“I guess my family really isn’t big on keeping up with stuff like that. I find pop culture to be a waste of time.” We stepped into the elevator.
“I just thought everybody knew who he was. His name has been all over TV.” Michael glanced at me, utter shock lighting his gaze.
“I actually only moved to this country a few months ago, and my family doesn’t have a TV. My mom considers it a royal waste of time.” I waited for his reaction. People in the US never seemed to understand that sentiment. “My mom often says that we pity people in other countries because of what they don’t have, but she pities people in the US because we have so much yet we have so little joy.”
“Sounds wise.” Michael gave me a second glance as we stepped off the elevator. “Where are you from?”
“Yerba.”
“Yerba? I’ve heard of it. There was some kind of political unrest there recently.”
My stomach clenched as he said the words. “That’s right. That’s where I’m from.”
“Yet now you’re here.”
“Thankfully, my family was able to get out when we did. I have dual citizenship, so here we are.”
“Sounds dope.”
“Isn’t that a drug?”
“It is but—” He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s also an expression.”
I still had so much to learn about American culture.
Michael slipped a key into the door and pushed it open. A moment later, Flash’s condo stared at us.
The place was beautiful.
A wall of windows lined the outside of the living quarters. The furnishings were ultra-modern and sleek. The whole place smelled like expensive leather. No expense had been spared.
Yet everything seemed impersonal, almost like it could be a hotel room. There were no pictures or anything that gave it a homey feel. At least, not here in the living area.
My breath stopped when I saw the fingerprint dust along the kitchen counter. When I spotted the blood spatter on the couch. When I noticed the missing rug beneath the coffee table—some of the blood spatter showed the edges of where it had been, a chilling reminder about what had happened here.
Nausea roiled in my stomach.
“The crime-scene cleaners can’t come for a couple more days,” Michael explained.
“I see.” I paused, waiting to follow Michael’s lead. “So what are we looking for?”
Michael pulled on some rubber gloves before tossing a pair to me. “Just pretend like you’re in one of those detective shows.”
“I don’t watch detective shows.”
“That’s right. Look for anything out of the ordinary. The police have already been here. I’ve already been here. But we’re starting from scratch. So having fresh eyes on the case will do us a lot of good.”
I hoped I didn’t let him down. I hated letting people down.
Since details were my specialty, I hoped the slightly OCD part of my personality didn’t fail me now.
“Will do.” I decided to start on the right side of the room and move around the edges. Then I’d work my way in.
Slowly, I paced along the walls, soaking in the artwork. Looking at the glass-top tables. Running my hands along the edge of the fireplace mantle.
Why would someone want to live in such a cold space? It made me not care for Flash—which was ridiculous. I’d never even met the man. But a person’s environment reflected the inner workings of the person.
At least, they did in my humble opinion.
Back in Yerba, my room had been tidy, with rich colors and photos of my memories. Memories with my dad. With my best friend, Tahlia. With my fiancé who was no longer my fiancé.
A handmade rug from my neighbor graced my floor. A quilt my grandmother had made blanketed my bed. Growing plants added life to the space.
I wasn’t saying my way was superior to another’s. But this place, Flash’s place, just seemed so unwelcoming.
I paused by the massive windows that looked down into the street below, with its restaurants and shops and people scurrying about.
Part of the seal around the frame was uneven, I realized.
As I reached up, I discovered a good reason for it.
A small camera had been mounted there. It would have been easy to miss. The device was only the size of a pencil eraser, and it had blended in with the seal around the window frame.
“Michael, you’re going to want to see this.”
I watched as Michael pulled the camera from the window and placed it in a plastic bag.
"Are you going to take that down to the police station?" I asked, trying to figure out our next move.
“Not a chance.” He put the bag in his pocket.
“But couldn’t you get arrested if you don’t? Aren’t we tampering with a crime scene?”
He pulled his hat off and then put it back on. “The police have already come and gotten everything they need from this room. Right now, our job is to prove that our client is innocent. I have no idea what’s on this camera or where the information is being transmitted, but we’re going to find out.”
Part of me was uncomfortable with that. The right thing to do would be to turn this evidence over to the police. Then again, I didn’t know how this PI gig worked. We were supposed to act in the best interest of our clients, and, if the police had cleared the crime scene and let us in, then I also supposed that this was fair game.
Right? I was navigating new and unfamiliar waters here.
I swallowed my misgivings and turned toward Michael. “What now?”
“Now we are going to continue to trace Flash’s footsteps on the day the murder occurred.”
“I never asked, where is Flash right now?”
“He’s staying in a second home in Arlington.”
“I’m surprised they let him out on bail.”
“When you have money, a lot of stuff is allowed.” Michael swung his keys around his finger. “You ready to go?”
“You’re calling the shots. I’m just here to learn from you.”
A few minutes later, we were in Michael’s minivan again, and he cranked the engine. As we took off down the road, he glanced at me.
“Good job back there. How’d you see that camera?”
