Grover Sterling stood there, his calloused palms rubbing against his trousers. His greasy baseball cap was pulled low, casting his eyes in shadow.
“Can I help you, officers?” Grover asked. His voice was a low, raspy growl.
“We knocked on your door five minutes ago, Mr. Sterling,” I said, keeping the light steady on his chest.
“I was asleep,” he said, squinting against the beam. “I do not open my door for people shouting in the dark.”
“We are looking for Clara Miller,” I said. “Her children are upstairs alone, and her power was cut from the main panel.”
Grover rubbed his palms against his canvas trousers again, the fabric making a dry, scratching sound.
“We do not have utility issues in this building,” Grover said.
“The lock on her breaker panel was forced,” I said. “Someone used a tool on it.”
“Probably kids from the neighborhood,” he said, spitting onto the gravel. “They come around here looking for scrap metal.”
I took a step closer, my eyes dropping to his boots. They were dry, but his hands were coated in a fine layer of grey dust.
“We found a set of keys in the utility closet on the third floor,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the silver ring. “Do these belong to you?”
Grover stared at the keys in my hand. For a fraction of a second, his jaw tightened.
“I lose things all the time,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “This is a big property.”
“We need to check the basement,” Carey said.
Grover shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward the heavy wooden door of his office.
“The basement is off-limits to tenants,” Grover said. “It is not safe down there.”
“We are not tenants,” I said.
“You still need a warrant to go poking around my service areas,” Grover said. “That is the law.”
He turned away from us and walked back toward his office, his heavy boots crunching slowly on the gravel.
He stepped inside the office entryway and slowly retreated back into his office, closing the heavy wooden door.
I tapped the heavy brass nose of my flashlight against the wood of the door, three sharp cracks that echoed down the concrete walkway.
Inside the office, the low rumble of the television died instantly.
The heavy wooden door swung back open three inches, caught on a brass security chain. Grover Sterling looked through the gap, his small grey eyes tracking the movement of my hands.
“I told you everything I know,” he said, his voice gravelly.
“We need to discuss the power grid for this building,” I said, leaning slightly toward the opening. “Apartment forty-two is completely dark, but the corridor outside has full service.”
