by Erin Huss
I waited until he was out of earshot before I said, "You cannot let him walk around with that thing on his head. I can't believe no one has said anything to him."
"We're being supportive. He's going through stuff."
"Like what?"
"His wife left him."
"Ouch."
"For his best friend."
"Double ouch."
"And she took the dog."
"Great. Now I feel bad for staring. Should I apologize?"
"I wouldn't bring up the hair, or the wife, or the best friend, or the dog."
"Fine. But if he's having problems at home, can he be trusted to find Violet?" Time is of the essence in a missing person case. I'd learned that from my crime shows. The first forty-eight hours are critical, and I didn't trust Hampton to make good decisions when he couldn't even be trusted to dress himself. "Can you take this case? As a favor to me. Please?"
Chase massaged the back of his neck. He only did this when he was about to deliver bad news. "I have to go on a business trip. I'm leaving tonight, and I'll be gone for two days."
"Where?"
"Texas."
"Texas! You live in California! You work for the LAPD! Why are you going to Texas?"
Chase glanced over his shoulder at his colleagues, who were now all staring at us.
Oops.
I cleared my throat, smoothed out my shirt, and spoke more quietly. "What is in Texas?"
"It's a special assignment."
Great. My stomach clenched. Chase's job was dangerous enough without any secret special assignments.
Chase cupped my cheeks in his hands. "Don't worry," he said, reading my thoughts. "It's nothing dangerous."
Pfft. Like he'd tell me if it was.
The truth was, Chase was a detective. I knew this going into the relationship. What was I going to say?
Don't go. Don't do your job. Stay here with me because I'm afraid there's a lunatic out there kidnapping apartment managers?
I'd never get between Chase and his job. Just as I hope he'd never get in the way of me doing mine.
Of course, I rented apartments, and he fought bad guys.
But still.
"Go home and rest." Chase placed his hands on my hips. "You've got a big day tomorrow."
Big day? "You mean because of the sketch artist?"
"Don't you start at the Burbank building tomorrow?"
Oh, right. That. "I also have to check on Larry because he fell off the roof and broke his femurs."
Chase's eyebrows shot up. "Why was he on the roof?"
"Locked himself out."
"Is this the constipated guy?"
"The one and only."
Chase laughed. Larry was a hard guy to forget. "I don't know who has a crazier job. Me or you."
"You and I both know it's me." I rose to my toes and kissed Chase. His lips on mine turned my legs to goo, just as they did the first time I laid eyes on him. It was still hard to comprehend such a glorious specimen of a man was interested in me. And for a moment, all I could think about was the taste of his mouth, the feel of his tongue, the heat of his hands on my face and hard body pressed against mine.
Someone hollered for us to "get a room," and I was brought back to reality.
Making out at a crime scene is probably tacky anyhow.
"I'll see you Thursday." Chase kissed my cheek and sauntered away. It wasn't until his butt was out of my sight that I remembered why we were standing in a crime scene—Violet was gone.
* * *
After I put Lilly to bed, I sat at my desk and sent Patrick, my boss, an email about Larry falling from the roof. My cell rang ten minutes later. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I was."
Patrick made a noise. I couldn't tell if he was laughing or sighing or crying or all the above. He'd been in the property management business for a long time. Too long, he'd told me once…or twice. "Make a detailed report for the file."
"Already on it." I shook the mouse to wake the computer and clicked Print on the document I'd already typed up. The printer woke up and spit out the two-page report.
"Did you notify his emergency contact?"
"I checked his file, and there's no emergency contact listed." Larry had moved in so long ago the only items in his file were his application, a faded picture of his driver license, and a bank statement.
"That's a shame. Anything else going on I should know about?" I could hear the rustling of sheets and faint panting of a dog in the background. I imagined Patrick was in bed with his laptop open, wife asleep, canine sandwiched between them, while he finished up the month end reports for all the property owners he worked for.
Since he was obviously up and working, and since he was already on the phone, I figured it was as good a time as any to tell him about Violet. "I was at Cedar Creek tonight. Violet is missing. They found blood in her closet beneath an open window and a flooded bathroom. No body, but it doesn't look good."
"That's terrible," Patrick said so low I almost didn't hear him. "I'll have to reach out to the Dashwoods."
"Who are the Dashwoods?"
"They own the building. The husband is a surgeon, and the wife is a psychologist. They live in…Arizona, I believe. Or Alabama…I can't remember. They bought the building about ten years ago and dumped a ton of money into renovations. I've been trying to get them to use Elder Management, but they don't want a management company. If I'm not mistaken, Violet has been the manager there since the Dashwoods bought the place."
"Did they ever say anything about Violet? Like if she had murderous friends? Enemies?"
"Last time I talked to Dick—he's the husband," Patrick clarified, as if I thought Dick was the wife. Nowadays, I guess you never know. "He said she had a difficult personality."
"She was pleasant every time I spoke with her." I was on Rent or Run dot com, looking up Cedar Creek. They had a low run rate (much lower than ours) and a high ranking (almost double ours). Residents were more apt to use rating websites to rant and complain about management than to praise it, which was exactly what the last review for Cedar Creek was. "Violet is attentive, always available, and accommodating," I read out loud for Patrick. "One of the residents next door just told me that Violet was the worst manager she'd ever had."
Of course, Dolores could have been involved in Violet's disappearance, so…there's that.
"All I know is what Dick told me," he said. "They attempted to let her go earlier this year but were unable to because she hired a lawyer and claimed sexism, ageism, and one more ism that I can't remember."
