I gently pried the phone from his fingers. “She’ll call back,” I promised, not knowing what else to say. “Eventually.”
“I can’t believe that they would do that to her,” Rory growled, his voice muffled by his hands, which were covering his face tightly. “I’m calling over there. I want to know who is in charge. I want to know what kind of people they’re hiring to work in a women’s containment facility.”
“Would you listen to yourself?” I asked gently. “No one over there is going to help you — at least, not yet. She’s not even enrolled in the system yet, really.”
“Haven’t you ever seen prison shows? It’s going to take weeks before she’s more than just a number,” Carly interjected.
“But she’s Addison Dawes!” Rory cried.
“That doesn’t matter in there,” I assured him.
“But-”
“I think,” said Mika, gently interjecting in that way he sweetly does, “that we would all be better equipped to discuss this after we’ve had some rest. It has been a long day.”
“I agree,” said Carly, standing to stretch.
“We meet for breakfast then,” Rory said. “Early. I want to get a head start on finding new evidence. He was telling you something by giving you those tapes, Marian. I know he was.”
The rest of us looked at one another warily. We hadn’t been able to turn up anything before now and Ricardo was just being kind. While we had no reason to believe tomorrow would be different, no one was about to break the news to Rory. “Should we take the computer?” I whispered to Mika as he walked Carly and I to the door. “I don’t want him pouring over it all night, you know? He needs rest.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Mika promised, squeezing my shoulder. “You ladies get some sleep.”
The next morning, after breakfast, we finally decided to risk going to our respective homes. Fred, my betta fish, hadn’t been fed in a few days. Additionally, I’d long forgotten about the half-filled to-go containers I’d left on my kitchen counter the morning of Carmen’s murder. I obviously had been distracted the afternoon prior to Carmen’s shoot, though I had fully intended to clean up and toss the trash later in the evening. As it turned out, I hadn’t returned home.
Thankfully, the media storm seemed to have slowed to a dull roar. At least it had in the matter of home privacy. That, or they were all camped out back at the main entrance of the hotel. I’d managed to drop off both Carly and Mika without a huge production.
As we approached Rory’s apartment, however, it became clear that a few media outlets hadn’t totally given up on the two of us. They all stopped chattering as my rusty, green Suburban approached the main entrance. My windows were tinted but everyone had somehow gotten word that this was my vehicle. Several of them crouched and squinted, trying to view the interior as I slowed to a squeaky roll. “You can come to my place if you want,” I suggested, glaring at the reporters. My look was wasted. They couldn’t see me.
Rory laughed bitterly. “You think your place is going to be better? I’ll bet you my Audi that you have more reporters standing around outside your place than I do.” He sighed as the SUV jerked to a stop, just barely avoiding a reporter who was brazen enough to check if he could see through the windshield. He couldn’t. “No, it’s fine. We have to face the music sooner or later, don’t we?” With that, he set his jaw determinedly, shoved his passenger side door open, and was immediately swallowed by the crowd in the way that the violent ocean would swallow a small ship.
I felt bad driving away, but what could I do? I watched the crowd through the tinted windows until Rory made it inside. At that point, every single reporter turned and stared at me. A flock of vultures. I refused to be their kill. I checked to make sure no one was standing in front of my vehicle before stomping on the gas pedal, successfully squealing away. If nothing else, I hoped the smell of burning rubber was enough to irritate even just a small handful of those I’d left in the dust.
Back home, I circled the block before satisfying myself that the only gaggle of reporters stood waiting by the front doors of my apartment building. That, I could manage. I parked on the street over a block away and quickly, quietly made my way to the sturdy brick structure that I called home. Glancing left and right, I made sure no one had seen me approach the backside of the apartment complex before scurrying over to the fire escape. It was a lot of stairs but it was going to be worth it. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
When I finally made it to the ninth floor, I tottered across the platform, careful not to peek below me. Heights were one of my biggest fears and the last thing that I wanted was to freeze in place. I slid my way to the third set of windows and tried to lift them, but nothing happened. “You know you have to unlock them,” hollered an old, gravelly voice. I spun to angrily shush whoever was drawing so much attention to us, but stopped short when I noticed my neighbor, Mr. Hanley leaning out his window.
