The Way of the Guilty

by Jennifer Stanley

  Her sister’s head-turning beauty, which she possessed due to the endless hours and ridiculous sums of money she spent on a team of beauticians, aestheticians, physical trainers, and masseuses, suddenly incensed Cooper. She felt, even though she knew it was unreasonable to do so, that her sister’s salubriousness was a slight to Miguel.

  Pushing her empty salad bowl to the side, Cooper took a sip of hot tea and tried to wrestle down her anger. She failed. “Then do as Lincoln asks and forget about the case! Me and the Sunrise members will handle it. Go back to your stores and your tennis league and your benefits. Forget that you ever found a dead man in your garage.” Cooper hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but her sister’s ambivalence was infuriating.

  “If you were married, you’d understand that there’s give and take involved between spouses!” Ashley snapped, jabbing at a tomato wedge with her chopstick and pointing it threateningly at Cooper. “I will help you any way I can, but I am not going to feel guilty for protecting my marriage or for moving on with my life! You might not approve of what I do, but at least I have my own life. I’m not living with my parents while I wait for someone else to define one for me!”

  The sisters glowered at one another until the lacquered lunch trays arrived. It was difficult to remain cross when presented with such an artistic arrangement of delicious food. Cooper picked up the rose sculptured from paper-thin slices of ginger and brought it to her nose. “Let’s call a truce. We won’t get anywhere bickering.” She inhaled the heady fragrance of the spice and then gazed at her sister. “Did anything in this folder catch your eye?”

  “There’s not much there,” Ashley answered after a punishing pause. “The standard hiring documents. Interview notes. A glowing recommendation letter from Miguel’s former employer. And all the identification papers which we now know are forged.”

  Swallowing a savory mouthful of potato tempura, Cooper frowned. “Doesn’t sound very promising. I sure hope Miguel’s apartment reveals a bit more about his life.”

  “There’s one thing you won’t find in the folder.” Ashley sprinkled low-salt soy sauce over her rice. “Apparently, every mechanic and lot attendant gets a nickname within the first few days of working at the dealership. After talking to his employees, Lincoln found out that Miguel’s was abeja, which is Spanish for ‘bee.’ ”

  “Why? Because he worked so hard?” Cooper asked.

  “No. According to Lincoln, the veteran mechanics usually come up with the nicknames, but Miguel informed them that he already had one. He said that he used to be called ardilla, or squirrel, but that he had traded in his bushy tail for a stinger.” She shrugged. “The guys got a big kick out of this and made so many lewd jokes over the whole stinger thing that Miguel got really mad. It was the only time they ever saw him riled up, so maybe his pride over this nickname is significant.”

  Cooper sat back against the booth cushion and tried to picture Miguel’s kind face screwed up in anger. “Let’s think about this. What’s the difference between the two creatures?”

  Ashley shifted rice around in the bowl. “Pretty much everything. One’s an animal. One’s an insect. Squirrels like nuts. Bees make honey. I don’t see how this is important.”

  But Cooper felt that the nicknames meant something. “A squirrel is known for gathering up goods, for hoarding them away from sight. It’s a harmless animal. A bee is hard-working and has the ability to sting—to cause pain. I think that’s the significance, Ashley.” She put down her chopsticks, thoroughly satiated. “The question is: Did Miguel want a weapon—the stinger—to inflict hurt, or as a defense against enemies? I don’t know for certain, but what this nickname business says to me is that he wanted to erase a past identity. The ardilla was left behind. With his false documents, a new job, and a new apartment, Miguel had a clean slate.”

  “And became an abeja. The bee.” Ashley waved away Cooper’s offering of cash and placed her credit card on top of the check. “I’m impressed, Cooper.” Her voice was sincere. “I think you’re onto something. You must have eaten some real brain food during this lunch.”

  Ignoring her sister’s remark, Cooper took a sip of green tea. “What if someone didn’t want him to change?” She stared unseeing at their waitress, who hustled over to collect the credit card. “What if someone from his old life killed him because of what he once was? Maybe he couldn’t really get away.”

