by Carly Winter
Mr. Coffee glanced at his papers. “It says here you found the body. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Could you tell me about that?”
“It should be in the report. I already told the police.”
He smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I know. I'd just like to hear it from you.”
After I gave him the rundown on the happenings of that day, I sighed and wondered how many times I'd have to repeat myself.
“You didn't notice anyone around when you came upstairs from the demonstrations?”
I tried to recall if I’d seen anyone in the hallway. “I don't think I did. I was in a hurry to get inside my apartment because of the riots out in the street. The protestors had already set a garbage can on fire in the lobby. When I arrived at the building, my super said I should get upstairs for my own safety in case it spilled inside again. I was lugging my suitcase and focused on getting home. I didn't pay attention to whether anyone was in the hallway, but I don't remember seeing a soul.”
“Okay,” he said, jotting down a few notes. “I was also wondering if you noticed anything odd in the apartment when you found him.”
I thought about Charles' place. Messy, but minimalistic. Nothing special. Maybe even drab. I couldn't recall what color his living room furniture was. “Not that I remember.”
As he looked over his papers, he tapped his pen against the file folder. I admired his crisp black suit and white shirt. Dapper was the word that came to mind.
I was also incredibly curious about the FBI, and since I had an actual G-Man sitting in my living room, I decided to ask some questions. “Does the FBI employ women?” Maybe I'd skip becoming a cop and head right for the big agency.
“Sure. We have lots of secretaries.”
“I mean in your position,” I said, rolling my eyes. The last thing I wanted was to be trapped behind a desk. “Do you have a lot of women special agents?”
Mr. Coffee shook his head. “No. The position can be very dangerous. The bureau believes women wouldn't want to arrest people or practice self-defense.”
I fisted my hand in my lap. Another man who assumed women only wanted to be married, have children, or sit behind a desk all day.
“What if one was interested in doing such things?” I asked, trying to keep my voice pleasant. “If a woman could prove herself, could she become an agent?”
“I'm not the one who decides those things,” he said. “But personally, I think having women agents would be an asset to the FBI.”
Tilting my head with a grin, I said, “And why is that?”
Mr. Coffee smiled at me. “Well, I do believe that women are just as capable as men.”
How refreshing! His charms began to grow on me. If only I could remember his name.
“Getting back to the case, the police reports note that you had a couple of people you considered suspects.”
“Well, I don't really know if they're suspects,” I said. “They asked about people I saw coming and going from the apartment. I didn't actually say I thought any of them could have killed Charles.”
“What can you tell me about Karen?” he asked. “The girlfriend.”
“Not a lot,” I said with a shrug. “I'd met her once or twice. She seemed nice enough, but I don't know if she's a murderer.”
“There's a man in here you mentioned... It says you didn't have a name but he lives downstairs? He and Charles argued a lot?”
“Yes. He's an anti-war protester. Charles was a vet. Mrs. Wilson knows him, but I can’t recall his name.”
“Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes. She lives on the other side of Charles.”
“And you're friends with Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes. We actually drank wine together yesterday while discussing the murder.”
“Okay,” he said, shoving papers into the file folder and closing it. “I know your ankle is hurt, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming next door with me to take a look at the apartment.”
A chill ran down my spine as I considered entering the space once again. “Why do you need me to do that?”
“I wanted you to take a look around with me, to see if you noticed anything strange or out of place.”
At first, my reaction was no, but then I thought about it. I would be taking steps to find the killer and the sooner he or she was apprehended, the safer I'd feel.
“I'd be happy to,” I said, standing as he also rose and handed me the crutches.
“How's the foot?” he asked.
“It's not too bad,” I replied. “I think I'll be up and around in a few days.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
As we exited my apartment into the hallway, he opened the door for me, then shut it behind us. After fishing out a set of keys from his pocket, he unlocked Charles' apartment and a blast of stale air tinged with a slight coppery smell smacked us in the face. It didn't seem to faze him as he stepped inside, and I decided to follow his lead. If I wanted to be taken seriously as a potential FBI agent, I better start acting like one.
They called people who worked with the agency G-Men. If I were able to secure a special agent position, would that make me a G-Woman?
First things first. The apartment.
I paused once inside and studied every nook I could see. A wooden kitchen table sat to my right with a few papers neatly stacked on top of it. But instead of four chairs surrounding it, there were only three. I glanced around, searching for the missing seat, but couldn't find it. Perhaps it had been destroyed during Claudia's rampage Mrs. Wilson had mentioned.
The mustard yellow couch, looking worn and heavily used, faced the television. The carpet, a busy gold and brown pattern, had also seen better days and required a vacuum. Overall, the living space was somewhat tidy but in need of a cleaning—what I would expect from a man living alone.
“See anything out of place?”
I shook my head and crutched into the kitchen, promising myself I'd pay more attention to detail wherever I went in the future.
A couple of dirty dishes sat in the sink, including the pan with the burnt soup, and a few more were on the counter, drying.