Before launching into my explanation, I prepared myself for his reaction. “I know this is going to sound strange, but I really like for things to be square and plumb. It’s a weird quirk I have.”
“Square?” He gave me another glance.
“It’s called spatial intelligence. I’m pretty sure those are overstated words to say that I am a little too Type A for my own good. For example, from the moment I walk into a house, I can tell if the builder was skilled or not based on how the walls line up. If a rug isn’t placed correctly on a floor or furniture isn’t set up evenly, it can drive me crazy. Oh, and when someone takes a picture and the horizon is crooked in the background? I can hardly look at the photo.”
“That’s . . . interesting.”
“Interesting is a nice word of saying strange. It’s okay.”
“Maybe a little strange, but not strange necessarily in a bad way. What did you do before you took this job?” His rolling voice sounded curious.
I frowned. “I worked for an insurance company. I was actually pretty good at my job. I was able to see inconsistencies in different reports that were being filed.”
“Then why did you switch?” He turned down the hip-hop music blaring through the speakers.
“I pretty much hated it. Plus, the commute was a minimum of twenty minutes but more often closer to forty. Spending that much time in my vehicle isn’t the way I want to live my best life, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I get that. The commute into DC is horrendous, and that’s on a good day.”
I shifted, glancing at him again and wondering how much I should share. He was a good listener and he seemed interested. He had a bit of a boy next door vibe, only a little edgier.
“Before that, I worked a
government job,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Was it in building inspections?”
I couldn’t resist a smile. “No, not exactly. I was actually chief of staff for a legislator in the province where I lived.”
Surprise lit his eyes. “Going from chief of staff for a politician to working as a sidekick for Oscar? Girl, what were you thinking? That’s like going from a fine filet mignon to a ninety-nine-cent greasy burger special.”
“I know the shift seems weird. I’m twenty-seven, and I should have things figured out by now. But I don’t. Sometimes circumstances that are beyond your control dictate the trajectory of your life. I’ve just learned that I have to be okay with that. At least for now.”
He turned off the highway. “If you could be doing anything that you wanted to do what would it be?”
I blanched, surprised at his inquiry. People never asked me that. They seemed to always tell me what I should be doing instead.
“Truthfully, I’ve always liked just having a simple life. I never wanted to be married to my career. I wanted to allow room in my life to breathe. To get to know neighbors. To take care of family. To better myself by reading books, to be involved in church and help others. I don’t buy into the notion that my whole life needs to revolve around my work or that I need to find value in myself based on how busy I am.”
“Deep,” Michael muttered.
I glanced at him, trying to read the meaning behind his words. “I take it you don’t agree.”
“Actually, I do agree. I do think there’s more to life than getting in your hours from nine to five. Or from seven to six, which is more like it on most days. It’s the rat race, and it’s not always where I want to be. But I have bills to pay, and that dictates how I spend my days. True fact.”
“My mom was always really great about encouraging me not to go into debt so I could have more freedom in life. Be a slave to no one and nothing. That’s what she taught me.”
“And did that work?”
“It did, but then circumstances changed.” I stopped before I said too much.
I really didn’t want to get into my father’s death and how the life insurance policy we thought he had he didn’t actually have. He had been the sole breadwinner for my mom and sister. Back in Yerba, I’d had my own place and made my own money. But when we decided to come back to the States, things changed.
Michael pulled to a stop in front of a restaurant near the edge of town and on the outskirts of a golf course. But as he put his van back into Park, he didn’t make a move to get out. “Spatial intelligence, huh? I’m fascinated. In fact, I’m still thinking about it.”
“It’s really not that exciting.” I blushed. I did that when I talked about myself too much.
“Are you like Monk? Does it drive you crazy when things are out of order?” He waggled his fingers in the air to drive home some kind of point.
“First of all, I actually don’t know who Monk is. And, secondly, I notice things, but I don’t obsess about them. Life is just too short for that.”
He turned toward me, his hazel eyes sparkling. “How about me? Am I symmetrical?”
I felt my cheeks heat even more as I glanced at him. But I didn’t need to study him to know that answer. I’d noticed those details as soon as we’d first met.
“Most people aren’t,” I started, rubbing my throat. “That’s why people’s glasses never quite fit like they should and need to be adjusted. That’s why people say they have a good side and a bad side.”
“So you didn’t answer my question.” Michael continued to stare at me, a boyish, almost mischievous look in his eyes.
After a moment of hesitation I finally said, “Your left eye is larger than your right, as is your eyebrow—but only slightly. Also, one ear is higher than the other, and the left side of your beard is a little thicker than the right side.”
I cleared my throat and looked away, feeling like I was probably being too honest. People said that’s what they wanted, but it really wasn’t. What people really wanted was affirmation usually.
“You know, I’ve always thought my face was a little strange. Now you confirmed it.” He rubbed his jaw.
Guilt flooded me. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Michael nudged me with his elbow. “I like imperfect things. Now, you ready to work Flash ‘the Birdie’ Slivinski’s case?”
