Where the Truth Lies by Holmes Rupert Page B

and barely perceived an unlit doorway, very old-fashioned, that looked like it was part of the massage parlor. “We overshot it,” I said casually. “It’s not very well lit, I’m afraid. But, well, it’s home.”
    Michael Dougherty backed up the limo a few feet, popped the trunk, and hustled out and around to open my door. I got out and followed him back to the trunk, where Lanny was already standing, my garment bag in his right hand.
    “Let me see you inside,” he offered.
    “It’s not necessary.”
    “I’d feel bad if I didn’t.” He strode toward “my” apartment building, leaving me no chance for debate. I followed as he pushed open the outer door, which was not locked, and stood by the inner glass-and-steel doorway, which was. He nodded toward the lock. “Your turn, I think.”
    I started fumbling in my bag, making much of looking for a set of keys. Lanny smiled, in no particular hurry.
    On the other side of the glass door, from a street-level apartment, came an old man in his eighties with a nicely manicured poodle on a short leash. He had on a plaid tam-o’-shanter (the man, not the poodle, although it would have looked quite a bit better on the dog). The old man wore a thin trench coat that he’d belted, not buttoned. The front of the trench coat flapped as he walked, and I could see he was wearing only blue boxer shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt beneath it. His feet were tucked into long, thin white socks and fluffy blue slippers. He opened the door, and I made a big deal out of keeping it open for him as he got the poodle out of the building.
    “Hi there!” I chirped. “It’s still pretty warm out tonight for you, thank goodness.”
    Any old man, straight or gay, will talk to any reasonably attractive girl who smiles at him. He sighed. “Thank goodness. Pepé doesn’t keep banker’s hours.”
    “Don’t I know!” I said as if I did know, and as if I knew him and Pepé as well. I knelt down and scruffed up his head. The dog’s, that is. “Pepé, have you been a good dog while I was away? Have you? Have you?” Pepé barked. Having established my longtime relationship with Pepé, I stood and warned the old man, “Don’t be out there too long, now. Is the elevator working?” The question spoke of a familiarity with the place, and there could be no wrong answer unless (my heart jumped) the apartment was a walk-up. Luckily, I saw a lone elevator at the end of the drab hallway.
    “Yes, thank goodness,” he said as he left the building. “Took them long enough. Night,” he added to Lanny, who kept his head down—to avoid an “Aren’t you Lanny Morris?” scene, I assumed.
    Lanny stood in the hallway with me. “Bet he’s nuts about you.”
    “Oh, we’re only acquainted by that kind of exchange; I don’t even know his name,” I replied with absolute accuracy. I looked up at Lanny. He was virtually the same height as Vince, which surprised me because in their movies it seemed as if Vince was always looking down at Lanny. “Well, this has been a remarkable day in my life.”
    “I’m seeing you inside your apartment door.” He smiled, pressing the button for the elevator. Immediately I heard it start to descend. It was loud, like the conveyor belt in a silent melodrama’s sawmill that is bearing the heroine to her certain doom.
    “There’s really no need,” I said.
    “Don’t be silly—I won’t try to come in, promise. But you’ve been away from your apartment for—how long now?”
    “Ages,” I admitted with that candor for which I’m known.
    “Okay, well, you don’t know if someone has broken in while you were gone. Let me just see you to your door. Believe me, I’m not trying to seduce you. I have to do theToday show at sevenA .M. and they want me in makeup by six-fifteen.” This was surely the first time anyone had ever used that particular line on me.
    The elevator door opened and we stepped inside. It had the faint aroma of boiled cabbage, sautéed onions, and cigarette smoke. Lanny’s hand poised over the buttons. “Which floor …