The Keeper of Bees ARC

by Gregory Ashe

  “This is definitely not the nice part of town.”

  “Anything else?”

  Wiping his forehead, Dulac said, “She’s got the center apartment. It’s hard to believe nobody heard the Keeper break in and take her. Or a gunshot, for that matter.”

  “Yeah, really hard to believe. Anything else?”

  “You can see inside her apartment if the blinds are open, which they are. And I think that means she was trusting the privacy fence too much. I bet if I walked that block at a few different times of day, I could figure out her schedule pretty easily.”

  “Good,” Somers said.

  “And she liked flamingos.”

  Somers raised an eyebrow.

  “Check it out,” Dulac said. “She’s got a million of those lawn ornaments.”

  “How the hell did you see that?”

  “Reflected in the glass, bro. Use your eyes.”

  Somers grinned. “That’s really good.”

  “Yeah, man. Next time, I’m going up against Emery in I fucking spy.”

  “Honestly, he’d probably like that. As long as he wins. Come on.”

  Somers led Dulac around to the front of the house. As they approached the door, two faint noises disturbed the silence: one was a steady beep-beep-beep; the second was more soothing, and it sounded like a scale of notes on a synthesizer, but it was just as insistent. Somers and Dulac had stopped on the way to pick up a spare key from the property management company, and when he tried it in the lock, it turned easily. Closed-up air, rank with corruption, wafted through the open doorway. He got out a pair of gloves and booties, dragged them on, and checked Dulac. He stopped the younger detective before he decked himself out in the same protective gear.

  “I spy, huh?”

  “Dude, I’m going to fucking crush Emery,” Dulac said. “Those flamingos, man. That was fucking epic, right?”

  “Definitely epic,” Somers said. “Too bad you missed something.”

  “No way.”

  Somers shrugged.

  “No fucking way. I saw the flamingos. Even you didn’t see the flamingos.”

  “Yeah, but. Well. You did miss something.”

  “What? And it better not be some Emery Hazard bullshit like saying I missed your reflection or I didn’t carbon date the fence.”

  Grinning, Somers said, “Go ask the neighbors.”

  “Ask them what.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Then, after checking the booties and gloves again, Somers stepped inside the house. The competing noises were louder here—aggravatingly loud, in fact. But he lingered in the doorway, checking the jambs, the head, the strike plate, the door. No signs of forced entry. The deadbolt and the lock on the handle both bore signs of wear and tear, but nothing that Somers could point to as an obvious sign that they had been forced.

  The apartment was small: a kitchen immediately to his left, the linoleum curling up under the cabinets; then a living area with a small CRT television and, on the coffee table, an iPad. The iPad’s screen was flashing in time with the synthesizer notes, obviously an alarm that Susan had set for herself. Beyond the coffee table, at the end of the living space, a glass slider opened out onto the tiny patio and backyard. On the right, one door led into a bathroom; a curling iron lay on the counter, unplugged, and a tube of lipstick had fallen onto its side. A second door led into the bedroom.

  Somers checked the floor before moving forward; past the kitchen, the linoleum gave way to orangish laminate boards. He squatted until light hit the floor at an oblique angle. No visible footprints; dust bunnies and some loose hairs and fibers. Well, that was why he was wearing booties. Still, just to be safe, he kept close to the wall as he moved deeper into the apartment.

  The stench stopped Somers at the bedroom’s threshold. Gore—some specks brown, some gray, some blackened from oxidation—marked the bedding, the pillows, the headboard, and a tiny crescent of wall. It was obvious from the angle that the Keeper had approached Susan while she was still asleep. Somehow, he had managed to get close without waking her. Then the Keeper had shot her in the head. Presumably, Somers thought with a kind of detachment that he had only gained over long years, the kind that he still scrabbled for in situations like this, presumably Susan had been turned toward the door, and the Keeper had fired directly into her face. The same way Phil Camerata’s face had been destroyed. The FBI would have a spatter analyst who could confirm that. Somers reached out and tapped the bedside alarm, which gave a final beep before going silent.

