Nelson had lived in an apartment complex not far from Brookley Airport. The long common hall smelled of grease-cooked food. The rug had patches of mildew, or maybe mange. Someone at the far end of the hall had “Whip It” on the stereo. Harry and I followed the manager, Briscoe Shelton, to a brown door with the number 8-B scribed on it with Magic Marker. Shelton was a skinny, rusted-out redneck in his mid-fifties who smelled of cigarettes and WD-40. He wore stained painter’s pants and a sleeveless T-shirt that had once been white. A heavy chain jangled from his belt to his back pocket. When he flipped the chain a rattling clot of keys popped from his pants and landed in his hand. You could tell he’d spent hours practicing the move. Harry verified the scene tape was intact, then sliced through with a penknife.

      “I never liked the little sonofabitch, y’know,” Shelton testified as he poked at the lock with key after key. “Never paid his rent on time, but always managed to get it in just before I could legally evict the smartass.”

      “Did he have any regular guests, Mr. Shelton?” I asked.

      “He had a damn parade through here. Men, women, boys, girls, and some whatchamacallits I couldn’t say what they were, y’know?”

      “Anyone stand out?”

      “There was the chunky girl with the vanilla-pudding face and Minnie Mouse voice. Spent a lot of time here a couple months back. Real lovey dovey at first, then later a lot of yelling and shit.”

      Given the time frame and the description, I figured that was Terri Losidor. Shelton held the clot of keys in front of his face and squinted at it, separating a key from the rest. “And there was one guy I remember cuz he was so different from the riffraff and perverts. Older guy, compared to the rest of the circus. Always came at night. He’d pull up at the far end of the building and hustle in like he had fire in his britches. After a while they’d come out and take off and sometimes I wouldn’t see smartass for a few days, y’know.”

      “When was this?” I asked.

      A key fit and the door swung open. Hot, stale air poured out like trapped memories. Harry’s run to the AC probably made the folks downstairs think the roof was caving in.

      “Maybe two months back. Sniffed around regular for a month or so, then I didn’t see him no more. Didn’t mean he weren’t here, just means I didn’t see him. I don’t spy on my people. Even perverts.”

      Shelton stayed by the door as Harry and I scoped the place out. “You get done be sure and pull the door. How long’s it gonna be ’fore I can rent the fucking place?”

      “I don’t know, Mr. Shelton. Perhaps a week until we release it,” I said.

      Shelton screwed up his pasty face. “That means a month ‘fore I can rent, y’know.”

      “Why’s that, sir?” Harry asked.

      Shelton showed us yellow teeth. “Cuz it’s gonna take least three weeks to air the stink of faggot outta here.”

      “Fun guy,” Harry said, as Shelton’s bootsteps disappeared down the hall. “Wonder does he do parties?”

      While Harry checked for the file box, I promenaded through Jerrold Elton Nelson’s life. If I’d been handed a dictionary and allowed one word for the surroundings, I’d have circled meagre, choosing the Brit spelling to add a Dickensian twist to the sparseness. The furniture looked like rental-company repos: just enough use left to make it salable. The TV was a nineteen-inch make I’d never heard of. The flatware pocketed from cheap restaurants. The bed a king-size box spring and mattress on the floor. A squat chest was beside the bed and in it I found a twenty, two tens, and a fistful of coins, mostly pennies. A weight bench centered the living room, weights, barbells, and dumb-bells scattered around it. When closed the mirrored closet doors reflected the bed.

      The only place abundance ruled was the bathroom. Nelson had more primping supplies than a poodle parlor: shampoos, conditioners, rinses, holding sprays. There were mouthwashes, skin washes, hand washes, creams, lotions, jellies. I counted seven hair brushes and three blow dryers. He owned four different kinds of tweezers. What and where did he tweeze?

      While I counted colognes—I was at eleven—Harry came in with the aluminum box and held it up for my inspection. Larger than a lunch box, smaller than a briefcase. Handled. A hinged opening at the top.

      I said, “And?”

      Harry flipped the box upside down and the top dropped open. Nothing fell out.

      “Empty but for echoes. No forms, bank statements, or newspaper clippings.”

      “They’ve got to be there,” I said. “They’re on the list.”

      Harry tossed the box on the bed. “Yeah, that’s what I used to say at Christmas, Cars. Somebody got here before us and whatever’s in that box is as gone as my high round ass.”

      I stood in the middle of the shabby apartment and stroked my chin exactly the way perplexed detectives do on TV.

      “My, my, what do you make of that?” I puzzled.