Culture Shock Part 12

She flashed him a disbelieving look. "Care to share how you forget?"

"Okay, so maybe I don't, but I just want you to know that I still enjoy being with you."

She smiled. "Thanks, I feel the same. I just wish ...well, never mind. If wishes could be converted to money, I'd be rich."

"Don't give up." Alex covered a big yawn. "As much as I love spending time with you, I hope you don't think me rude if I suggest that you go home. I'm tired and we have to work tomorrow."

Cynthia sat in front of the computer workstation trying to figure out, from the menu, which screen to use to run a check on wants and warrants. Finally, she found it and entered the super's name. She pushed the search b.u.t.ton, and waited. Within a few minutes, the screen filled with information. She scrolled through, anxiously reading. "John Cratski, arrested petty theft; second arrest - burglary; third arrest - rape and sodomy sentenced 5-10 years. Wow, this guy has run the gamut." She scrolled down. "Paroled: September 15, 2001."

Scrolling further, her eyes widened at what she read.

"What are you doing?" Mike's voice sounded from behind.

Startled, she jumped up, making sure to block the computer. "Just checking out someone, but, the lead didn't pan out." She reached behind and pressed a b.u.t.ton to clear the screen.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"For what?" Despite her still pounding heart, she managed a smile.

"To go back to the hospital...."

"Oh, sure." She'd gotten so engrossed in checking out the super, she'd forgotten their main objective. "I'm ready."

She couldn't stop thinking about the information she'd found on John Cratski. Alex's intuition about the man's past had been right on target.

Cynthia got clearance for her and Mike to visit their only surviving victim. This time, Cynthia took a back seat while Mike led the questioning. The young woman appeared much more alert and composed this time around.

Mike ran through a battery of questions, asking the same things Cynthia had already touched on, but obviously hoping to jog her memory on additional facts that might lead them to the killer. After being repet.i.tiously grilled, she propped herself up on her elbows and glared at him. "I've told you all I know. I can't keep going over this again and again. Please leave."

His lips pressed into a thin line, Mike spun on his heel and left the room.

Cynthia stepped closer to the bed. "My partner's attempt to get answers wasn't meant to upset you, ma'am. We're trying to see that justice is upheld and the man who did this to you is arrested and punished. We understand what you've been through and we do appreciate your time."

She followed Mike out into the hallway.

He stood with his elbows resting on the empty nurse's station, his face in his palms. "What a b.i.t.c.h," he growled.

"That's not fair! You have no idea what she's been through."

Mike's brows raised in surprise. "What's up with you? When did you become 'Mister Understanding'? If I don't have an idea, I'm sure you don't either."

She chose her words carefully. "I only meant it must be hard to keep going over and over something she wants to forget."

"Well, screw her. We're only trying to help. She didn't have to be so friggin' rude."

Feeling his frustration, Cynthia patted his shoulder. "Just let it go, Mike. We aren't going to get anything more from her."

His shoulders sagged. "You're probably right. I guess I'm tired and irritable. Let's go get a burger."

"What? No donut?" Cynthia tried to lighten the moment. "Isn't that what we cops are famous for?"

"Huh?" He flashed a puzzled look at her.

Just her luck. Mike had to be the only person in the world who didn't understand the connection between the police and pastries.

"Never mind! A burger sounds fine."

Cynthia couldn't wait to get inside her apartment to see if Alex was home yet. He was. She slammed the door behind her and plopped down next to him on the sofa. Excitement s.h.i.+vered through her. "I wanted to call you a thousand times today, but I couldn't shake Mike. I ran John Cratski through the system and you won't believe what I found out!"

"He has a record."

"How did you know?"

"Just a hunch." He showed no surprise, only sat straighter. "So...."

"He was arrested numerous times on different charges. The last one was a rape, and he was sentenced to Atascadero for five to ten years. He was paroled last year..."

Alex snapped his finger. "How convenient. Just maybe he's our man."

"Wait!"

"There's more?"

"He's dead."

"He's what?" He swiveled around and faced her with eyes wide.

"John Cratski died in a hit and run accident two months after he was released. He's dead, Alex."