Mr. Hanley is 73 years old, deaf in his left ear and somewhat blind. His gold cane, which looks like something a pimp would own, was hooked over the windowsill. “Mr. Hanley!” I cried, hurrying to the fourth set of windows. “How did you know I was out here?”
“Made so much noise, I’m surprised no one else did,” he grumbled. I found this an odd thing for someone as deaf as he was to say – perhaps he’d felt the vibrations or something. “Are you the reason all those idiots are camped out downstairs? They’re a nuisance!” He picked up his cane and shook it at me for good measure, before turning to pull himself back inside.
“Mr. Hanley!” I said quickly, catching his window just as he began to close it. He looked questioningly at my hand before turning his gaze to meet mine. I chuckled nervously and pulled my hand from the sill quickly, as though it were on fire. “Mr. Hanley,” I repeated, slower and sweeter. “Would you mind if I just came in through your place? It would be so much easier than going back downstairs.”
“It would be so much easier if you just used the front door like a normal person,” he grumbled, not moving. I felt my smile freeze into place. After a few seconds of stare down, Mr. Hanley’s head lolled backward and he made a grand gesture, inviting me to climb through his window. Delighted, I struggled through as gracefully as possible, only to trip over his cane and face plant into an ornate oriental rug spread across the hardwood floor.
I’d never been inside Mr. Hanley’s apartment. I was pretty sure no one on the face of the planet had. As I pushed myself up, I nearly stopped short as I took in the mausoleum that was his home. It wasn’t crowded by any means, no. Still, everything that was inside had an air of exotic and fragile. Brass candlestick holders covered in a variety of waxen colors from years of use. Jade elephant tables that each held large, overflowing green plants and bursting flowers. An ornate wooden cabinet filled with Japanese fans, crystal figurines and hand-painted plates. A beautiful handwoven tapestry hung from the wall. “Is-is this all yours?” I stammered as Mr. Hanley gave me a hand up.
“You’re in my apartment, aren’t you?” he snapped.
“Yes, I just meant- well, where did it all come from? It’s so beautiful.” If I wasn’t mistaken, a soft blush began to rise on his cheeks. I decided to keep going, hoping to smooth over his mood, which seemed perpetually poor. “Did you pick all of it out? You have very good taste.”
“The late Mrs. Hanley,” he answered, limping over to his kitchen table, which was a gorgeous oriental themed piece, topped with thick glass. “We’d been almost all over the world.”
I’d never heard any of this before and found myself suddenly fascinated. “For pleasure?”
He shook his head. “I used to fly for the Air Force,” he responded wistfully, suddenly daydreaming of another time and place. “We were moved to another city every few years back in my prime — quite a few Asian countries. We found most of these knick-knacks in open-air markets. Moved out of our big house about 15 years ago and I just couldn’t get June to part with most of it.” He cleared his throat, which
had become thick with emotion. “Kind of cramped in here.”
I shook my head. “I don’t feel like that.”
“It’s ah- not too cluttered for you?”
I eyed the tapestry on the wall and longed to stroke it. It looked softer and finer than anything I’d ever owned in my life. “Nope.”
We stood in silence for a few moments before Mr. Hanley straightened himself and made a beeline for his front door. Opening it, he gestured with his cane that I was to exit. Before closing the door loudly behind me, he quickly stammered, “I always have tea at two in the afternoon if you’re ever interested in joining me.”
The breeze from the rapidly closed door sent goosebumps flying up my arms. Hitching my purse up a little higher on my shoulder, I smiled and made my way down to my own door. Letting myself in, I looked around quickly and, noticing nothing out of place, sighed with relief. “Hey Fred,” I muttered, stepping towards the betta’s bowl. “How about a pinch of breakfast?”