“This smelled horrible when I first walked in,” I said. “I was glad it hadn't caught fire.”
“If you hadn't come in when you did, it may have. Then there'd be a lot more people hurt, or even dead. You potentially saved lives by entering.”
I nodded, not feeling so awful anymore about coming in uninvited.
“Anything in here?” he asked.
Shaking my head, I realized I rarely left the entry when dropping off or picking up Ringo. I moved to the back bedroom and bit my tongue when I saw the bloodstain on the carpet. The image of Charles lying there played before my eyes clearly, as if he was still there.
Moving my gaze, I glanced at the unmade bed and bare nightstand. With the dusty outline, it looked like something belonged there but had been moved.
“What was there?” I asked, pointing to the spot.
Mr. Coffee opened the folder and pulled out the report. “Apparently, Mr. Bernard had a box there filled with marijuana cigarettes and bags of the substance.”
“For his nightmares,” I mumbled.
“I'm sorry?”
“I found out he had nightmares,” I said.
“Who told you that?”
I turned to Mr. Coffee. “His friend, Wayne. He came by yesterday and said Charles owed him money and he wanted to collect.”
He quickly shuffled through the papers, running his finger down each one, his lips moving as he went. “I don't see anything in here about anyone named Wayne.”
“I didn't know about him until after the police left.”
Glancing around the bedroom once again, sadness washed over me. It had been a horrible way to die and I wanted to bring Charles' killer to justice.
“Does Wayne have a last name?” Mr. Coffee asked.
“I’m sure he does, but I don't know it,” I repl
ied with a shrug. “I do have his phone number.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I'll need to get that from you.”
It was then that I realized I had information the authorities didn't, and it gave me an advantage. I glanced over at the G-Man and gave him my sweetest smile. “I'd like to help you in this investigation.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. I can arrange for us to meet Wayne.”
“It may be dangerous, Ms. Byrne. I couldn't put you in harm's way.”
“Don't you worry about me,” I dismissed. “And honestly, I'm not giving you a choice. I want to find Charles' killer. It's important to me. You promise to let me tag along and I'll introduce you to everyone I know who could be involved. I promise you, Wayne will run for the hills if he sees you coming.”
“And why is that?”
“Let's just say he deals in some illegal activities.”
Mr. Coffee raised an eyebrow. “And you, Ms. Byrne? Are there any illegal activities I should be aware of?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “I'm just a stewardess.”
“Who seems to want to be an FBI agent.”
“It's crossed my mind,” I said.
“May I call you Patty?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Patty, if I'm going to consider you assisting me in this investigation, I think we should become better acquainted. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?”
Chapter 9
As I carefully applied my black eyeliner, I still struggled to remember Mr. Coffee's real name. Some FBI agent I'd be, running around, never able to recall the names of those I spoke to except for the stupid nicknames I gave them.
I interviewed Mr. Weasel Face and Mr. Vodka, sir. I think they're guilty. No, I don't recall their names.
That would go over really well with those in charge.
With a sigh, I ran my hand over my black bob and patted the ends to make sure the curl stayed in place. I had to admit, even with the scratches on my chin, I was having an excellent day in the looks department. My thick, soft, silky hair had curled to perfection and my makeup brought out the blue in my eyes. The drop waist yellow dress flattered my figure and also clashed with my black hair in a dramatic way.
As I studied my reflection, I decided I had two objectives for the evening: first, find out his name and remember the dang thing, and second, uncover why the FBI was interested in my neighbor's death. I didn't want to diminish Charles' early demise, but I didn't see it as being important enough for the FBI to bring out an investigator from Texas.
A knock sounded at the door promptly at six. I grabbed my crutches and hurried over to answer it. Mr. Coffee grinned at me from the threshold.
Dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a tan trench coat with a matching fedora, he reminded me of the spies on television. Except he may be a little more handsome.
“Are you ready, or should I run down and tell the cab we'll be a minute or two?”
“I'm all set,” I said, grabbing my gray overcoat and matching purse from the back of the kitchen chair.
“Excellent,” he replied, helping me to slip into my coat. “I bribed a kid with a nickel to hold the elevator for us.”
“How thoughtful,” I said, smiling and meeting his gaze. “That thing takes forever.”
“I figured as much. They always do in these old buildings.”
Thankfully, I'd worn low heels to help keep my balance and prevent my chin from hitting any more floors.
Mr. Coffee stayed by my side as we made our way down the hallway to the boy leaning on the elevator door to prop it open. A cute little towheaded fella, about ten years old, who I recognized from a family living on the first floor.
“Thanks, kid,” Mr. Coffee said, flipping him the coin. “Appreciate your help.”
As we rode down to the main floor, I tried to think of a way I could broach the subject of me not remembering his name without sounding too ridiculous. I decided the direct approach would be best, even though it was probably the most absurd tactic.
“I have something quite embarrassing to ask you,” I said, turning to him.
“There aren't any bad questions, Patty. What do you want to know?”
“What is your name?”