"Then who's our super?" He thumped a finger against his chin. "Honestly, I guess there could be more than one John Cratski in San Francisco. Maybe he's clean and we're barking up the wrong tree, or...."

Cynthia raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Or maybe he was a cellmate to John Cratski and is using a fake ident.i.ty."

Alex laughed. "Boy, you're really getting into this job, aren't you? Now you're even thinking like a cop."

Chapter Thirteen.

Alex left Cynthia's apartment, on his way to work. Before descending the stairs, he stopped to hitch up his panty hose and take hold of the handrail. He still hadn't mastered wearing heels, even her lowest ones. One of life's biggest mysteries for him had become figuring out what shoes went with which outfit. Why did women care?

Men didn't pay attention to c.r.a.p like that. h.e.l.l, he only owned three pair himself: loafers, tennis shoes and work boots. Cynthia maintained her own footwear display in the bottom of her closet and it rivaled any shoe store he'd ever been in.

As he reached the first floor, he saw the superintendent leave the building. Alex hung back for a moment. He never liked the man, and now after hearing of the demise of John Cratski, he couldn't shake his suspicions that something really wasn't right about the new super.

Alex glanced behind to see if anyone followed. The hallway was empty. Having the man out of the way presented the perfect opportunity to do a little digging.

He peeked through the building's front door in time to see Cratski get into a cab. As soon as the taxi drove away, Alex crept down the first floor hallway toward the super's apartment. He hoped he wouldn't run into that creep, Thomas Carpenter. With a little luck, Alex could get in, have a look around, and get out before Mr. Cratski returned. The man didn't look or act like someone who was security conscious.

Alex scanned both ways before sliding his credit card between the doorjamb and the tumbler on the lock. A soft click sounded and the door opened slightly. Just as he a.s.sumed, the deadbolt wasn't secure. Alex again looked up and down the hall then hurried inside. Closing the door behind him, he surveyed his surroundings.

The apartment looked like a cyclone had churned through it. Empty beer cans, full ashtrays and used paper plates littered the counters and tabletops. He'd been chastised by Cynthia for being a slob, but his place looked ten times worse than his ever did. Cratski had to hold the record for filthy living.

Putrid smoke hung in the air, making it hard to breathe. Alex wrinkled his nose at the beyond messy room and pondered possible places to begin his search. He had to hurry. How in the world would he explain his presence if Cratski, or whoever the guy really was, returned?

Alex stuffed the credit card into a side pouch of the purse he carried on his shoulder and took a step forward. "d.a.m.n!" The hem of his dress was caught in the door. After freeing the material, he laid his shoulder bag on the dilapidated couch and rubbed his hands together, eager to find a clue to Cratski's true ident.i.ty.

Not sure what he searched for, Alex went into the bedroom. The unmade bed was piled with newspapers. Thumbing through the stack, Alex noticed the only pages there were ones referring to the recent crimes. His heart hammered beneath Cynthia's silken blouse. "Hmm. Seems our Mr. Cratski has been following the case."

Alex walked to the bureau and opened drawers, using the hem of Cynthia's dress to avoid leaving fingerprints. Finding nothing but socks and underwear in the top two, he searched through the third. Stuffed beneath colored t-s.h.i.+rts, he discovered a 357 Magnum. Certainly not something one would use for custodial work. Using one of the tees, Alex picked up the piece, examined it, then stuffed it back under the stack. He made sure all the drawers were as he had found them then moved to the nightstand. He rummaged through Tums, Excedrin, and loose change, and found an old credit card receipt. He unfolded it. Clearly imprinted on the paper was the name of a nearby clothing store, but the cardholder's signature was blurred.

He held it up and squinted at the writing but couldn't decipher anything in the dim lighting. Cratski, or whoever he was, wouldn't miss a sc.r.a.p of paper. Alex started to stuff the receipt into a pocket and realized he didn't have one. Fine time to rely on a stupid purse. As he'd seen in movies, he tucked the slip inside Cynthia's cleavage and closed the drawer. He dare not tarry longer.

He scanned the bedroom one last time but found nothing. Back in the living room, he picked up Cynthia's purse and plucked the crinkly receipt from its nest. He put the paper inside her pocketbook, inched the front door open and peered out into the hallway. The coast was clear. He slipped out, closed the door behind him, and casually strode toward the exit, pausing only a moment to hitch up his stockings.

