit door. “Hello, my name is Mrs. James. I’m our building association secretary and I’ve brought you a Welcome Home gift.” Here she raised up a plate, calculating it into the still chained space between them, her offering still deliciously warm and bakery fragrant.

The subsequent rattle indicated her admittance to the Thuss sanctum. She expected it would be similar to Bert and Gertie’s place, where she’d been spending more time, of late. Even from the remoteness of the foyer, the feel and illumination of it was different, though she wasn’t free to stare. Instead, she politely looked at its new inhabitant, who stood brilliantly before her, clearly accustomed to adoration. He was stunning in his good looks. His voice, when he spoke, completed the picture. She could only about imagine what he might do for a living, what role secured a single, not yet middle-aged man a space like this.

“Why, thank you, Mrs. James. Home-made? How thoughtful! Won’t you come in, for a moment?” He waved her to the nearest chair and stood nearby, setting down the offering on an upturned box. “As you see, my move-in is far from complete. I have only the rest of today to get the place in order.” Mrs. James felt she had rarely been so skillfully handled. She was tempted to wait for more, and sat still for just a moment too long, pretending to have missed her cue.

“On behalf of the association, welcome to the Prospect on Prospect. We encourage all of our new residents to become active in our association. We have a smaller board of just three people, and welcome participation in our special committees.” She smiled sweetly at his face, at his toothy, fixed disinterest. She estimated her exit would occur in less than a minute.”Perhaps when you are settled in,” and here she permitted herself a longer look at her surroundings, “you might contribute a favorite recipe for our cookbook, soon to be published with the generous help of your neighbors, my friends, the Steinhardt’s, just opposite.” Thus claiming his peers on the penthouse level as her equals, she stood up to go.

“Good-bye then, Mrs. James. So nice to meet you, and all our…my thanks for your delicious baking.” With this slip of his normally practiced tongue, a thousand absent and forgotten church ladies swooned, in gratitude for his pittance of attention, instantly forgiving him any oversight of their constant efforts, unlike his own expedient ones, on behalf of congregants.

“Mr. Thuss.” Mrs. James swept past him out the door, assuming a regal air, enjoying herself thoroughly at his expense, all the while realizing that the remainder of the day might prove a trifle flat.

********************

Kitty Doyle set out on Monday for the casino, any casino. Anything dark but not venomous, like the six o’clock in the morning stare-down, someplace human and full of sinners. Soon, she hoped, to be paid for devoutly looking for venues where people, typically behaving like vipers, reptilian and poisonously philistine, would instead observe the miraculous; the miracles she’d been learning at Herbie’s side, or feet, or elbows, or whatever other of his sticky-out parts she’d tolerated his thrusting her way. Maybe Jesus had spent so much time with ordinary people just to get away from the sanctimonious prigs that permeated his last days, those scribes and pharisees nailing down points for their sides.

And lo, and behold, whom should she meet, alone and downcast just like a pre-repentant sinner should be, but her very own lost soul of a principal, the exemplar of poor decision making. He was drunk, and suitably morose. She ordered two drinks, doubles, of his preferred adult beverage, and snaked into the booth beside him.

“Here, this one’s on me.” This never failed as a pick-up line.

“O,” came his slurry recognition, ”iz yu.”He slurped at the proffered glass.

“Come all the way, just to see you.” Kitty had been Herbie’s victim for nearly a week. She was so ready to dish.

She trudged up the old shag carpet on the stairs and noticed that her door, that she always pulled tight behind her as she left, was ajar, though the room appeared to be dark. She pushed it open, and to the sound of a startled whimper, switched on the overhead light. She doubted it could be either Herbie or Myrtle or Woody as she had just left them all busily closing up at the church for the night. It was Moth, huddled beside one of her candles, trying to douse the flame between his fingers; he didn’t have the knack.

“Oh, Miss Doyle, I’m so sorry.” This awkward apology came out somewhere between a burst and a blubber. Kitty tried to asses his presence here but nothing made sense.

“Moth, what are you doing in my room?” She kept calm but scanned the room for signs of intrusion. There were none.

“Just sitting here. I thought you’d still be at church.”

“Didn’t you hear me come in the house?”