  Footsteps pulled Somers’s attention away from bits of brain and bone and blood. In the doorway, Dulac hesitated.

  “Christ,” he said.

  Somers nodded.

  “That answers one question,” Dulac said.

  “And raises a lot more.”

  “Very funny, by the way.”

  “Nobody home?”

  “You could have told me the apartments were empty instead of making me trot around like an asshole.”

  “I just wanted to make sure I was right. After all, you’re the one who spotted those flamingos. Good catch on that, by the way.”

  Dulac rolled his eyes. “Ok, so nobody hears the shot because the units on both sides are empty. Fine. That makes his job easier. But did you look at the door?”

  “I did. Will you check the slider? I’ll check the windows in here.”

  Dulac’s steps moved away on the laminate, and the synthesized alarm on the iPad cut off. Somers moved around the bed, carefully to keep to the far side of the room, where he was least likely to contaminate evidence. When he got to the large windows that backed up to the patio, he raised the blinds, intending to check the locks.

  Movement in the patio stopped him.

  First, he swore.

  Then, he sighed.

  He rapped on the glass as Emery Hazard dropped down on the inside of the privacy fence. Hazard’s reaction was immediate and startling: the big man grabbed for his gun, jerking around pressing his back to the fence. A year ago, Hazard would have had more control. A year ago, Hazard wouldn’t be white and panting, leaning against the fence like it was the only thing holding him up.

  “Shit,” Somers said, waving through the glass. “Don’t shoot me. I’m sorry.”

  “Uh, dude,” Dulac called from the other room. Then a lock clicked, and the sound of the slider opening reached Somers. Dulac’s steps moved back through the apartment, and from the bedroom door, Dulac said, “I guess I’m going to check on the neighbors in the other buildings.” He shifted his weight, not quite looking over his shoulder, and added, “You ok here?” Another of those almost glances. “Alone?”

  “Yeah,” Somers said.

  Dulac took a step.

  “Gray, thanks.”

  “For what, man?” And then Dulac was gone.

  Somers made his way out of the bedroom and stopped in the kitchen. Hazard stood just inside the sliding door, adjusting the massive cowboy revolver he now carried, settling it in the shoulder holster. Summer heat poured through the open doors at both ends of the apartment, the humidity like an invisible cloud, but Hazard was visibly shivering. Although shivering wasn’t the right word, probably. Trembling, maybe. Shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” Somers said again. “I didn’t think.”

  “Scared the fucking shit out of me.”

  “Are you ok?”

  “Yes, I’m ok.” Then Hazard wiped his face and said, “Yeah. I am.”

  “Do you want to explain why you’re contaminating a crime scene and at risk of having Riggle throw you in a cell?”

  “I’m not contaminating the scene, John.” Hazard gestured at his feet, where he had put on booties. “And I don’t think I’m at risk of getting thrown in a cell, am I?”

  “No. Not this time. Because I’m very stupidly in love with you, and Dulac is being unreasonably cool about this. But what if somebody else had been here? What if it had been the FBI?�
��

  “I miscalculated,” Hazard said. “I assumed I was moving faster than the police, so I cut corners; I drove past the front, didn’t see anything, and parked on the south side. That must have been before you opened the front door. Next time, I’ll do a full sweep and make sure.”

  Somers worked his fingers in the gloves, trying not to make a fist. “Next time?”

  “Theoretically speaking, of course.”

  “In what theoretical situation,” Somers said. “would there be a next time? Wait. Where’s Evie?”

  “I called; she’s staying for late pickup.”

  Somers adjusted the gloves again, but his eyes stayed on his fiancé, picking out the strain only partially hidden by his usual impassive composure: the tightening around Hazard’s eyes, the pallor, the unkempt tangles of hair.

  “I made sure she was ok,” Hazard said, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t have left her if she’d had a bad day.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s been having a lot of fun.”

  Somers nodded.

  “It’s just once.”

  “Ree, you’re the one who hates leaving her there. You don’t have to convince me.”

  With a grunt, Hazard moved toward Somers, passed him, and cut toward the bedroom.