After a long, hot shower in my own bathroom, I slipped into my favorite pair of old flannel pajamas and strode into the kitchen. Warily, I opened the fridge, unsure of what I’d left to sit for the last few days. I was a terrible housekeeper and the leftover boxes that were still strung out on the counter were solid evidence. My kitchen smelled like a mixture of dried out fried rice and pizza sauce. Thankfully, nothing had grown a pair of fuzzy legs and was struggling to escape. Quickly, I grabbed a block of gouda cheese from the refrigerator shelf and pulled a box of wheat crackers from a kitchen cabinet. Next, I popped open a bottle of red wine and, not bothering to pour it into a glass, carried all of my loot plus a butter knife with me to the living room, where I gracelessly fell into the couch. It was 5 o’clock somewhere. “Don’t look at me like that,” I said to Fred, who had paused swimming back and forth to stare at me in what appeared to be a rather judgmental manner. I was just about to tell him off when my cell phone began to ring. I’d remembered to plug it in just before I had hit the shower.
With a sigh, I dropped everything onto the narrow coffee table and stood slowly to head back to the kitchen, where my phone was hooked up and nearly halfway charged. On the last ring, I answered with a breathless “hello?”
“Run a marathon, Em?”
I chuckled and, unplugging my device, carried the phone back to my living room where I sank to the wooden floor, momentarily envious that I didn’t have the gorgeous rug that adorned Mr. Hanley’s floor. “I really need to become a better decorator,” I told Carly.
“Say what?”
“Decorating. My taste is so…plain.” I’d tried my hand at sprucing my place up not so long ago. A large area rug and the dark brown velvet curtains that hung across my large picture windows were evidence of my efforts. However, I hadn’t made any new additions to the apartment in quite a few weeks. Pillows and decorative blankets just never popped to mind when I was out and about.
Now it was Carly’s turn to chuckle. “I promise you that nothing is worse than my place. Apartments built in the ’80s. Very utilitarian and I haven’t even bothered to paint the walls.”
“Yeah, but you’re a cop,” I tossed back. “I’m a photographer. I feel like people expect me to be a good decorator.”
“Naturally.”
“So, what’s up, Buttercup? Couldn’t stand to be without the sound of my voice longer than an hour?”
“Actually, did we officially decide to go back to the hotel tonight?”
“I don’t think there was a confirmation one way or the other. Though, I suppose I assumed we would.”
“It’s just that I’m really liking being in my own place. Sitting on my own couch. Eating something that hasn’t been prepared by a professional chef or dropped in a vat of grease.”
I looked at the bottle of wine, still sitting on the table, taking in air. I longed for a nice, long sip. “I hear that.”
“How crazy was it to get into your apartment?”
“Not too crazy.” I stretched and scratched the top of my head. “I did climb up the fire escape, though and-” I stopped short and gasped, nearly dropping my phone as a memory came rushing back to me. My dream.
“Em? Marian? Are you there? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“The fire escape,” I repeated.
“Right. You climbed up the fire escape to get inside your apartment. How lucky are you that you leave your windows unlocked? Smart girl.”
“No!” I cried. “The fire escape. At Carmen’s hotel. What if the window really was open and that was the breeze that moved Addison’s hair? Someone came in off the fire escape, killed her, and then left so quickly they forgot to shut the window!”
I could feel Carly’s hesitation. “I don’t know, Em. Don’t you think that if a window had been open, it would have been a red flag for the cops? Bit of a long shot.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time we dealt with crooked cops,” I assured her.
“Hasn’t that been the case the last two times with you?”
“All the more reason to look into it,” I assured her. “We need to find out who the first responders were.”
“Didn’t you make it there just behind them? The only people you missed were the EMTs, right?”
I paused. She was right. “Yeah, but the only one I’ve worked with before was Kip. I recognized the other two, but I don’t actually know them.”
“That’s not enough to-”
“I know,” I sighed, cutting her off. “You’re right, it’s probably a stupid idea anyway.”
