by J. C. Staudt
“How was work?”
“Uh… good,” I say, spiking the word with undue enthusiasm.
“You find the guy?”
I figure she must be talking about me, so I ask, “Which one?”
“The guy you were talking about. The housemaid.”
I laugh. “Oh, him. No. Nope. Didn’t find him.”
She frowns. “I thought you were pretty close to getting him. Didn’t you find out where he lived?”
I’m so nervous my sweat is sweating. “I thought so, but no. Wrong place. Wasn’t him.”
“Aw. I’m sorry, honey. Why don’t you go change and we’ll pick out a movie or something.”
“Okay.” I look around. There’s a hallway toward the back of the apartment with no fewer than four doors leading off it, all closed. There’s another door off the living room, separate from the rest. I hesitate, not knowing which way to go.
“Are you upset that I let myself in?” she asks. “I put the spare key back under the mat.”
“No. It’s okay.”
“What’s wrong? Oh, by the way, I ordered takeout. Hope you don’t mind. There’s Chinese in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
I’m ravenous, but eating probably isn’t the best idea right now. “Thanks,” I say, and head down the hallway. I stop at the first door. I can feel her looking over her shoulder at me, as if she’s curious whether I’ve forgotten my way around. I continue down the hallway and open the last door at the end.
It’s a bathroom.
Sheepishly I go in and shut the door, stand there for thirty seconds, flush the toilet, and come back out again, resisting the urge to curse Ersatz under my breath for his brilliant plan.
I try the next door.
An office.
Not much I can pretend to do in here, so I stride in with purpose and shuffle some papers around on the desk, stealing a glance at them as I do. Nothing important; a cell phone bill, an auto insurance policy renewal, and a year-to-date charitable giving statement from Save the Children. Whatever helps you sleep at night, man.
My paperwork done, I emerge into the hallway once more and try the second door. A guest bedroom, sparsely furnished, with a full-size bed, a comforter that looks like it’s never been touched by human hands, and five billion matching pillows of various size and shape.
This time there’s no excuse. Fake it ‘til you make it, I tell myself. “Hey, have you seen my sunglasses?” I ask the woman sitting on the couch, whose attention has returned to the climax of the episode she’s watching.
She shakes her head. “Haven’t seen them, sorry.”
I try the fourth door. Alas, behind it lies a small home gym with a bench press, a treadmill, and two weight sets. Defeated but unhindered by Arden Savage’s female companion, I cross the living room and try the door directly off of it—the one not connected to the hallway. Bingo.
I slip into a room the size of a small country and close the door behind me. There’s a king bed and a humongous walk-in closet with a gun safe at the back, beyond racks of Arden Savage’s expensive clothing. The door to the master bathroom is open, and within lies the paradigm of ultra-modern class; a stepped soaking tub, floating vanities, and a walk-in rainfall shower.
“I could get used to this,” I mutter.
A woman’s skirt suit hangs from an empty towel rack beside a woman’s night bag. It’s the only evidence of a feminine presence in this apartment I’ve seen yet, aside from the one on the living room couch. I’m not seeing a way out of this unless the young woman decides to go home tonight, which seems unlikely since she’s in pajamas. I’d better find something comfortable to wear.
I head into the closet and start rifling around. The left-hand side is wall-to-wall suits, every shade of black and blue and gray imaginable. Rows of black shoes, button-down shirts, belts, and cufflinks. The right side holds Arden’s everyday work attire, rugged stuff like he was wearing when he dropped in on me. Cargo pants, sneakers, boots, t-shirts, cutoffs, and an assortment of hats, vests, and field gear.
“You feeling alright?” asks the girlfriend, suddenly standing in the closet doorway.
I jump. “God, you scared the crap out of me.”
She laughs. “Sorry, babe. For a second I thought you’d forgotten where your bedroom was.”
I shrug. “You know me. Just tired.”
“Maybe I can help you unwind,” she says, slipping her arms around my waist.