“Guess not. I was, was… praying.”

“Praying?” Kitty had seen enough of that to last her awhile. She bristled at the mention of her room, her sole sanctuary from prayer, becoming a chapel.

“I’ll go.”

“Not until you give me a better explanation.” Kitty was curious, demanding. “I don’t believe you were praying. Were you here to steal something?”

“No. I mean, I wouldn’t.” Moth looked embarrassed but truthful. “Not from you. I like you.” This was a complete shock to Kitty. Nobody ever said that to her.

“Tell you what, then. Let’s light some candles and you can stay and talk to me about whatever is happening.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s talk. Go ahead,” she handed him a box of matches, “light all you want.” As he began, she switched off the overhead and sat on the bed, watching him. He was very careful, and very slow, using a new match for each new candle. He really had no clue but she bit her tongue. She was unused to dealing with shy people.

“Your candles always smell so good to me. I noticed the scent right from the first night you stayed here. I was worried there was a fire but when I followed the smoke and figured out it was coming from inside your room and was so delicious, well I…”

“I like it, too, the fragrances. But why sneak in here? You could have just told me you liked it.”

“I…” Moth would have stammered, if he could have found the words.

“You’re saying you couldn’t tell me.”

“Right.” This one word response seemed the key to unlocking the rest. “You’re so pretty and you put up with my family. You have beautiful things and aren’t afraid to use them. But I couldn’t ask you to share any of that with me. I’m just the drudge here, remember?”

“Thank you, Moth.” Kitty figured she’d have to tread quite carefully with him if she wanted to find out more before he fled from embarrassment. “I don’t mind sharing with someone who likes what I like. I just never knew that you did, that’s all. So, you’re saying that you wanted to sneak in my room when I was out, more than you wanted to tell me?”

“I’m not very used to talking with girls, women, I mean. They never seem to listen.”

“I’m listening.” It was now soft in the room, so she risked the question. “Ever been with a girl before?”

“I had a friend who was a girl – in high school – but she moved away.”

“No Moth, I mean have you ever kissed a girl you liked?”

“No.” Moth was downcast, miserable.

“It’s OK. You’re still really young.” Even too young for me, she calculated, though would never admit.

“I’m not sure a girl will ever like me that way.”

“Never know ’til you try!” Kitty offered as consolation. He didn’t answer. “So what were you going to do in here with your candle, without me? Not pray, not really.”

“Well, kinda. I guess I just wanted to think about you, try to do something you do. You do so many things I never even try to do. You seem so strong and self-confident. You’re so different than anyone I know. You don’t belong here with us.” This confirmed Kitty’s opinion of herself, so she was inclined to hear more of the same.

“I won’t be here forever doing this job I’m doing now. You’ll have a chance to try new things, too. You’re a hard worker. I can see that already, even in the short time I’ve been here.”

“I wish I could believe that. I feel so doomed.” Kitty never felt doomed.

“Maybe I can help you with a resume, or something. List all your skills. Get you thinking about some different possibilities.” Kitty never quit thinking about those.

“That’s kind of you, Miss Doyle. Thanks, I guess I never thought of myself as having any. I just do what I’m told.” Kitty hadn’t done much of that, ever, at least not until this week. She didn’t like it much and saw no future in that, none at all. She might try helping the kid; it would be different for her. Maybe she could work it into a new line of work – resume writing for incompetents – one never knew.

“Why do you?”

“I had obedience beaten into me. You know, this used to be my room, when I was a little boy.” Kitty hadn’t thought of that. She now remembered Woody saying that this had been their first house.”I was very unhappy here. I thought if I came in here, with your things instead, it’d be better somehow.”

“And is it?”

“Not yet.” As he looked like he was going to start to cry again, she tried to keep him talking.

“Did something terrible happen to you in here?”

“All over the house. One time my Mom caught a bunch of us neighbor kids up here playing doctors and nurses. We were just being curious but my Mom freaked. She told me I was going to get it now and to go down to the basement. After she chased them all out of the house, they went around to the side, instead. They knew they could see in through the lower windows to see what happened to me. They stared at us while my Mom made me take off all my clothes and then thrashed me with a belt while she screamed about beating sin out of me. She hit me even more when she saw them watching.” Kitty was sorry she didn’t have a photo of Myrtle doing this.

