Fall Guy

Greenwich Street, Tim's building was the closer of the two. I went up the three concrete steps to the outer door, tried the knob and found it locked, pretty much the way it is in New York City unless there's a doorman to filter visitors. The bells were outside, to the left of the door. The mailboxes were inside, in the tiny vestibule. The mailman could get in using the front-door key that was kept in a special lockbox, the lockboxes themselves all supplied by the post office, all using the same key. I took out Tim's keys and opened the first door, checking the names on the mailboxes. Brody, after all, had not told me not to do that. I opened Tim's mailbox and took out his mail. I hadn't been told not to do that either.
    Tim lived on the first floor. I looked through the inner glass door and saw doors on either side of the hall, the one to my right with a rectangular seal on it. The hallway was wider in the center, to accommodate the staircase to the basement below and to the upper floors. Beyond that, at the far end of the narrow hallway, there was another door, this one made of small glass panes and without tape on it. I could see, beyond the glass, a table with a large green umbrella over it and some plants. I hesitated for a moment, then tried the inner door and found that the same key opened it as well.
    Dashiell and I walked into the quiet, dimly lit hallway. We stopped for a moment in front of the sealed door, Dashiell moving his head and tasting the air. Then we walked past the staircase and found a second sealed door. At one point, there must have been four separate apartments on this floor, two on each side, otherwise there'd only be one entrance. This time Dashiell put his nose at the bottom of the door where there's space between the door and the sill, space where deliverymen shove menus into your apartment, supers slide in rent bills or neighbors leave notes. I could hear the whoosh of his breath as he blew out air to cleanse his nose and sucked in the odors from the apartment, his tail straight down, moving rapidly.
    I tried the knob to the garden door and found it locked, tried the same key once again and pushed the glass door open, standing on the threshold of a double-width communal garden. There was the sound of running water and birds singing. I could smell something sweet, and something nasty, a chemical odor I wouldn't expect to find in a garden. Dashiell sneezed twice, then held his nose high and pulled in the scene. I stepped out.
    She was off to my right, sitting on a little stool in front of her easel, a straw hat covering part of her thin, lined face. At first she didn't look up. I watched her dip the tip of her brush onto the palette she held in her left hand and leave a flick of color on the painting. She leaned back to appraise the change and nodded her head. Her lips were moving, as if she were talking to herself, but I couldn't make out the words. Then she turned to where Dashiell and I were standing and she frowned.
    „This private garden,“ she said, getting up, the palette and brush still in her hand. „How you get in here? Netty leave door unlocked again? Door unlocked too many time. This no good. Not safe.“
    „I have the keys,“ I told her, staying where I was, opening my hand so that she could see them. She looked frightened. „I have Timothy O'Fallon's keys. I'm the executor of his will.“
    „Talk louder,“ she said. „You're mumbling.“
    „I'm the executor of Detective O'Fallon's estate,“ I repeated.
    „Are you family?“ Head back, squinting at me from under her hat.
    I shook my head. „No, I'm ...“ Not knowing how to finish the sentence.
    „You're not family.“ Pointing at me with the paintbrush.
    „No.“
    „I didn't think so. You don't look like him. So what? You were his friend?“ Pleased with her detective work. But before I could confirm or deny, she bowed her head, once again hiding her face. „I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude.“
    I took a chair and pulled it away from the white table with the green umbrella and sat, thinking that that might put her more at ease.
    „Were you a friend of his?“ I asked.
    „His neighbor.“ She pointed to the windows behind her with her brush. „He was a very nice man. A good man.“ She nodded. „A sad man,“ she said.
    „What do you mean?“ I asked.
    „I was painting here on Sunday morning. I heard him crying. His mother had just died. Her funeral was the day before. On Saturday. He was very, very