The listing agent on Albert Rousseau’s condo arrived at the property at precisely six minutes after ten o’clock. Her being late irritated Gordon, but when she slid out of her Mercedes, Gordon mellowed a bit. She was attractive and smartly dressed in a dark pantsuit, black heels, and a white blouse cut close to the neck. Her dark hair was cut just off her shoulders and suited her tanned face. She wore an apologetic smile as she greeted him.
“I’m Arlene,” she said, offering out her hand. Her grip was firm, and she locked eyes with him as they shook. “Sorry I’m late. I got held up at another property.”
Gordon shook her hand. “Not a problem. Can we see the property?” he asked, nodding toward the burned-out shell.
She glanced over at the wreckage. “Sure. We don’t even need to open the lockbox on this one. Being there’s no front door.” Gordon chuckled at the remark, and she continued. “I just got this listing from the insurance company a week ago,” she said. “I don’t know much about it, other than there was some sort of explosion and they wanted it priced at $145,900. Lowest-priced property in the area, for obvious reasons.”
“What kind of structural damage was done in the explosion?” he asked.
She flipped through the file, stopping at a sheet covered with figures. “There is an engineering report here,” she said. “I’m not an expert on these things, but from what I can see, the major damage is to the rear of the building and the second-level floor, or first-level ceiling, depending on how you want to look at it. The front of the condo didn’t fare too well either, as you can see. The floor joists are badly damaged and need to be repaired. And the city has placed a caveat on the title that whoever buys the place has to have an engineer stamp the renovations before new flooring or drywall can be installed. They want to know the structural repairs have been done properly before they’ll let you cover anything up.”
“Okay,” Gordon said. “Can we look through what’s left of the place?”
She looked down at her high heels, then at the wreckage. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “I should have worn different clothes. I’m not sure I can walk around in there with you. Would you mind if I waited out here? I can answer any questions you have after you’ve finished looking about.”
“Probably a good idea,” Gordon said. In fact, as he strode up the front walk, it struck him that this was a very good thing. With no realtor at his side, he would be able to look about freely. And that was why he was here.
He entered what had been Albert Rousseau’s home through the front entrance, now just a hole in the brick exterior. Immediately upon entering the house, Gordon was struck by the extent of the damage. The explosion had blown outward from the stove, and pieces of metal and glass were embedded in what was left of the walls. The foyer was defined only by the difference in floor coverings, with ceramic tile in the entranceway and hardwood in the living room. He carefully picked his way through the remains of the living room and into the kitchen. The cabinets were almost entirely gone: Just a maple pantry in one corner remained. The sink was hanging by the drainpipe and the water lines jutted out from the walls at crazy angles.
The ends of the brass lines were shredded and water damage was everywhere. Gordon knew that some of the damage came from water pouring out of the broken lines and the remainder from the firemen pouring water onto the ensuing fire. The floor felt soggy, and he was careful where he stepped.
He spent a few minutes in the kitchen, thinking about how the scene could have played out. The damage was so extensive that there must have been quite a buildup of gas prior to the explosion. Was Albert Rousseau already dead when the stove exploded? Quite likely. Dead or unconscious. At any rate, if he was anywhere near the stove, there was probably little left of the man’s body after the gas ignited. He continued through the house, checking out the second floor for any sign of a wall safe. But there was no place in the unit where the wall thickness was sufficient to accommodate a safe of any size. Gordon returned to the main floor, then continued on into the basement.
It was dark and, with the electricity off, impossible to see anything. He gave himself a small pat on the back for thinking ahead and bringing a pocket flashlight. He pulled it out and flipped the switch. A narrow beam of light illuminated the concrete foundation. The basement was unfinished, but what was once an open storage space was now a garbage heap of broken wood and soggy drywall. It felt dank and smelled of rotting wood and mold.
Gordon picked his way through the mess toward the corner where the electrical service entered. Under the electrical panel were the rusting remains of a washer and dryer. Near the appliances the floor was not so deep in crud, and he kicked away some of the garbage until he could see the concrete. The hot-water tank was a few feet from the washer and dryer, almost in the corner. Gordon gave it a quick glance. The gas line was still attached, but the gas would have long since been shut off. The water lines were intact as well, and there was a floor drain a couple of feet from the base of the tank. He looked back to the washer and dryer. The basement floor appeared to slope ever so slightly away from the hot-water tank toward the washer.
That didn’t make sense. The floor drain should be at the lowest point in the concrete floor, so that any overflow water would drain out to the city services. And the floor was dry, which meant that the water had drained somewhere. Gordon looked back at the floor drain next to the hot-water tank. It was definitely higher than the floor level in front of the washer and dryer. He kicked away the sludge and garbage from in front of the washing machine. About five feet from the front of the machine, and at a low point in the concrete, was a second floor drain. Something wasn’t right.
Gordon pulled the metal lid off the drain and peered in with the flashlight. Water, about six inches below the concrete. That was about right. He moved back to the first drain he had spotted, next to the hot-water tank, and pulled the cover off. He shone the light in. Nothing. Just what appeared to be a small piece of tight-fitting wood about three inches down. He pushed on the wood, but it didn’t move. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he shone the beam directly into the hole and worked the wood with his fingers. It moved. He kept pushing on it until one edge lifted slightly. He got his finger under the uplifted edge and pulled. The piece of wood popped out. Underneath, now exposed to the light, was the top of a floor safe.
“I’ll be damned,” Gordon said under his breath. He tried the handle, but the safe was locked. He spun the dial and it rotated easily to his touch. It was still working. All he needed was the combination. He read the manufacturer’s name and model number off the safe and committed it to memory, then replaced the wood and the grate. He returned to the main floor and back into the sunshine. The realtor was waiting for him.
“Well?” she asked as he walked across the street to where she was leaning against her Mercedes.
“There’s a lot of structural damage,” Gordon said. “It would take at least two hundred thousand to get that place livable.” He pointed to the units on either side. “What do they sell for when they’re in normal condition?”
“About three hundred thousand, give or take. It depends whether they’ve had any renovations. The top price anything on this block has sold for is three-thirty, and it was totally redone.”
Gordon nodded. “Even if I could get this at one-thirty, by the time I put two hundred into it, I’d just get my money back. No upside for the renovation.”
“Not if it cost you two hundred to fix it,” she said. “That might be a bit high.”
“I’d rather be high than low,” Gordon said. “Sorry, but I don’t think it works for me.”
“That’s okay,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for not making me trudge through that place with you.”
Gordon returned to his rental car and waved as she pulled away. He sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking about how to approach this situation. He needed to get back into the condo, but this time with either the combination to the safe or something that would open it. And since Albert Rousseau was long since gone, that eliminated the possibility of using a combination to open the safe. So it would have to be force. Now all he needed to know was how.
One thing was for certain. He was going to get into that safe.