by J. C. Long
“You mean it isn’t anything like Magnum, PI?” I gasped mockingly. “If it’s not, don’t shatter the illusion, please!”
Grace muttered something under her breath and got out of the Jeep. When I got out, she was standing in front of the Jeep, staring at something. “What? What’s wrong? Look, if you’re waiting for me to make an admiring comment about the place, don’t push your luck. You’ve heard all the nice things I—”
“Shut up, ass. The door is open.” Grace pointed to the shop’s front door, which was indeed hanging open, thrown wide by someone. It was one of those doors that was designed to close automatically, driven by weight, so it would have had to have been thrown open with a lot of force to break it that way.
“Maybe one of your coworkers is here?”
Grace looked around. “I guess so—there’s Carrie’s car over there.” She pointed to a red Mini Cooper. “I don’t know why she would leave the door open, though. Well, come on, you can meet my partner today, too. You’re really lucky.”
I followed Grace inside, looking around. I had to admire the décor, even if the place left something to be desired. Going through the door, a desk sat directly before me, an open door to its right. Beyond the door was a hallway of some sort, from the looks of it, but it was dark. Behind me and to the left was a small rack like you find filled with paperbacks at a book store, filled with brochures offering various services and describing the PI process. To my right was a long leather sofa—not one bought secondhand, either, judging by the great condition it was in.
Grace went straight for the open door next to the desk. “Carrie? You back here?” She flipped a light switch as she went through, illuminating the short hallway.
There were four doors, two on either side. The farthest door on the right was marked with a sign indicating the bathroom. The doors closest to me on either side had plaques, one with Grace’s name, one with her partner’s.
The door to Carrie’s office stood ajar, though no light came from it. If she was in there, she had the light off. There was no way the office had a window, so that wouldn’t make sense, unless she was taking a nap. Something about the situation put me on edge.
Grace walked to the door, rapping her knuckles against it three times. “Carrie? Is everything okay?” When no answer came, she pushed the door open, and stuck her hand inside, no doubt feeling along the wall for the switch. When the light came on, Grace let out a horrified gasp.
I hurried to her side, peering into the room. The state of it shocked me. Books lay scattered everywhere, a filing cabinet’s drawers were pulled out and emptied onto the floor, as were the desk drawers. Somebody searched for something in there, and they left no stone unturned.
“What the hell?” I muttered, taking it all in. I didn’t see it on my first scan of the room, but when my eyes swept by a second time they fell on what must have drawn such a reaction from Grace.
The leg of a woman, splayed out on the ground, disappearing behind the desk.
I crept slowly closer, heart pounding in my chest, roaring loud enough in my ears to drown out all other sounds. Bit by bit the woman’s form came into sight over the edge of the desk. Sensible sneakers for the type of job she did, sturdy denim jeans, a button-down shirt, blonde hair falling over her face, coated with—
“Grace,” I said, voice sounding thick and strange to my own ears, “call the police.”
Chapter Three
Grace never was one to do what someone says without seeing for herself that there was a reason for it; why should this be any different? She came to stand next to me, starting to put her hands on the corner of the desk for leverage as she peered down, but I stopped her. A single shake of my head was enough to communicate my message of don’t touch anything, which was good, because words didn’t seem willing to come at the moment.
Carrie’s prone form lay on its right side, and her hair covered the left side of her face, clinging to the skin and matted there by what looked to be a lot of blood congealing in her hair. Some also trickled down the back of her neck onto the floor. I felt like I was looking down on the scene through some sort of weird lens, a filter my brain created to separate me from the grim reality before me.
Grace let out a strange, half-swallowed cry and moved for Carrie, but I caught her in my arms. “Grace, Grace you can’t,” I said soothingly, holding her tighter as she struggled to get free. “You can’t touch her or anything. We need to call the police; we need to get them here. Grace, listen to me!”
The sudden sharpness in my voice must have penetrated Grace’s stricken mind. She stopped struggling, going limp in my arms instead. I carried her out to the front of the office, helping her sit down on the leather sofa.
“Listen to me, Grace, you’ve got to call the police, okay? I don’t know the address to tell them.”
It took a bit more coaxing, but Grace finally got herself together and placed the phone call. That done, she got up and started to pace, repeatedly running her hand through her hair.
“Who could have done this to her? Why? Why?” I knew the questions weren’t for me, so I said nothing, just watched her, feeling numb, the filter still firmly in place. I had never seen something like that before. Though I was no doctor, I had looked closely to see any signs that Carrie was breathing. Her back didn’t move, nor did her hair flutter like it should have at any exhalations.
I’d just seen my first dead body, and the thought threatened to undo me. Now that Grace was taken care of, I felt myself racing toward that same mental cliff she’d stood on. What did one do in this situation? Other than call the cops, I mean? We’d done that, and now we were to wait there—but how could we possibly wait comfortably knowing what was in the other room? It was a form of psychological torture, almost.