When she kisses me, I can’t help but think of my inside joke with Quim about shifting into the football player so he could make out with the prom queen. Somehow this doesn’t feel the way I thought it would.
“Have you gotten taller?” she asks, pulling back.
“New shoes.” I’m uncomfortable with how quickly I answered that. One lie breeds another.
“Take them off,” she commands.
I do.
“That’s better. Now, how about the rest of these clothes?” She starts unbuttoning my shirt, oblivious that my style is entirely different from Arden’s and I’m not at all dressed for bounty hunting.
This is wrong, but it’s all the right kinds of wrong. I came here to stash the car keys and find out who sent this guy after me, not sleep with his girlfriend. My fantasies of making out with Madison Haight in high school always felt more like a fun prank than a serious act of fraud. Reality is distinctly worse than that. It makes me sick to my stomach to think she genuinely believes I’m the guy she loves.
Maybe that’s just the hunger talking. I am very hungry, and very tired. But when she traces her salon-painted nails across my abdomen and slides her fingers beneath the elastic waistband of my boxer shorts, certain parts of my body don’t hesitate to remind me how long it’s been since I’ve experienced a woman’s love. I’ll give you a clue—it starts with ‘F’ and ends with ‘orever.’
Despite my body’s betrayal, I promise myself I’m going to resist her. I’m going to hold out to the last, because it’s the noble thing to do. Then she yanks the chopsticks and shakes out her long tawny hair, and I find myself looking down the front of her slouch-cut sweatshirt. Nobility is starting to sound like a bunch of rubbish.
This is not right. I repeat it, convincing myself. This is not… and then she starts unbuttoning my jeans, and I exhale, and the thought sighs out of me, and I’ve forgotten everything but her, everything but her.
My jeans slouch down around my ankles. My shirt is somehow lying on the floor, and my boxers are pitched out like Barnum and Bailey’s big top. The girlfriend presses her body to mine and kisses me again, and I’m trying hard not to like it.
That’s when I’m struck by the thought to end all thoughts. The one that could make a bamboo stalk wilt like overcooked spaghetti. The man you love is dead, and I killed him. I. Killed him. When she crosses her arms to grab the hem of her sweatshirt, I stop her before she can lift it over her head. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
“Not tonight?” she parrots, as if they’re the two most ludicrous words she’s ever heard. She looks down at my boxers. “Look at you. What do you mean not tonight?”
I search for an excuse. “I’m just not feeling up to it.”
“You told me you couldn’t wait to—”
Here’s where I wish I’d read Arden’s text messages before sliding his phone into the pocket of his soon-to-be-reanimated corpse. Hindsight’s a bitch. “I know what I said,” I interrupt, picking up my jeans. “I’m not feeling well.”
Her expression changes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nauseous. Tired. I don’t know. I just need some sleep.”
“Aw, honey. I thought you seemed a little off tonight. Well here, do you want me to make you some tea, or—”
“I think you’d better go. I’ll be good as new after a solid night’s sleep. Promise.”
The pain of a bruised ego flashes across her face. She studies me, snorts a derisive little laugh. “Fine. I guess I’ll go.”
S
he turns around, strips off her sweats, and changes into the skirt suit hanging from the bathroom towel rack. I try not to stare, but I don’t try very hard. Her body is ridiculous, tight and slender with curves earned through long hours at the gym. I’m still standing in the closet doorway when she stuffs her sweats into her night bag and kisses me on the cheek. “Call me when you feel better.”
I say nothing as she leaves the room.
The apartment door opens and slams. I put on my clothes, then peek into the living room to make sure she’s gone. I count to thirty before opening the apartment door to check the hallway. No sign of her. I lift the doormat and retrieve the spare key. No more unexpected intruders.
As soon as I close the door, someone knocks on it. I squint through the peephole, where a slitted golden eye magnified to startling size stares back at me. When I pull the door open, Ersatz is clinging to it like a Christmas wreath. He clambers inside and starts exploring the apartment, absorbing all the new sights and smells. “Rather impressive,” he mumbles to himself.