  “Fuck.”

  For a moment, Somers stayed where he was; on the patio, the sunlight hit the rows of pink flamingos at just the right angle to produce a glare, and Somers stared just long enough for pink hot spots to linger in his vision. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, pretty bad.”

  “No forced entry?” Hazard said on his way back.

  “Not that I can see. He probably picked the lock.”

  “But he shot her in bed,” Hazard said. “He got close enough to shoot her without her raising the alarm. Just like Mitchell’s.”

  “Different from Mitchell’s place, actually. I mean, at Mitchell’s, he got past all the security, and Mitchell didn’t raise a fuss. Here, though, he might have broken into the house like any ordinary burglar. Why think otherwise?”

  “It could have been someone she trusted. The same way it might have happened at Mitchell’s. He showed up, she let him in. No sign of forced entry.”

  “But then she got into bed and fell asleep? Not a very good hostess.”

  Hazard’s voice was carefully neutral as he said, “I’m sure she’s fallen asleep with Wesley in the apartment before.”

  “Wesley didn’t do this.”

  “That’s a premature conclusion, John.”

  “He didn’t. I was in an interview with him. I looked him in the eyes. I know he didn’t do this.”

  “Psychopaths are excellent liars. Even though you’re good at reading people—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Ree, I’m not a human lie detector. I know that. But I’m telling you, he didn’t do this. We’ve spent how much time with him, and I know you don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he did this. Riggle wants to crucify him because he’s trans and because he’s got a relationship with the victims. Those are bullshit reasons. Twenty years ago, hell, maybe ten, maybe five, Riggle would have been trying to pin it on you or me for being queer.”

  “Mitchell knew and trusted his abductor—”

  “No. Not necessarily. It seemed like that in the shock of seeing the apartment, but I don’t agree. Not anymore. There are a lot of ways the Keeper could have gotten past that security. He might have presented himself as law enforcement. He might have shown up as a repairman.”

  “Mitchell’s not stupid.”

  “I’m just saying there are other ways, Ree. And even if Mitchell did know him, it doesn’t necessarily mean Susan did too. Mitchell might have met this guy at the Pretty Pretty. He might have met him online.”

  Hazard raised those remarkable eyes, the color of straw at the end of harvest, and said, “Then why Susan?”

  “She has a connection to you.”

  Hazard flinched.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you, sweetheart, but we already assumed that was the Keeper’s MO.”

  Nodding, Hazard turned and moved into the bathroom.

  “Ree, hold on. I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m just pointing out that . . . that we shouldn’t leap to conclusions. There’s no reason to believe Wesley did this. No rational reason, I mean. And—hey, hold on, please. I’m talking to you.”

  “I hear you,” Hazard said, opening the mirrored medicine cabinet with gloved hands. “I don’t have to stand around like a fucking statue to hear you.”

  “Stop, please. I need to keep the scene sealed until we can process it properly. You know that.”

  “I am processing it.”

  “You’re not police.”

  The words came out louder and harsher than Somers intended them. The echo ran through the small apartment. Hazard froze for a moment. Then he started up again, like someone had pressed rewind, his hands lifting and setting back bottles and boxes and various toiletries: a woman’s razor laid upside down; a tube of Crest whitening toothpaste; a dropper bottle with eucalyptus oil; a tub of cold cream; brown prescription bottles. Hazard returned these with neat, economical movements.

  “I know I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Somers said.

  “Why not?” He slid the bottles along the shelf, reading each one and then moving it into a neat line with the ones he’d already checked.

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings—”

  Hazard laughed. “We’re not at a fucking slumber party, thanks.”

  “Please don’t do this.”

  At the next bottle, Hazard’s hand hesitated. “Do what?”

  “I can’t do this again with you. I can’t. It hurts too much, and I honestly don’t know what to do.”

  Hazard plucked the bottle from the shelf and held it out to Somers. His eyes were wide and bright, glassy and hard. “If there’s a problem, John, you just need to tell me what it is. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Here’s a possible answer, by the way. Lunesta. She was taking a sleep aid; no wonder she didn’t hear him. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he just broke in. Good job on that.”