“That must be a hard story to tell.” Kitty didn’t know what else to say. People never confided in her. “Let’s start on your resume, next week. It’s a day off tomorrow and I need that beauty sleep.”

He resented being sent to the wilderness of Wisconsin but to play his part in the expansion of the mission, he’d settled for an enviable job package, including accommodation in this lakeside penthouse, a hefty relocation sum, any additional income generated from his public or media appearances, plus a guarantee of quicker promotion, on completion of his stint here. His situation was more lucrative, in the end, than that obtained by others of his colleagues. This was a wanted territory, he’d been persuaded, and a powerful voice and presence like his was needed to secure it, before the competition arrived.

It was not a large population to subdue, not like other states, but one recently trending more red, with wealthy suburbs growing to the west, and all of their many blessings to divert to the success of the mission. There were desperately poor people here too, the ones that craved the message, filled the seats and loaded up the collection plates with whatever paltry sums they could muster, in hopes that similar pecuniary blessings would trickle back to them, according to the promises proffered, and buoy them up in their daily struggle just to stay even, keep life going for one more otherwise hopeless day.

From his pricey perch, Rod aimed to keep one eye on the heavens, the firmament of stars by night and the eternity of water by day, and the other on the people below, and all of their expendable wealth, soon to be available to him as he exercised his proven, winning ways. His aerie would at least provide him some degree of seclusion, some whisper of isolation from the congregants in his charge. Condemned to live here, he might still discretely discover some few souls to appreciate his savvy, his obviously richer style, refugees perhaps from other, more fortunate regions of the country.

The firm of interior decorators hired by head office to pave his way into this space had only lately inquired as to Rod’s own taste, his personal imprint. Vanity herself had early assumed carte blanche, and used the place as a proving grounds for her own, untested – avant garde, as she preferred to consider them – tastes. She was ambitious, too; making her mark in a prestigious property, even by Milwaukee standards, could propel her in reputation and in retainers in a great hubric hub, a stretching megalopolis, both north and south. Rod, tyro-like, had stuck a proverbial stick in her spokes, unseating her even before the scheduled magazine shoot was staged, depleting her chances of preferment. She had wanted to coax and seduce him but found him utterly without any of her passion for refinement; the least he could have done was take her up  and advance her career with effusive references. She retreated in bitterness, smarting under his intimation that her arithmetic was all wrong; she should be putting less into the penthouse and taking more out.

Rod had written, on the request form, a decorating motif simply of heaven on earth, interposed with a cosmos-conscious cosmopolitanism. Most clients faced with a form, their own inadequacy of understanding, and an inability to compose a single thought, just went along with the clearly superior expressions of their professional design team who offered assurances of intuitive understanding of what the client wanted and needed for peaceful occupancy and self-completion. Instead, Rod wrote some interfering nonsense about serenity, and openness, and light. He accepted nothing from any continent but his own – other cultural motifs would mar the finishes – just space and light, and no mirrors, except for shaving, thank you all the same. He liked plain. He could introduce his own decorative touches, he’d discovered, mostly in shades of blonde.

His ultimate goal was to be a televangelist. He wished he had a different name, something catchy. He’d invented the story that his middle initial, the ‘A.’, stood for Amen, so that his name when spoken slowly, and out loud, sounded like the way one wrote out a website address, without any spaces to separate the words, as “RodAmenThuss”. He really liked how that sounded, especially when he said it in his best radio voice; it sounded sort of noble and god-like to him, as though, if he wanted to, he could directly determine the fate of others by what he decided to do, how he acted. Maybe coming here would truly enhance his powers; he’d never thought of that. He’d imagined just the opposite, in fact, that he’d become less powerful by agreeing to come here. But he still envied those with really great names, like his rival, Roy Rakeoff.