“Not stupid,” she assured me, not really sounding like she believed it much herself. “Just not exactly plausible, I guess. If someone had closed a window, I feel like you were there shortly after the cops. Either you would have seen it or Addison would have mentioned it. Something.”
“Probably better that I’m a crime scene photographer rather than a detective. I wish I could get my hands on those photos from the scene. Have a chance to study the blood patterns.”
I could practically hear Carly shudder. “That’s gross.”
“Blood patterns explain a lot,” I assured her. “Crime of passion, crime of crazy — the list goes on. The weapon too. The fact that it was a knife speaks volumes. I think it was someone she knew. Very well.”
“Well, you never know. You may yet get to those photos. It wouldn’t be the first time the odds worked in your favor on a case you were determined to solve.”
“I suppose.”
There was a long silence before Carly interrupted my contemplation. “I’d like to plan on not going back to the hotel. At least, not tonight.”
I shuddered, thinking of the media storm that awaited me downstairs, just outside the main doors. In fact, I was partial to using the fire escape again. “I’m just fine if I don’t leave my apartment again until this whole mess is over.”
“You can always stay here if you get lonely or fed up with the reporters. It’s not bad out front, as you may recall, and I have a futon.”
“No, because that will just make a mess of your apartment lobby.”
“True. Stay where you are,” she laughed.
“Touch base tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow,” I promised. “Will you call Rory and let him know?”
I’d hung up with Carly, but still had a nagging hunch that the fire escape idea required further investigation. I seemed to have an ally in Ricardo and decided to see how far I could stretch his generosity on my behalf. It was a favor I’d gladly return one day, if his need ever arose. His number was tucked away in my phone, the only “R” in my contact app (Rory was saved under “Kid” while Janet’s husband, Rob was saved under “J2”). I’d never actually called Ricardo before, I realized, and I found myself incredibly nervous to dial. After a few swigs of wine, I finally bit the bullet. As the line rang, I began to worry that I’d made a mistake. Perhaps I shouldn’t be putting him in this position. He had, after all, already gotten me the security tapes. Asking for much more would seem greedy, wouldn
’t it?
Just as I was preparing to hang up, he answered. “Hi there, Joelle!” he crowed. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Joelle?” I asked confused. “This is-”
“I know, I can’t believe how long it has been either. Time really is unforgiving. Hey, hold on a minute, would you? I’m stepping out for a coffee and my reception gets a little sketchy in the elevator. If I lose you, I’ll call you back.”
I understood. Shut up. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until he came back on the line. “I think we’re safe now. What’s up?”
“I-” I started, but stopped. I’d dealt with my fair share of crooked cops. What if he was buttering me up only to stab me in the back later on?
“Marian?” he asked gently.
“I-” I stammered again, my words failing. Thankfully, he mistook this as nerves more than a change of heart.
“Look, I know. I get it. I’ll get you what I can up until the chief figures out what I’m doing. Then we’re both in trouble. Meet me. Coffee shop by the lake. Tomorrow at four.”
I nodded, because it was all I could do, and then hung up the phone. Surely nothing bad could happen to me in a place as crowded as the lakeside coffee shop. Businessmen and women, college students, moms, dads, young professionals, people of every shape, size, color and creed would be there. No, if Ricardo were after my friends or me, he’d have arranged a much more private meeting.
After the call ended, I found my brain wandering back to the fire escape. Bothered, I reached out to Mika. “I need that footage Ricardo shared with us,” I said as soon as he picked up.
“What? Now?”
“Yes, right now. Can you email it?”
“What if someone intercepts it and it gets into the wrong hands?”
“Are you joking? This isn’t the SciFi channel.”
“I’m serious. A lot of people would pay good money for these tapes right now.”
“Well, I’m not leaving my apartment. There are about 50 reporters just waiting for me right outside the lobby.”
Alllison Janda - Marian Moyer 03 - Scandal, Temptation & a Taste of Flan Page 11