  “Stop it.”

  Again, louder than Somers had intended. This time, Hazard flinched.

  “Somers?” Dulac’s voice came from the front of the apartment. He stopped in the bathroom doorway; his eyes were carefully fixed on Somers, ignoring Hazard. “Hey, I talked to one of the neighbors. She says she saw a bug guy spraying out here last night. She said she’s been calling for a bug guy for months, and they sent him here instead of to her unit. She went over and talked to him, tried to get him to service her apartment. I asked for a description, but she said she couldn’t see him very well; he was in a full-body suit. She kept calling it a space suit.”

  “A Tyvek coverall,” Hazard said. “To prevent leaving any trace evidence at the scene. That’s a good sign that the Keeper was an intruder and a stranger. Wesley wouldn’t have worried about leaving physical evidence; after all, he has a perfectly legitimate way to explain it. Another point to you, John.”

  “Gray, can you give us a minute? We’re—”

  “No,” Hazard said, dropping the prescription bottle in the sink and making his way to the door. His shoulder smacked Somers’s, but he skirted Dulac. “I’ll leave the real police to do their job.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JULY 2

  TUESDAY

  5:57 PM

  HAZARD WAS SCRUBBING the counters when the garage door opened. He didn’t look over his shoulder. The Midwestern heat eddied around his bare feet; air from the garage, two-stroke oil, sawdust from the cedar boards Somers had been cutting on Saturday. He shook out the cloth over the sink, grabbed the bottle of CLR, and blasted the calcified buildup around the faucet. Three steps behind him. Then a quiet groan of relief; Hazard didn’t have to look around to know that Somers was leaning against the wall, taking off his shoes. Then more steps, coming clos
er.

  “Hi,” Somers said, leaning around him to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Hi.”

  “So, you’re cleaning. That’s never a good sign.”

  Hazard gave a few more aggressive blasts with the CLR. “It’s too hot for the oven, so I put together a salad. We can eat whenever you’re ready. If you need to eat and get back to the station—”

  “No,” Somers said. “Special Agent Park said, quote, ‘the FBI has things well in hand,’ and she only asked Riggle for a few uniformed officers to watch the crime scenes. I’m officially relieved of duty until I show up tomorrow and Riggle hands me my ass in front of Park.”

  “Why would Riggle do that?”

  “Because I took the unheard-of step of investigating a victim’s apartment.”

  Hazard had worked the cloth into the crevice between the faucet and the sink proper, and he was really going to town on it. His hand slowed now. “That’s ridiculous. That’s your job; you were doing your job.”

  After a quick squeeze of Hazard’s arm, Somers headed out of the kitchen. He was walking slower than usual. His steps sounded heavier. He stopped in the living room, where Evie was playing with her Fashionista Fillies. When she started telling him something about Princess Priscilla, instead of a laugh and a question, he mumbled something that Hazard couldn’t hear and then those trudging steps picked up again. Hazard thought about all of this as he finished with the sink, and then he rinsed out the cloth and hung it on the lip of the sink to dry. He washed his hands. Then he set out the salad: spring mix, red onions, pan-seared chicken breast, corn, black beans, tortilla strips, cilantro-lime dressing. He moved to the opening that connected the kitchen and the living room and saw Evie forcing Gloriana’s little horsey head through the front window of the Fashionista Fillies’ RV.

  “She stuck,” Evie announced, yanking on Gloriana’s tail.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have committed vehicular manslaughter.” Hazard hesitated. “Horse slaughter. Equine slaughter. I’ll have to look at the criminal code.”

  “She stuck,” Evie said, louder and more slowly.

  Sighing, Hazard crossed the room and knelt next to his daughter. Gloriana was well and truly stuck, her little horsey head wedged between the steering wheel and the RV’s molded plastic driver’s seat. The problem was that Hazard’s fingers were too thick to get inside the front of the RV, where he needed to depress the steering wheel so that Gloriana’s head could slip free.