How a Fourteen-Dollar Yellow Baby Blanket Brought Down a Regional Director
“Four hundred twelve Maple Street,” I said, pressing my right hand flat to my breastbone.
“Apartment 2B, it said.”
The stub had been tucked inside the blue vinyl folder David kept hidden in the spare tire well of the Buick’s trunk, listed as a second billing address on a home utility bill.
He’d said he was seeing a regional client in Kenosha three nights earlier, but the trip counter showed he had driven only twelve miles there and back from our house.
At six minutes after nine, the heavy glass door in the middle of building four swung open.
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