  Ashley’s eyes were tinged with fear. “Do you think the murderer’s still here? In Richmond? Do you think he’s watching us—Lincoln and me? We have nothing to do with all this!”

  “I don’t know.” Cooper pulled on her parka and examined her watch. “Look, I’ve gotta go, but I think Lincoln needs to tell the police about those nicknames. They might have some kind of underworld significance. Names are real important to folks in gangs, I know that from reading the paper.”

  Cinching her trench coat tight around her narrow waist, Ashley nodded. “Okay. And don’t forget to look around for signs of a roommate in Miguel’s apartment. If you can get in, that is. I know Trish is shrewd, but she’s going to have to be mighty creative to get you inside a rented apartment.”

  “I’ve already cooked up a plan that you’d definitely call creative. Believe me, we’re going in,” Cooper promised and returned to work.

  As soon as Cooper clocked out for the day, she drove the short distance to the leasing office of Short Pump Commons. She recognized Trish’s black Mercedes SUV, which was plastered on both sides with magnetic signs promoting Tyler Fine Properties.

  Trish was on the phone, but gestured for Cooper to sit in the passenger seat and enjoy the heat pumping out of the car’s air vents while she concluded her call.

  “I am perfectly capable of handling the closing!” she growled into her headset. “I’ve already assigned you plenty of lucrative listings. I’m not dead yet, you know!” Trish touched her paisley silk turban and then softened her tone. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to look out for me. You’re wonderful and kind and I shouldn’t unleash my insecurities on you. Of course. Yes. Thank you so much.”

  Trish closed her phone and sighed. “I’m trying to cut back on my workload, but it’s tough.” She smiled. “I’m such a control freak. Cancer’s going to teach me a thing or two about that issue.” Placing her headset on the dash, she turned to Cooper and said, “However, I am determined to do my bit to get us into Miguel’s apartment today. I trust you have a plan?”

  “A crazy one,” Cooper responded while fidgeting with her purse strap. “But it kind of requires you to, ah, behave sicker than you look.”

  Eyeing herself in the rearview mirror, Trish made a small adjustment to her turban and grinned. “If we can use this disease for a good cause, then I’m all for it. Let’s hear what tricks you’d like me to put up my sleeve.”

  As soon as they were ready, the two women walked up the cement path into the leasing office. Cooper had no difficulty acting nervous. She’d never been a skillful thespian and hoped she could pull off a personality so opposite from her own.

  Trish, on the other hand, embraced the plan with her usual confidence and strode into the office as though prepared to rent every vacant apartment in the complex. She shook hands with the manager, handed him a business card, and then drew him aside for a quick word while Cooper pretended to be absorbed in the company brochure.

  Short Pump Commons, she read. A World of Luxury, Fashion, and Convenience. Examining the arrangement of the four buildings, she realized the “common” area in the name referred to a small, treeless rectangle dividing Building A from Building B. Rent for a one-bedroom apartment was a thousand a month, but if Miguel had also rented a garage, he’d have to spend over eleven hundred a month. “Pretty steep,” she said to herself and felt relieved that she had a free place to live while she paid off her credit card debt and added upon the small sum in her savings account.

  “Delilah?” The manager, a portly man wearing a wrinkled dress shirt and a yellow tie speckled with ketchup
stains, was addressing her. Cooper had almost forgotten her pseudonym. “Phil Burgess!” the man introduced himself. “I see you’ve already got one of our brochures. Terrific! Your realtor tells me that your company, ah, The Inner Eye, may be relocating to the Richmond area and that you and your employees might be interested in leasing several apartments?” His deep-set eyes gleamed.

  Instead of accepting the man’s pudgy hand, Cooper placed both palms over her heart. “Our futures shall be determined by destiny.” She bowed a little. “My employees and I are all very sensitive about our spaces. In order to serve our clients, we have to obtain a state of complete peace in our home environment, so it may take me some time to determine if the chi in these apartments is well balanced. I hope you’re open to this approach.”