To further his life goal, Rod was set to confirm a studio set-up here in town, to house the indoor miracles, with facilities, staff, and his number one priority, a female stage partner. He wished that woman he’d met today at the elevator were an evangelist. He liked the cut of her jib, right from the first second he laid eyes on her, unlike the needy Vanity. He’d noticed this before, that there were people whom he instinctively would hire, without knowing anything about them at all, just basing it on his gut feeling that this person was exactly what he needed, had the right attitude to work, and that this attitude would trump any required skill. That was his modus operandi: get the person right first and learn the job later. That Kitty had showed attitude, in spades. And, though no longer young, she was good in all the right places, the way a woman should be, for a presenter.

He’d have to undertake to find the partner-woman soon, not that he minded the personally conducted interviews with a succession of lovely, and preferably young ladies. They were just a well-accustomed perk by now. But he knew that for a single man with a lot of money and a mission, that socially, if not professionally, it was required that he have in his line of work, at the very least, an attractively visible and very female partner. And, if he was mounting a show to take on the road, especially on the sawdust trail in a backwater state, that for that female to be acceptable, she might just have to be a wife. He’d interview most prudently this time; of course, that didn’t exclude extensively.

There was a box of paperwork, marked ‘Urgent’, awaiting his attention in the office room. This box was from his previously assigned liaison pastor, the one currently doing the research for the Miracle Tour venues. He’d never met Herb Minosa in the flesh, nor his even more newly hired field worker. They’d also been allocated to him from head office to get some groundwork going, pending his arrival. He’d have complete discretion about their employment, with freedom to fire and hire at will, once he had taken up daily operations here. He had no Sunday obligations this weekend and Monday was a holiday, and, in gratitude for that respite, he decided to delay work until morning. He turned his lens to the star pierced, holey darkness descending over the lake.

He’d given his best answer, then reminded Sebastian about the brokers’ open scheduled, for several hours this coming Tuesday. This was an opportunity, early on in the listing, to introduce it to the broker and agent community, to invite them to visit it during the course of their weekly tour of properties, and to gather and to report back to the seller any input they might offer as to its presentation and pricing. It was an important marketing tool, designed to bring in potential buyers already working with other agents. It was up to Sebastian to put some spit and polish into the unit, to be ready for company – no socks allowed.

This listing was beginning to seem like the good old days of real estate with two showings the first week, even before the brokers’ open. He was lately unaccustomed to good luck – not that he was unappreciative when it shone round – and hard work was his usual metier. There were so many properties languishing in this market, with not a single showing, no matter how well presented, or well priced. Buyers were phantoms, here today, gone today.

The Thornes, however, came ready to like the building, and the unit, too, although R.M. would soon be taking them through other properties, as their schedule permitted. They took a long look out the windows, then expressed to him a wish for more lake in their lake views, asking if there were anything else available, or coming on the market, in the building. Not that he was aware of, but he suggested, as he had with the Shels, that they take in the view from the solarium, see how it really was from that angle.

As they exited the elevator on that floor, a commotion assailed them; it turned out to be a spirited game of ping-pong, in progress between two of a small party of teenagers. Lee Karon, seated, waved to R.M. and he went over, dodging the wayward balls, to greet her.

“Hello, how are you coming along?” R.M. didn’t really know Lee but realized who she was. She knew of him from Happy Families, at least.

“Oh, it’s better but still a total pain. Daddy said I could invite over some friends to play up here. Are we in your way? The partitions aren’t up yet.”

“Not at all. Just showing some buyers the lay of the land. Hope to see you playing soon, too.”

“Is that little boy Keki?” The girls had talked about him. R.M. smiled his answer to Lee, as the Thornes beckoned him back across the room.

“Now, this is perfect.” Mrs. Thorne enthused. “With sheers and louvers to manage the sunshine, this would be lovely. The rest of the world would melt away. I could be anywhere I imagined.” R.M. chuckled. It was a good thing for his business that people wanted such different things.

Down in the lobby, on their way out, R.M. and the Thornes bumped into Mrs. James and the girls, just returning from the library. R.M. was about to do introductions when it became clear that everyone, except for Sue, had already met. As the adults chatted, Poppy and Pansy called Keki over to share their bountiful selection of picture books now liberated from the confines of their bags. This was all to the good that the Thornes felt comfortable with others in the building. From this happy reunion R.M. excused himself and phoned up to Greg.

