Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

It was clean and neat for a bachelor apartment. The refrigerator was well stocked with premium beer. One of the two bedrooms had been converted into an electronics lab, with an oscilloscope, soldering irons, racks of tools, and trays of parts. A locked closet, whose key was on the ring, was crammed with VCR’s, midget TV’s, camcorders, CD players, parts, and chests of silverware — obviously a cache of stolen property. “Another job for Kestrel,” said Auburn, locking the closet again.

Stamaty was rooting through Brendel’s papers and personal articles. He came up with a stack of shiny metallic stickers bearing the legend “For Service Call 275-4224.”

In the other bedroom Auburn found a phone with an answering machine. “Same phone number as on the stickers,” he said.

He pressed a button on the machine. A voice, presumably the dead man’s, announced, “Hot Shot Fundamentals” — Stamaty heard it as “One Shot from the Middle” — “Please leave your name and number after the tone.”

Auburn pressed another button to playback messages. The first caller was a woman who didn’t identify herself. All she said was, “Lee, I’ll be at Dad’s all evening if you want to come over.” The only other message wasn’t so cordial. “Hey, Lee, this’s Hick,” snarled a harsh, surly male voice. “If you’re lost again, buddy, you better get found quick, or you ain’t gonna have no job. I mean it, now.”

Auburn went back to the workshop and picked up a bundle of discount coupons from Hick’s Red Carpet Transmission.

“Are they making them electronic now?” he wondered out loud.

Stamaty grunted. “Let’s go find the building manager.”

The woman who answered the door marked “Office” froze up when Auburn showed his I.D. She seemed inclined to feign feeblemindedness until he explained why they were there.

She said Brendel had lived in the building about a year and a half, was prompt with his rent, and didn’t give wild parties or feud with other tenants. She didn’t know of any relatives and couldn’t identify any regular visitors. She thought he sometimes worked on TV’s or stereos in his spare time but didn’t feel he was running a business from the apartment.

It took all of Stamaty’s very considerable finesse and diplomacy to persuade her to accompany him to the county morgue to identify the body. Before they left, Auburn asked her for directions to the garage Brendel had used.

“He didn’t have a car,” she said. “Just a motorcycle. It’s around in the back with a tarp over it.”

That explained the last key on Brendel’s ring, but raised the question where he’d kept the sports car. “Are you sure he didn’t park a car on the street?”

“That I couldn’t say, but he woke me up every morning at six thirty starting his motorcycle to go to work.”

After she and Stamaty left, Auburn had a look at the motorcycle and then called headquarters from a pay phone. First he reported the closet full of stolen property in Brendel’s apartment. The man on the desk in Robbery promised they’d wait until Auburn returned to headquarters with the keys before going to the apartment. Then he requested background checks on Neldrick, the Roetherls, and the Raysters, including finding out if any of them had recently reported thefts to the police. Finally he asked to be connected with Kestrel in the lab.

“Did you find anything in his car?” he asked.

“Not yet. I got some latent prints and the usual bags of dirt. Dollinger just drove it in to the Sixth Street garage.”

“Did you notice the garage door opener on the passenger side visor?”

“Robina model AA. I’ve got the serial number here if you want it.”

“You would. What would it be if it wasn’t a garage door opener?”

In the ensuing silence Auburn could almost see Kestrel’s scowl of impatience through the telephone wire. “Why wouldn’t it be a garage door opener?”

“Because he didn’t have a garage. Not at his apartment, anyway.”

“Well, it’s a remote switch for something. I opened it to check for drugs and test the batteries. They’re good, and it’s got all the original circuitry.”

Auburn decided to let word of Brendel’s hoard of stolen property reach Kestrel through Robbery. “I’ll get back to you later.”

Hick’s Red Carpet Transmission was in a part of town where prudent people didn’t go after dark and nervous people didn’t go at all. There were cars on hoists in all six bays, but only two or three mechanics were at work. A broad “carpet” of red paint led from the parking area to the office door.

At Auburn’s entry a man stood up behind a massive steel desk littered with work orders, car keys, and Styrofoam cups. “What can I help you with today, sir?” Auburn recognized the voice from the answering machine recording. Hick was a big man with deep-set eyes and a waxed mustache.

His mercenary exuberance evaporated as soon as Auburn showed identification. “Just a routine investigation. Does Lee Brendel work here?”

“He does when he ain’t chucking beer and chasing women.” He hitched up his trousers belt and left his thumbs inside. “You know where he’s at?”

“How long has he worked here?”