“They were looking for something.” Grace’s pronouncement was loud and assured, drawing me back from that looming edge, just a little. “They destroyed the office because they were trying to find something.”
I had to clear my throat several times before I could force words to come. “Makes sense, and explains the mess. But what would they have been looking for here?”
Somewhere in the distance, I heard the droning approach of police sirens.
The question gave Grace pause. “I don’t know.”
I sat down on the arm of the leather sofa, right leg tapping. I was aware of it, but completely unable to stop it; the nervous tic had been with me pretty much all of my life. The talking, the questions, it helped me keep my mind away from the back room, so I decided to keep it going.
“Did Carrie make any enemies? I mean, this job probably leaves a lot of people disgruntled, right?”
Grace snorted, the first indication of her typical mannerisms emerging through the haze. “I honestly can’t think of a case that would lead to this.” Grace gestured wildly toward the office behind them, a shudder running visibly through her. “The most disgruntled person I ever met came from a case we worked, trying to find out who was stealing food from a church food pantry. I don’t think the seventy-three-year-old woman responsible held enough of a grudge to come after Carrie.”
I fell silent then, unsure what else I could say. The flashing blue and red of the police sirens bathed the room through the window behind me, saving me the trouble of keeping Grace’s mind—and my own—occupied. I stood and walked next to Grace, slipping an arm around her shoulder, squeezing to show my support.
A black sedan sped to a stop in front of the shop, followed by three patrol cars and an ambulance. I walked to the door to lead the cops inside and stopped short. I could feel my eyes bugging out of my head, but it was an appropriate reaction, considering the man climbing from behind the wheel of the car.
Maka.
My new neighbor was a cop. For some reason the sight of him struck me dumb. It made me feel somewhat better to see the same thing happen to him. We locked eyes, and he stumbled a bit, his own surprise clear in the small “O” his mouth made. He regained his composure faster than I
did, though, probably because of his profession.
Maka’s partner followed behind him. He was a beefy man, even beefier than Maka, though his girth was much less muscle and more beer, by the looks of it. He was a white guy, his hair dark brown and starting to gray. Unlike Maka he wore a suit, though it did not fit him well, and there was a stain on his shirt.
I recovered my wits as Maka reached the door, pulling it open and stepping aside for them to come in, followed by the other officers.
“What are you doing here?” Maka demanded as soon as he was through the door. His accusatory tone took me aback. He was angry at me for being here? We’d spoken for all of two minutes, and he was angry at me for showing up at a crime scene? I guess I could understand the surprise, but the anger was unexpected and left me confused.
“You know this guy?” Maka’s partner asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“No,” I said just as Maka said “Yes.”
“He’s my neighbor,” Maka said.
“But we just met today,” I explained, ignoring the look of realization on Grace’s face. “We only spoke for a minute.”
The partner looked between us for a moment. “Let’s try to keep it professional, yeah? I’m Detective Benet; this is Detective Kekoa. We’re with Honolulu PD. We got a call from here about an incident of some sort.”
“So why are you here?” Maka repeated. His tone still had the reproach from earlier that I couldn’t figure out.
I bristled a bit. “Uh, my friend works here. That’s why I’m here.” I pointed to Grace. “She, I mean. She works here.”
“Tell them about the body,” Grace interrupted, her voice low, but teetering once more near the edge of hysterics.
It was a sobering reminder of why they were there. After that, Maka became all business. “Where?”
“In the first office on the left, through there. I’ll show you.”
“No,” Benet interrupted. “You stay out here. I’m sure you contaminated the crime scene enough already. You can give your report to one of the uniformed officers.”
Well. What a charming man. Sure, our inadvertent presence there, before we knew it was a crime scene, might have contaminated it a little, but I’d made sure neither Grace nor I touched anything.
Benet went into the back, Maka following behind him. Two EMTs hurried after them, one of them carrying what looked like a heavy duffel bag.
“That’s your neighbor?” Grace asked when they were out of sight. “Jesus.”
I didn’t really feel like discussing him right then; it seemed unimportant, given the circumstances. Thankfully I didn’t have to. The uniformed cops came up to us, leading Grace outside and me into one of the corners of the room far from the door, asking us to give a report of our day leading up to their arrival. The separation was probably to ensure that our stories matched without us overhearing what the other person said. I couldn’t help worry about Grace’s mental state at the moment.
The officer asking me questions was a young lady of Chinese descent, her hair long, pulled back into a ponytail that flowed out from beneath her hat. She had a small mole beneath her left eye that kept drawing my attention as she asked me questions, and I had to force myself to keep eye contact and not stare at it.
I walked her through the details of my day—minus the masturbating in the shower, because she really didn’t need to know about that—at least three times, and each time she interrupted me to ask different questions.
“And what time did the moving company leave exactly?”
“Do you have the name of the movers that we can contact for verification?”
“Do you recall the name of your waiter?”
Things got really interesting when she started asking about Grace’s partner.