“Come to the 7th floor and I’ll meet you.” Greg invited.

Greg’s unit was a 2 BR/2 BA, facing east and south toward the water and the marina, taking in the curve of the lake away toward Bayview and some of the downtown from its many windows, sliding patio doors, and the wraparound, somewhat recessed balcony. From the foyer, there was a utility/laundry room, plus access to the kitchen and a bathroom. The view from the kitchen sink – an important ingredient, in the estimation of R.M. and countless cooks alike – was a wide open vista, past the dining and living areas in the south-east corner, and out over the ocean. He’d had customers proclaim Lake Michigan an ocean – because they couldn’t see to the opposite shore – and since then it was difficult for him to regard it as merely a lake, even a Great one.

The master bedroom and spa-like bath formed a separate suite. Greg, as many people did, had sectioned off a corner of the large living area and rigged up a small office and computer setup. For those working at home full time, another small room was more desirable, especially to separate work from home. Aside from the clutter of the room Poppy and Pansy shared, the place was clean and neat, and the decorating neutral and minimal, so the overall effect was of a bright, large, and open space, complete with oceanfront panorama. He wished he could rush down to the lobby and bring the Thornes back up to see it at once, so much did it have their name on it, not to mention the Shel’s.

“So. What do you think?” Greg hadn’t shadowed him but waited until R.M. was done.

“You’ll be in great shape, when the time comes. I think I could show it today to two couples who would be very interested, based on what they’ve said they’re looking for, and I rarely get a chance to say that to a seller these days.”

“Well, that’s good to know, anyway. Maybe I should start thinking about it. What about that new development, though? Where’ll that be, do you know?”

“From what I heard, it would be positioned a little to your north and potentially east, so if you imagine it built out there, I expect that you’d have some blocking of your summer morning light, so quite a minimal change for you, especially as you have south-east corner light to offset that. Difficulty comes if all the listing prices on more impacted sides start to tumble so that yours, in relation to those, might fall somewhat, too. That’s not a certainty and in a more normal market, values also rise, or are stable, at least, in a building of this caliber, or in a neighborhood of high caliber buildings. As much as I’d like to sell it for you, I wouldn’t necessarily advise you to cut your losses and run, at this point. I’ll get back to you in a day or so with comparables, or comps, as we call them.”

“What’ll those tell us?”

“Simply, what’s sold in similar properties in the last year.”

After R.M. had left, Greg reflected about light, or lack of it. Falling asleep in his master bedroom was easy enough; it was totally dark over the lake at night. For a late sleeper, as he often needed to be after game nights, all these glorious mornings required room darkening shades. He fondly recalled his north facing bedroom at the home he’d shared with Georgia, and the morning glory of rolling over in the dark of that dawn to find her willingly there beside him.

She assumed that this would be her last time in this dump of a condo; no more wasted time standing by the elevator that always came too late. In the lobby, clearing out her mailbox – she’d arranged to forward mail to the training house address – she saw the standard notice posted up informing residents, that due to a scheduled move-in today, to expect temporary delays in elevator service but to be sure to welcome the new resident, a Mr. Thuss, to his penthouse home. That must be the other penthouse, the one the decorator had been working on, forever it seemed.

She’d have liked to welcome a single Mr. Thuss, assuming he’d be better looking than the other penthouse owner, the one who looked to her like his big, ugly dog. How fair was it that two single guys were living here in penthouses? She heard the whoosh of the arriving elevator and turned to catch it. From out of the elevator emerged a stranger, in company with that stuck-up decorator, the one with the stupid name; he was one of the flashiest men she had ever laid eyes on, in this weak excuse for a city.

“Oh, Vainity,” she stepped forward, shooting her best professional smile right into the decorator’s path, “I’d sure like to welcome our new resident. Introduce me!” Vanity, in vain, made a stab at keeping her momentum swirl past Kitty.

“Yes, Vanity, please do!” Her client stopped, and waited to be obeyed.

“Mr. Thuss, Miss, Miss…Dull?” The revenge was sweet.