  “Of course, of course.” The manager nodded rapidly and Cooper was superbly relieved that he hadn’t asked her to define chi. “Now, I’ve never visited a psychic before—no need—but my wife has. ’Course that was back before she met me. Ever since she snagged herself a hard-workin’ man, she doesn’t need to peer into a crystal ball anymore.” He grinned smugly.

  “The Inner Eye doesn’t use crystal balls. Those are props for carnival acts,” Cooper replied stonily and Phil nearly tripped over his tongue apologizing.

  “Please, Mr. Burgess,” Trish interceded in a clipped, professional tone. “Could we see the apartment now?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Phil grabbed a set of keys and pasted on a slick smile. “After you, ladies.”

  The threesome walked around the clubhouse, where they passed by a sheeted, rectangular pool, a row of empty bike racks, and a putting green. These public areas were landscaped with neatly pruned evergreen shrubs and clusters of purple and yellow pansies. There were no signs of litter and the grass aligning the sidewalks looked as though it had been hand-trimmed with a pair of sharp scissors.

  As they headed toward Building B, Phil chattered about the complex’s amenities, the quality of its residents, the awards it had garnered over the past year, and how unique Short Pump Commons was for being the first complex in the area to own a state-of-the art tanning bed.

  “Costs a pretty penny, too,” he added proudly. “The sign-up list is full every evening.”

  Murmuring their approval, Cooper and Trish followed Phil up a few flights of stairs to the third floor. He unlocked the first door on the left and stepped inside. Before he finished switching on the lights, Cooper pushed her way past Phil, walked resolutely to the center of the living room, raised her hands to her forehead, and closed her eyes.

  “She’s gauging the aura of this unit. We should be quiet,” Trish whispered to the leasing manager in a conspiratorial fashion and then made a big show of dabbing her forehead with a tissue.

  “Oh?” Phil seemed flustered by the idea that he should remain silent instead of proceeding with his sales pitch.

  Acting completely relaxed, as though she were accustomed to such bizarre behavior from her clients, Trish strolled around the living room assessing the peach-colored walls, a grouping of oil paintings featuring sickly-looking sunflowers, an overabundance of brass torchiere lamps, and the kind of sofa that uncomfortably encases one’s body in overly deep polyfill cushions.

  “Do all the units have security systems?” Trish asked softly, indicating the device attached to the wall next to the front door.

  “Ye-es!” Phil answered enthusiastically. The man was clearly unable to speak in a volume lower than that used by a circus ringleader.

  Trish approached her client and touched her on the arm. “How does this place feel?”

  “I need to be a level lower,” Cooper pronounced after opening her eyes. “The vibes are almost balanced here and I’m sure most of my employees would be perfectly happy with this apartment, but I must be one floor lower.”

  “We have some lovely units on the second floor in Building C,” Phil replied.

  Cooper shook her head. “That won’t do. You see, I have to be facing north and I must have my rear windows positioned over a natural area. Also, I’ve got to have an even number in my address. Odd numbers conduct negative energy.”

  Phil’s mouth hung slack in befuddlement.

  “Is the apartment on the second floor available?” Trish inquired innocently.

  Phil fidgeted with his tie, obviously stalling for time as he tried to think of a way to dissuade the women from focusing on the apartment below. “It will be soon, but at the moment it’s not in showing condition. The, ah, current resident’s possessions have not yet been removed.”

  Cooper brightened. “That’s excellent! I’d rather get a sense of the presence of the person who inhabited the space I’ll be living in before I move! People leave their signature on their homes, you know. Please let me spend a few moments in that apartment. I only need to stand in the heart of the unit—the living room—just as I’m doing now.”

  Both women gave Phil their most winsome smiles until the poor manager had no choice but to agree. He resumed his sales pitch as they walked down the stairs and then insisted on poking his head into the apartment before opening the door wide enough for them to enter. Cooper noted that the unit had not been sealed off by the police or, if it had, Phil had received permission to enter the apartment again. The front door bore no posted warnings and there was no sign that they’d dusted for fingerprints inside, either. They must have searched the premises and, having found nothing useful, left instructions for Phil and moved on to the next step of the investigation.

