Chapter 17
Early the next morning, with a cappuccino grande screwed into the cup holder on my console and a bag of doughnuts from Carlson’s on the seat beside me, I waited in the parking lot outside of 303-B Scott Circle for Joanna Barnhorst to make an appearance. Her Toyota was parked in a space just outside her building, so unless she’d gone out for a pre-dawn stroll, I knew she had to be at home.
An hour later I was down to half a cup of lukewarm coffee and one doughnut, still staring at her apartment window and seeing nothing but white lace curtains, tightly drawn.
Thirty minutes after that I had an empty paper cup and traces of powdered sugar on my lips.
Feeling a bit reckless, I climbed out of my car and tested the glass door that led to the vestibule of Barnhorst’s apartment tow