“It’s a nice place,” I agree. “Don’t scratch the furniture.”
He tosses me a sour glance. “I was about to commend you on a job well done, but if you’re going to denigrate my claws, forget it.”
“Honestly, a pedicure wouldn’t hurt. I’m listening, though. What were you about to commend me on?”
“The way you disposed of the wench.”
“Don’t call her that. She lost someone important to her today and she doesn’t even know it.”
“Why do you continue to blame yourself for the accidental death of a man who intended to abduct you?”
“Because despite the fact that he was a dickweed, he was also a real person with a life and friends and probably a family too.”
“You can’t change the past by dwelling on it. We must find out who sent this bounty hunter after you and be on our way.”
“I’m with you, except I’d like to offer one slight modification. There’s Chinese food in the fridge.”
Chapter 12
Arden Savage’s kitchen, much like the rest of his apartment, is no letdown. Barstools fringe a massive granite-topped island. Rows of glossy acrylic cabinets and steel appliances gleam, stark and perfect above the travertine flooring. I hunt up a plate and some utensils, opening the vertical-lift doors one at a time to admire the neat stacks of tableware within. I’m still coming down from the high of almost getting laid, though I doubt I’ll get over it anytime soon. For now, food will serve as a cut-rate substitute.
“You do realize this is the stupidest possible thing you could be doing,” Ersatz warns as I dump huge portions of rice and General Tso’s Chicken onto my plate. “You’re leaving a trail of irrefutable evidence.”
“I’ll clean up when I’m done,” I promise, sliding onto a barstool at the island. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“We should be searching for clues.”
“I can’t search on an empty stomach.”
“For someone who claims to be in a state of psychological distress, your appetite strikes me as awfully healthy.”
“I’m not a machine, Ersatz. I’m allowed to be stressed and hungry at the same time. If you think countless cartons of chocolate ice cream haven’t been emptied by individuals in the midst of stressful circumstances, you don’t understand the human condition.” I dig in. I’m so hungry it hurts, and the cold zest of MSG-flavored sauce on my tongue is pure bliss. “Want some?”
“Of that stuff?” he asks. “I’d rather sing karaoke.”
“Karaoke is Japanese. This is Chinese.”
“As poor an excuse for music as that is for food. Anyway, I’m stuffed.”
“When did you eat?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Never mind.”
“There was a fat black rat in the elevator shaft—”
“I said never mind.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you said, ‘Yes, I would rather enjoy the raucous and lively tale of your brief yet delicious encounter.’”
My stomach flutters, but I power through it. When I’m done, I rinse the plate and load it into the half-full dishwasher, realizing how odd it is that I’m making myself at home in a stranger’s apartment. Considering the stranger in question will never set foot in this apartment again, the thought sparks a wave of melancholy in me.
“Now can we get to work?” Ersatz asks.
I nod. After a brief stretch and a chest-rumbling belch, I enter Arden’s office and take a seat in his plush executive-style chair. Ersatz climbs the desk and circles the laptop screen for a look.
“Mind showing me that tracing spell one more time?” I ask him.
He casts the spell over the laptop’s keyboard. Recent keystrokes lift off like purple smoke, forming phrases, passwords, URLs.
“That is so cool. I still can’t believe you’ve never showed me this before.”
“In the old world, we used tracing spells for helpful purposes like pursuing thieves or determining the owners of lost objects. Technology has given rise to a greater number of vile uses for magic than I ever thought possible. Lifting sensitive personal information from a computer keyboard is far-removed from the spell’s intended function. Hmm. You’re fading.”
“Huh?”
“You’re beginning to look like yourself again.”
“That’s fine. The front door’s locked and I’ve got the spare key.”
I try each password revealed by the spell until I find the one that unlocks Arden’s laptop. I open three browser tabs and access his email, his bank account, and his AnonymCity profile using the same approach. His passwords are similar to one another, with only a few slight alterations in capitalization or special characters between them. Funny, I think. In a matter of seconds, I’ve found everything I’d need if I wanted to steal his identity.