“Doyle, Kitty Doyle.” Her smile fixed and focused on him alone, Kitty corrected the mispronunciation of her surname in her most dulcet tones, adroitly keeping the elevator door open with one pricily clad foot. “So pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Thuss. Are you enjoying the completion of work in your unit? You’ve had to wait so long, haven’t you?” Vanity glared, then reddened, rooted in anger. His eyes took in this Kitty, and his deep, smooth voice resonated with a reply.

“Yes, I find it very precise and workmanlike. Perhaps you’d enjoy seeing it yourself sometime soon? My name is Rod.”

“Oh I would yes, and please, call me Kitty.” They shook hands, smiling conspiratorially, as Vanity fidgeted. “Welcome home. I’ll just let you get on with your moving, and look forward to seeing you, when it’s all warm and inviting. Here’s my card.” It was her own business card; her ordered church cards were still at their printer. Discounts came at a price.

Kitty claimed the captive elevator and rode it to her floor. There was yet another annoying note from Hans deposited in the foyer, suggesting that  she should really amend the property condition report to indicate a problem with an overflowing toilet. She should, should she? He also wanted to get in to paint the place, before he moved in. As she was pre-closing, it would be convenient for him to begin as soon as possible, as the person buying his unit also wanted to get in to paint before his own closing. She closed her eyes to all this tedious detail, crushing and tossing the paper down again. If he was so fond of cluttering the floor, she could accommodate that, and leave other rubbish scattered around for him to tidy up before he painted. She would make sure that wouldn’t happen until after he actually paid for the place. He didn’t get occupancy until the closing date; let him wait.

**********************

Hans had asked Sebastian to find out from R.M. about the way it could possibly work to get into a unit to do any painting, or alterations of that kind, before closing. It depended, R.M. answered, mostly on the good will of the seller, so Hans knew that while he was sunk, Sebastian was in good hands. Customarily, buyer occupancy was first given, as per the typical contract, on the day of and after the closing. In practice, any changes to a contract were handled through an addendum, and there was an Addendum O for permitting access to a property before closing.

A signed Addendum O arranged a kind of ‘hold harmless’ agreement between the parties to the contract. The example R.M. gave Sebastian was this; without the prior agreement, who would be at fault if, while the ‘not yet the owner’ buyer was painting a window, both the window and the buyer fell out of the unit? An amenable seller could spell out terms under which a buyer could occupy before closing, or as was more often the case, to allow a buyer to store personal items on the premises, for example when a buyer’s rental lease was up and there was a gap of time before the closing date. Occasionally, there were those most genial of types of sellers, like Hans, who simply agreed that a buyer just go in and paint.

Kitty wasn’t likely to do any of these things nor did Hans trust her but had thought he’d ask, all the same. He decided to stagger the closings instead, and to arrange a post-occupancy closing with Sebastian. They’d be painting together anyway, most genially, and satisfactorily.

**********************

At midday Saturday, RM had an appointment to show his listing to the Thornes. He was waiting for them in the lobby, and chatting with Mrs. James. She was there waiting for Greg and the girls to return from brunch, when she would ride with them up to the library, their customary Saturday jaunt. The girls tumbled in all sugared up, she assumed from their vivacity; perhaps they should walk today, instead. Greg and R.M. introduced themselves. Mrs. James found it hard to remember, in a building with this many people floating around in it, who knew whom, then immediately regretted using the expression, ‘floating around’. Unsettled by her private gaffe, she immediately took off with her charges, leaving the two men alone.

“So you’re the famous Realtor, the ‘R.M.’ of my kids’ Happy Families card game?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You get used to it. I’m Mr. Mendel, the Coach, with Mrs. Mendel, the Coach’s Wife, notably missing in real life. Poppy and Pansy are still squabbling about which of them will be Master Mendel, the Coach’s Son.”

“Guess I’ll have to play sometime and find out what I’m missing, too.” At least R.M. wasn’t missing a wife.

“Sometime, I’d like you to come up to my place, give me an idea what it might be worth.”

“Thinking of moving?”

“Not this week. More like I’ve been hearing about a new condo building next door, and the effect it might have here. Just wanted to get a number to work with.”

“Will you be around for awhile? I have a showing with those people just crossing the street now, so I’ll have to go now to let them in. But I could take a look after that.”

“Sure, here’s my card. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

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