He stared at me a moment, his gaze narrowed as if he was trying to figure out if I was being honest. “Bill Hart.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing up at the numbers. With how slow the elevator traveled, one would think we had far more than three floors to descend. “I could only recall the nickname I gave you.”
“Mr. Coffee?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Pursing my lips together, I lifted my chin and tried to remain dignified even though I felt like a silly little girl as he chuckled at my side.
“Just for future reference, it's probably not a good idea to accept a dinner date from a man whose name you don't remember,” he said.
“Duly noted, Bill. Duly noted.”
The doors slid open and we stepped out into the lobby. I glanced over at Nice Bill and smiled. With a grin, he opened the front door, from where I spotted the waiting cab at the curb.
“Where are we going?” I asked once we were situated. It had started to rain and the ping, ping, ping of the drops on the roof made for quite the racket.
“A steakhouse just down the street here. Have you ever been there?”
I shook my head. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to afford a meal at that place on my salary, nor had anyone I'd dated.
“My colleagues told me it's quite good,” Bill continued. “That's one thing I miss when I'm away from home—a good steak.”
The cab pulled over and Bill helped me from the backseat. The rain fell, and neither of us had bothered to bring an umbrella. Hopefully my eyeliner would stay in place and my hair wouldn't become too much of a mess.
Once inside, he removed his coat, helped me out of mine, and gave both to the woman at the coat check. He sighed as we were seated, as if relieved we'd finally made it to our destination.
White tablecloths covered every table and the lighting was quite dim. Definitely a restaurant for lovers, and I suddenly felt very out of place dining with Special Agent Bill Hart. I'd just learned his name, so I hoped he didn't think he'd be coming home with me after our meal.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“A glass of white wine would be lovely.”
I marveled at the menu as the waiter came over and Bill ordered for us. Five dollars and ninety-five cents for a steak and potato! A pound of meat at the grocery store was right around ninety cents! A high-end eating establishment, indeed.
“Do you take all the people involved in your investigations to such nice restaurants?” I asked after we'd placed our orders and our drinks arrived.
“Only the pretty ones,” he said with a wink, then sipped his gin and tonic.
My cheeks heated as I drank my wine. Admittedly, I loved compliments so I took a moment to bathe in his. “Tell me about yourself, Special Agent Bill Hart from Texas.”
“Born and bred there,” he said. “On a farm just outside Dallas.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“Two of each. I'm the oldest.”
“And why did you want to become an FBI agent?”
“Well, I used to play cops and robbers when I was little. I hated being the robber. My whole life, I've wanted to catch the bad guys, so the FBI seemed the best way to do it.”
“Why not a police officer?” I asked.
“I shot for the stars,” he replied. “I wanted big things for myself.”
Why bother telling him that I also wanted big things for myself, but wasn't afforded the same opportunity as him?
“What about you, Patricia Byrne, stewardess extraordinaire? Where are you from?”
“My father was in sales, so I'm from a lot of places. We moved every couple of years, but I was born in New Jersey.”
“Br
others and sisters?”
“I have one sister. She’s older and married.”
“Are you close with your family?”
As the waiter set down a basket of bread, I considered the question. Perhaps at one time I would have been able to answer with an unequivocal yes, but not now. “We used to be, but they don't... they don't like my job.”
“Ah,” he said. “And what made you want to become a stewardess?”
“I wanted to see the world,” I said with a shrug. “I'm just not cut out for teaching or being stuck behind a desk, and college wasn't an option for me. I'm also not ready for a family and children. Maybe one day, but not now.”
“Interesting. Most women your age are very interested in starting a family. What did your parents say when you told them you wanted to become a stewardess?”
That day was so fresh in my mind, and I felt physically sick whenever I thought about it. The screaming, the tears, the disappointment in their gazes... it all washed over me in one huge wave a guilt. “They weren't happy,” I said, picking up a roll and taking a sip of wine. Who wanted to discuss such depressing things? Certainly, not me. Time to change the subject. “And what about your family? How did they react to you becoming an FBI agent?”
I imagined they'd be thrilled and very proud.
“They were pretty upset,” he said. “The ranch has been in my family for generations and my parents thought they'd pass it to me since I’m the oldest, but the truth is, I hate ranching.”
Both of us had disappointed our families by going our own way instead of down the path they thought best for us. “Maybe one of the younger children can take it over,” I offered.
“I'm sure they will, but that doesn't alleviate any of the grief I caused.”
The conversation came easily as we waited for our dinner. By the time my steak arrived, I was famished and almost forgot the second item on my agenda: why was the FBI bringing in an agent from Dallas to investigate my neighbor's murder?
“This almost tastes as good as back home,” he said, slicing his steak into pieces. “Are you enjoying yours?”
“Very much so,” I replied, even though I secretly worried about the calories. Girdles were bad enough to wear, but girdles that held in too many meals were the worst. The pinching and squeezing could become unbearable. Yet, I cleaned my plate. At those prices, I wouldn't leave one speck of food. I didn't want him to think of me as unappreciative.