The figure in his bank account is the same as when I saw it on his phone earlier this evening, but it still makes me shake my head in disbelief. Even with two luxury automobiles and a decked-out apartment, Arden Savage was living well below his means. The guy was loaded, and it’s like he didn’t even care.
Soon I’m imagining all the things I could do with money like that; things I’ve always wanted to do but have never been able to afford on a housekeeper’s wages. I never went to college, but I might give it a shot if I could pay my own tuition. I’ve also never left Michigan. I’ve only been outside Wayne County a handful of times, come to think of it. That’s not to mention the potential improvements I could make to my magical repertoire with additional funding.
“Don’t fade out on me now,” says Ersatz, noticing my dreamlike stupor. “We’ve got work to do, and miles to go before we sleep.” He nips my finger.
I yank my hand away and shake off the sting. “Ow. Alright, calm down.”
I check the laptop’s clock. 1:18 a.m.
After trying a few more searches through Arden’s AnonymCity inbox and finding nothing about a contract to kidnap me, I move to his email. He’s got all the usual stuff; messages from family and friends, marketing emails, online shopping receipts. The Chinese food hits me a dozen emails in, and my eyelids begin to droop amid slow, deep breaths.
“Wake up,” Ersatz shouts.
I jump. “Wha… huh? I’m awake. I’m awake.”
“Humans,” he mutters. “An hour ago you were full of energy and itching to return the hearse before the police arrived.”
“That was before I ate dinner.”
“Keep reading.”
I blink to refocus my eyes on the computer screen. Among the excitement awaiting me in Arden’s inbox are several monthly bill payment confirmations; an invitation to join a fantasy football league; emails from the girlfriend, whose name is Ava Gurley, featuring funny videos and information about a trip to the west coast she wants to take; Netflix recommendations; new release alerts from a popular website about console video gaming; membership newsletters from the Southeast Mich
igan Metal Detecting Association; notifications from a gun enthusiast’s forum I myself frequent; and reminders from a popular music streaming subscription service. Though I’ve come across nothing helpful, I’m starting to form a picture of who Arden Savage was.
Then something catches my eye. Halfway down the third page there’s an email from someone named Lorne Savage, carbon-copied to someone named Carmine Savage. This looks interesting.
Hey guys, we need to meet up soon about the probate hearing. Left my phone at home today or I would’ve texted. Shoot me a msg when you get a chance.
-Lorne
It’s the only message in the thread. They must’ve texted him back. Now I’m really starting to regret not reading Arden’s texts while I had the chance.
As a last ditch effort, I do a search for my name in Arden’s email account. First name only; last name only; no results. This hunt for evidence is going nowhere, and I’m so tired my vision is going blurry.
“Stay awake,” Ersatz shouts.
“I can’t. I’m done. I’ve gotta sleep.”
A gruff sigh. “Since you lack the self-discipline to deny your basest of urges for longer than is convenient, we’d best vacate the premises and head to Quim’s.”
I rub my eyes, yawning. “I don’t know if I can make it all the way to Quim’s.”
“Your apartment is uninhabitable. You can’t afford a hotel room. Quim’s is our only option.”
“Here’s a crazy idea. What if we sleep here?”
“Have you any idea how much forensic evidence you’ve spread through this apartment already?”
“So what’s a little more?”
“A little more is everything. You’ve murdered someone, Cade. Now you want to sleep in his house?”
“Bad idea. You’re right. Do I really want to involve Quim in all this, though? If I’m going to get taken into custody for what I’ve done, I don’t want him catching any flak for aiding and abetting me. Harboring a known criminal is a big deal, and it could land him in a lot of trouble.”
“So you want to spend the night here.”
“I know it’s a huge gamble, but if I don’t stay here I spend the night on the streets. I’d like some more time to poke around the place for answers, but I’m exhausted.”