All the way to work, Alex had pondered different scenarios. Maybe Cratski was legitimate, maybe he wasn't. True, his last name wasn't a common one, but there had to be others in the world. Still, ff he wasn't John Cratski, then who was he?

At Cynthia's desk, Alex examined the carbon-copy signature on the receipt he took. The ink had smudged, leaving the name almost unreadable. But using a trick he learned in a tactics cla.s.s, he placed the thin piece of paper atop another larger piece for padding and, using a very sharp pencil, traced along the hand-written image. When he finished, the name became legible. "Peter Sorenson." Could he and Cratski be one and the same? And who the h.e.l.l was Peter Sorenson?

Alex felt helpless. Here he sat, wasting away a whole day when he could be pursuing this lead. He thought about sharing the information with Cynthia via cell phone, but with Mike as her constant companion, a call probably wasn't a good idea.

Instead, he'd wait until he got home and develop a strategy with her. His frustration built. He grasped a tablet from her desk and ripped it in half. Holding a piece in each hand, he shook his head. If things were different he could develop more than just a blasted plan, but being trapped in her body dictated what he could and could not do.

He pushed his hopeless thoughts aside. Once she ran the new name, they might have some answers, but waiting sucked. He started to drum his fingers on the desk, but stopped. The last thing he needed was another nail incident.

Maybe he could do a bit of detecting on his own. He turned to the computer and did a search for identification sites. It wasn't long before he discovered the big obstacle to the Internet: they charged for personal information. "d.a.m.n!" He sure as s.h.i.+t wasn't gonna pay when Cynthia could get the information for free.

Grumbling, he dug into her attache case and pulled out his book of crossword puzzles.

As soon as he was off the train and headed toward The Cairns, Alex called Cynthia on his cell phone. "Hey, Cyn, can you talk?"

"Yes and no."

"Are you still with Mike?"

"Yes, I am."

"Okay, so I'll make this brief. Are you almost ready to come home?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll wait in your apartment. Hurry! I have something new for you to check out."

Again, the sense of being followed nagged at him. Trying to be inconspicuous, he glanced over his shoulder. He shook his head, feeling like a dolt when no one was there. G.o.d, he hated being paranoid and vulnerable in a woman's body.

Alex paced the floor until he heard her fumbling with the lock. He opened the door so fast it pulled her keys from her hand. They clattered to the floor.

Stooping to retrieve them, she looked up with wide eyes. "Good grief, this must be important."

He pulled her inside and closed the door. "Sit down." Producing the wrinkled receipt from his pocket, he handed it to her. "Look at this!"

Cynthia glanced at the paper then back at him. "So? It's a receipt. What about it?"

"This morning, before I went to work, I broke into the super's apartment. Or, should I say Peter Sorenson's apartment."

"You what?" The astonishment of her question reflected in his face. She sat and stared up at him. "And who is Peter Sorenson?"

"The super...well, maybe."

"I thought his name was John Cratski."

"Yeah, and I could be Old Mother Hubbard."

"Cut it out, Alex! Who is Peter Sorenson and how did you get into the super's apartment? I*m confused."

"I jimmied the lock. I saw him leave and decided to check out his digs. Boy, if you think I'm a pig, you should see his place."

"You are a pig, but get back to the point."

Alex sat next to her. "We know there's a possibility he isn't really John Cratski, so I wanted to see if I could find out his real name. I looked through his drawers and this was all I could find, except for a gun."

"A gun? Oh, G.o.d, Alex. You could have been shot...I could have been shot. Did anyone see you...see me go into his apartment? Oh, I wish you would be more careful and stop doing stupid things. I like my body without holes, thank you very much!"

"Oh, stop whining. n.o.body saw me. You forget, things like this are part of my job...of course I usually have a search warrant and enter legally, but under the circ.u.mstances I had take care of business since you can't.

"But a gun?"

"Don't panic. Lots of people have guns. Who knows, he might even have a permit."

"Sure he does," she said skeptically.

Alex leaned against the back of the sofa. "So, now all you have to do is run Peter Sorenson's name through the computer and see what you get."