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for a bit and got out of his car. He slipped on a cheap pair of Fila sunglasses over his bloodshot eyes and scanned the handful of apartments. Kathy’s apartment was one of four, on the west side of the small building’s second floor. Of the three cars parked in the complex’s tiny lot, none was parked in Kathy’s assigned space. Though he had no idea what Kathy drove—and mentally kicked himself for not asking Chaz that—he figured this meant she wasn’t home. Or, at the very least, her car wasn’t. Quite the detective, Pete thought.
    He walked up the west stairwell and reached Kathy’s apartment, number four. He knocked on the door a few times and couldn’t discern any noises coming from within. Feeling sheepish, Pete looked around and pulled the key to the apartment out of his pocket and set it into the lock. He tried turning the key, but no luck. He tried again before realizing that Chaz either had provided him with bum keys, which made little sense, or Kathy had changed her locks recently, as her father suggested she sometimes did. Neither possibility let him into the apartment.
    Fortunately, the front door had a tiny cat gate. Unfortunately, crouching down and sliding his arm through the gate was more overt and prone to arousing suspicion than just opening the door with a key. Normally, Pete would give up by now. He took a quick look around and, determining the coast was clear, got down on one knee and wove his arm through the cat door and up toward the inner doorknob. With some painful stretching and a few seconds of jostling around for the best position, Pete found his hand on the lock. He unlocked it and turned the knob slowly with his fingers. He felt a jolt of excitement run through him as pushed the door, something he hadn’t experienced in a while.
    Pete walked in and immediately caught the strong odor of a cat box left unchanged for days. He looked at the door from inside the apartment and saw it was equipped with a few other locks and latches. They’d have prevented Pete from entering, had they been in use. Why would someone who’d gone to the trouble of having so many locks on their door leave them unused? He heard a weak meow coming from near his feet. He looked down to see a small gray cat, clearly hungry, pathetically rubbing his face on Pete’s feet, begging for food. Pete scratched the creature behind the ears and continued to look around. The cat could wait a few more minutes before he refueled. The apartment was small—a one-bedroom with a tiny kitchen and medium-sized living/dining room area. The television was on—the menu screen for “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” An almost-empty wine glass rested next to the remote and a tipped-over bowl that once held popcorn in it sat on a table near the couch. There were dirty dishes in the sink and a grocery list tacked onto the fridge. All this suggested two things, Pete thought: Kathy hadn’t been around for a few days and she hadn’t planned on going anywhere. Both could mean nothing. For all Pete knew, Kathy could just be an irresponsible pet owner and prone to leaving appliances on. But something gnawed at Pete. This wasn’t right. He didn’t know much—if anything—about Kathy, but she didn’t seem like the type to up and leave without telling anyone. If Kathy had gone somewhere, she wasn’t planning on being gone for long.
    He gave her bedroom a quick once-over and didn’t find any telltale signs of a trip—no missing luggage or clothing, all her toiletries seemed to be in the bathroom, cell phone charger plugged in. The apartment was sparsely decorated, with few personal items. Pete found a framed photo of Kathy and Javier on her nightstand. They were drinking wine at a bar in Hollywood—Pete recognized it. Le Tub. Outdoor seating. Good wine list. Best burger in America, apparently. They seemed happy.
    He opened the top drawer to Kathy’s nightstand and found her address book, which didn’t feature many names. He