“One question first. Is this guy’s middle name really Birdie?” That had confused me since the first time I heard it. I felt certain I was missing something.
“No. Birdie is a golf term.”
That made sense. I nodded. “I see.”
“And it’s a nickname that was given to the man because he’s a consummate jerk.” Michael shrugged. “Now, you ready?”
I let out my breath and nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
As we stepped out, I reminded myself that I was so much better with numbers and schedules than I was people. I had a feeling that was going to be a problem.
Chapter Eight
A few minutes later, we were inside the Green Leaf Tavern, a bar disguised as a restaurant. The insides were dim and felt a little more cave-like than I preferred. The tables weren’t evenly spaced out, but I knew that was a detail that only someone like me cared about.
Even though it was lunchtime, the establishment was only about a third full. Sports memorabilia decorated the walls, eighties rock played overhead, and the whole place smelled like yeast.
Alcohol, I supposed.
I found the scent appalling. However, the decaying scent of leaves in the jungle made me feel right at home, so I wasn’t exactly normal.
We headed toward the only employee I saw—the bartender. The man was tall and trendy with a neat beard and oversized glasses. He was drying a glass and placing it back on a rack when we walked up.
I wondered how Michael did in these situations. Could he stay focused? Or was he all over the place? I was still trying to gauge whether or not my initial assessment was correct.
“What can I get you guys?”
“I’ll just have a Coke.” Michael straddled the bar stool.
“Nothing for me,” I said, sitting beside him.
The guy grabbed a glass, put it under a dispenser beneath the counter, and handed it to Michael. I tried to look like I belonged here, but it totally wasn’t my scene. I felt more like a spider monkey that had gotten loose in the inner city.
“Do I know you?” The bartender eyed Michael for a minute.
Michael’s shoulders tightened ever-so-slightly. The question had made him uncomfortable. But why?
“Nah, man. I’ve never been in here before.”
The bartender squinted, as if he didn’t believe him.
“We’re hoping you might be able to help us out,” Michael started, aptly changing the subject. His voice changed back to friendly and conversational, like he could be someone’s best friend. I made a mental note of that, but I’d have to figure that out later.
I observed the bartender, starting with the name on his shirt—Zack. The man picked up another glass and began to dry it. Was this his nervous tic?
I thought it was a good guess. Either that, or he was really dedicated to his job.
“What do you need to know?” Zack asked.
“We’re trying to find out some information about Flash Slivinski.” Michael leaned his arms on the counter, looking like they were two old friends catching up. “We heard he came in here the day of the murder.”
“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Are you reporters?”
“We’re actually private investigators that Flash hired,” Michael said. “We’re trying to retrace his steps so we can prove his innocence.”
Something seemed to change in the man’s gaze. “I did see Flash in here that day.”
“Was he acting like himself?” Michael began flipping a packet of sweetener.
There it was. The ADHD. The need to always mo
ve.
The man was clearly my opposite. Where I was focused, neat, and quiet, Michael was all over the place, messy, and outgoing.
“From what I heard, Flash was a regular here,” Michael continued.
“Yes, he was a frequent patron.” Zack pointed to the wall in the distance. “He even gave us some of his memorabilia to display.”
I glanced to where he pointed and saw some signed photos on the wall. I’d noticed them when I walked in, but I just assumed the owner was a big golf fan.
“Flash was shooting the breeze with some of our regulars. I’d say he stayed here for a good three hours. The last thirty minutes or so Flash was here, that woman came in.”
“By that woman, do you mean Sarah Vance, the woman who died?” Michael clarified, still flipping the packet of sugar.
I watched the bartender’s expression, trying to pick up on any hidden clues. Not that I was an expert. But, in general, I considered myself a pretty good judge of character.
Zack’s gaze shifted back and forth, as if he was processing the conversation and formulating his answers.
Finally, he nodded. “That’s right. Sarah.”
“Had you ever seen her in here before?” Michael asked.
“No. I had the impression that maybe she was in DC on a work trip.” He shrugged. “Something about her gave off that vibe. She wore a business suit, and her purse looked more like a briefcase.”
“When did the two of them start talking?” Michael finally put the packet down and took a sip of his soda.
“She ended up sitting beside Flash at the bar, and they struck up a conversation. They seemed to get along really well. They talked and laughed and talked and laughed some more. Then they both got up to leave at the same time. And that was that.”
Michael nodded slowly. “So it appeared they were on good terms when they left?”
“They seemed to be on very good terms.” The way Zack said “good terms” was filled with suggestion.
“I’m assuming you told the police this also?” Michael asked, taking another sip of his drink.
“Yeah. I’m not sure how it helps the investigation. I can only assume that they went back to his place, had some type of disagreement, and she ended up dead. It really is a shame. I’ve always liked Flash. Can’t really see him doing anything like that. Someone who’s that great of a golfer can’t be a scum in other areas of his life, right?”
The Art of Eavesdropping Page 5