  “This resident was quite neat,” Phil said and Cooper thought she detected a hint of nervousness.

  Forgive us for deceiving this man, Cooper silently prayed and then quickly examined Miguel’s living room.

  Unlike the model apartment, Miguel’s stark white walls held no artwork. The monotone brightness was interrupted only by the presence of an enormous flat-screen television. Mounted to the right of the fireplace, it was the focal point of the room. A leather sectional was positioned so that no matter where a person was seated, one could view the screen with ease.

  The glass-topped coffee table was not used to display pictorial books or sports magazines, but was a holding area for an X-Box unit and dozens of games. The only other piece of furniture in the room held a complex stereo system and a karaoke machine. Speakers were attached on either side of the balcony doors as well as in the kitchen.

  “Could I take a quick peek down the hall?” Trish whispered as Cooper began her statue act for the second time. “I’m feeling a little unwell, but maybe if I splash some water on my face . . .”

  Nodding, Phil held out his arm and gestured toward the bedroom. As soon as he moved off, Cooper examined the contents of Miguel’s refrigerator. The produce drawer contained the rotten remains of several mangos, and the meat drawer held a pair of rib eyes that had turned a repulsive gray-brown shade. Moldy cheese, a half gallon of milk, coffee grounds, the usual condiments, and a case of Corona rounded out the contents.

  When Cooper heard a moan echo down the hall from the bedroom, she knew that Trish was initiating the part of the plan they hoped would rid them of Phil for a few minutes.

  “If I could just get some fresh air!” she cried weakly. “The chemo makes me so nauseated!”

  Trish was leaning on Phil so heavily that he could barely walk, but as the pair passed by Cooper, she closed her eyes and pretended to be completely absorbed in her psychic reading.

  Once they were safely removed to the balcony, Cooper slipped down the hall into Miguel’s bathroom. A quick look in the medicine cabinet revealed a bottle of Advil, shaving cream, aftershave, and a surprising collection of costly skin-care products.

  She hesitated until she heard Trish call out, “Thank you!” before entering Miguel’s bedroom.

  Part of her felt indecent for entering the room without an invitation. After all, the bedroom was a haven for most people. It was the place in the home that bore witness to hopes and fears, doubts and dreams. This was the space where people
talked to themselves in the mirror, hid away in times of sickness, and whispered prayers into the darkness. It was a reflection of one’s inner self and it made Cooper nervous to think that she might meet the real Miguel Ramos for the first time once she crossed the threshold.

  Miguel’s sanctuary was presided over by half a dozen posters of bikini-clad women draped erotically over the hoods of luxury cars. The furniture was a matched set—the kind found at all the giant furniture chains—consisting of a queen bed, two nightstands, and a chest of drawers. The pieces were made of dark mahogany veneer and had ornately carved skirts and feet. Another flat-screen television rested on top of the bureau and a cigar box next to the bed contained a TAG Heuer watch with diamonds on the face.

  Normally, Cooper wouldn’t have had the faintest idea of the watch’s value, but Ashley had bought Lincoln a similar timepiece for Christmas, so she knew that it sold for over three thousand dollars.

  “How could you afford this watch?” Cooper quietly accused the room. “The TVs? Steaks from Whole Foods? And the rent?”

  “Have you found anything?” Trish asked as she walked into the room. “Phil’s gone to the office to get me orange juice, but I don’t think we’ll have more than ten minutes to search.”

  “Miguel had to be living beyond his means.” Cooper opened the closet, examining the divide between Miguel’s Love Motors work shirts and a colorful array of silk button-downs, tailored slacks, and expensive leather footwear.

  Trish whistled. “He must’ve maxed out a few credit cards on this wardrobe alone. Those loafers are Moreschis. Italian leather. Cost almost two hundred and fifty dollars a pair.”