“Did you ever meet Carrie Lange?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve only been in town a short time and haven’t met many people.” I looked over to the door where a CSI team was dusting for fingerprints. “Uh, I touched that door to open it for the cops.”
“We’ll keep that in mind. I’ve just got a few more questions, please. Can you vouch for the whereabouts of your friend from this morning until the time you met?”
I blinked, confused. “My friend? You mean Grace? She was—that is, she had a case today. She told me she was staking out a lady’s yard to get photographs. Why?”
“So you can’t actually say with any certainty exactly where she was?”
Something in my stomach gave a queasy lurch. I didn’t like where any of this seemed to be heading. “Listen, Officer, I don’t know what you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying anything, sir, I’m just asking questions.”
The officer’s calmness only served to irritate me more for some reason. “Well, your questions seem to be going down a specific path that I can tell you right now is ridiculous.”
The officer didn’t so much as blink. “What path would that be, sir?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again. The officer was baiting me, trying to see what I was thinking—because if I could think it, then it couldn’t be a far stretch. But I couldn’t think it, so they were out of luck.
When the questioning finished, the officer told me to stay where I was, that the detectives would probably need me again. Grace joined me a few minutes later, looking exhausted.
“We call it in and get bombarded with insinuating questions,” she grumbled, arms crossed over her chest, glowering at the collection of cops and investigators. “Should have just left it for Peter to find in the morning.”
“Who’s Peter?” I asked, more to distract her than because I cared. I couldn’t bring myself to really care about anything.
“The secretary who works for us. We wouldn’t even be here if I’d just managed to take the photos to Peter while he was still here, instead of going home before lunch.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You went home before lunch? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Yeah, I wanted to change out of the clothes I’d been wearing in the hot car all day.” Grace narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s with that face?”
“What face? I don’t have a face—this is just my…face.” I looked away from her, feeling guilty for the brief flash of doubt. Grace didn’t press the matter, though I didn’t know if it was because she could see I was uncomfortable or because she didn’t want to know what I might have been thinking.
As we waited impatiently the two EMTs emerged once again, talking in low voices, and went right out the door.
Grace watched their progress. “Why aren’t they going to get a stretcher? They’re driving off. Why didn’t they take Carrie with them?”
I didn’t say what I really wanted to: that obviously Carrie was already dead and had been since before we found her. It looked like Grace was barely holding on to her sanity as it was, and that might knock her off the precarious ledge.
Besides, she would find out soon enough.
Benet and Maka emerged from the offices ten minutes later, both of their faces grim.
Grace strode over to them, me right behind her. “What happened to her?”
“It looks like blunt force head trauma,” said Maka, “but we’ll have to wait for the coroner to know for sure.”
Grace’s had flew up to cover her mouth. “The…what do you mean the coroner?”
“She’s dead,” Benet said gruffly.
I glared at the brusque detective. “Your bedside manner could use a little work, you know.”
Grace let out a strange sound, almost like air being let out of a balloon. And then, like that balloon, she deflated, leaning heavily against me. Despite what we saw in the office, she’d still held out hope that Carrie was alive, or didn’t want to believe anything else was possible.
“She’s…she’s dead?”
“Yeah, she’s dead. So we’re going to need to ask you some questions. For starters, can you account for your whereabouts today?”
“I already answered that question
with that officer over there.” Grace pointed to the officer in question, a squat redheaded man who looked somehow out of place in his uniform.
Benet scowled. “Humor me.”
We went through our day again, first Grace and then me, while Benet and Maka made notes. Every now and then, I caught a furtive glance from Maka, but he didn’t say anything, and if I made eye contact he looked away quickly. What was going through his head? Was I a suspect? Was he trying to figure out if I was lying or not?
“Can you think of any enemies who might want to hurt Ms. Lange? Anyone who would hold a grudge?”
“I can’t say Carrie was the nicest or most friendly person, but I wouldn’t say she had enemies—not that I know of, anyway.”
“What about angry exes or the like?”
“I don’t know; Carrie used to say that she was a devoted spinster. I’ve never met an ex of hers.” Grace trembled in my arms as they asked their questions. I felt bad for her, dealing with the weight of their interview, but it only made sense; I didn’t know the victim at all, so could be no help in these questions.
“What about your relationship?” Benet inquired bluntly.
Grace glanced at me. “He and I? We’re just friends—he’s gay.”
I barely stifled a groan at that. I couldn’t believe she’d gone and said that, especially at a time like this.
Benet rolled his eyes impatiently. “I mean you and the deceased. You two get on all right?”
Grace stiffened in my arms. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious? You’re her business partner.”
Yup, definitely needs to work on his bedside manner.
“So that means what, exactly? That I killed her?”
“He’s not saying that,” Maka interjected tactfully. “But we do have to examine all avenues, I’m sure you understand. It’s our job”
“What I’m saying,” Benet growled, making a face in Maka’s direction, “is that you could have some motive for wanting her dead.”