Huh?
"And now they don't have to worry about firing her, because she is gone. Convenient."
"Don't make heavy implications like that out loud, Cambria."
"Fine." And now they don't have to worry about firing her, because she is gone… Convenient. "Why was Dick talking to you about Violet anyway?" I asked.
"He called last week to ask who my tax and finance guys were, and we chatted a bit. He asked me about vacancies and foot traffic. He was concerned because their vacancies sit for several months. I told him it wasn't uncommon at that price point."
"They should spend less money on things like heated toilet seats and get their rents below four grand."
"My sentiments exactly. It's a shame. If they'd let me take over that place, I could really turn a profit." He paused to daydream about all the money he'd make. "Is that boyfriend of yours on the case?"
"No." I grabbed a paper clip and began unwinding it. "His partner is, though."
Patrick hesitated. "The one with the high pants."
"Yes, and thank you." Glad I wasn't the only one who noticed.
"Bring something nice over to the staff tomorrow to pay our condolences. Make sure you say it's from me too."
"Um…sure. I can do that." It felt like an awkward gesture. Aren't you supposed to bring a condolence gift when someone has died or when they're sick? What gift do you buy in this case? Flowers? A bask
et of fruit?
Hi there! I heard your property manager is missing, probably dead, even if no body has been recovered. Here's a box of pears and a bouquet of hydrangeas.
No good.
Note to self: consult Google for the proper etiquette in this situation.
"Before I forget," Patrick said, his business voice back on. "I'm sending you rental increases to print and deliver tomorrow at the Burbank building."
I nearly slid out of my chair. "You want me to deliver rental increases the same day I take over?"
"It will set a good precedent."
Precedent? It sounded like an excellent way to accumulate more vacancies.
"Can we wait a couple of months?" I twisted my paper clip until it broke. "Give them time to get used to me first?" My computer pinged, and a notification appeared in the corner of my monitor. An email from Patrick with the subject line notifications. I clicked on the email.
Attached were rental increases for three longtime residents. Twenty dollars more a month wasn't too bad. But when it came to increases, it was less about the money and more about the principle. Residents viewed the apartments as their homes, and the manager as the money-hungry bad guy forcing them to pay more for their homes. Forgetting the manager is only doing their job so they can afford their own home.
I knew this because back in the day when I rented, I too had received a rental increase.
I too had called my manager a monster.
Not to their face, of course.
And certainly not on the internet!
"These rents are way below market value," Patrick said. "The residents know that. They'll understand."
"Most renters don't follow market trends the way you do."
"It'll be fine."
I had serious doubt everything would be fine, but said, "I'll make sure it is," because he was the boss and I wasn't.
What else was I supposed to do?
We hung up, and I grabbed Larry's incident report from the printer. I already had a filing cabinet filled with all the bizarre and illegal events that had transpired since I'd taken over management. I'd decided that when I retire from property management, I'd take all the reports, turn them into a novel, and make millions.
Or thousands.
Probably thousands.
So long as it was enough to cover the therapy bills.
I powered down the computer, locked the office, turned on the alarms, and took a cold shower. The water felt good against my skin, and I stayed in until my fingers pruned. I contemplated shaving my legs, told myself I'd do it tomorrow, and got out carefully, babying my knee. I dried off, threw on a pair of clean underwear and an oversized Lakers shirt, brushed my teeth, checked to be sure Lilly was still breathing and her window was locked, found my pepper spray, then went to bed.
Except it was too hot to sleep. I kicked the covers off and stared up at the ceiling. The fan was set to high, and the blades whirled so fast it was hard to decipher which direction they were turning. The fan reminded me of Chase. He'd installed it when I first moved in. Back when he was working undercover as the maintenance man. He was much better at solving crimes than he was at fixing things. Most of what he'd touched during his time as the maintenance man had already broken…
I set the fan to low and moved to the other side of the bed, so as not to be directly below it should it come crashing down. The inside temp went from manageable to suffocating, and I knew slumber was no longer an option. Instead, I thought about the man running down the stairs. His brown eyes. Long face. Prominent nose. Dark eyebrows…
Ummm…
Two ears.
One mouth…um…
The harder I thought, the fuzzier the memory became. I eventually fell into a fitful slumber, dreaming of Violet with her wavy brown hair swept into a claw clip, sitting on her heated toilet seat, when suddenly a bronzed man shimmied in and strangled her with a toupee.
When I woke, Lilly's little feet were kicking me in the kidneys. She must have snuck in during the night. I flipped to my stomach and buried my head into the pillow, trying for a few more minutes of sleep, but was unable to find it. My mind churned with the stairwell man, Violet, how her daughter took the news, Dolores Rocklynn in Apartment 105, Dick Dashwood, who'd tried to fire Violet a few months earlier, and…holy hell it was hot!
My upstairs neighbor, Mickey, jumped out of bed, thumped across the ceiling, went to the bathroom, thumped back across the ceiling, and flung himself into bed. Just as he did every freaking morning.
Whatever.
Sleep is overrated.
Lilly and I got up, got dressed, and ate breakfast. She parked herself on the couch and watched The Little Mermaid while I went to the office and printed the notifications and dreaded rental increases needed for the day.
The office was attached to my two-bedroom apartment. From behind my desk, I could see the lobby. We'd recently remodeled (thanks to a fire…or two). The flooring was dark wood laminate, the furniture charcoal gray with steel accents, and the walls were painted a pearl color, except for the wall behind the couch, which was orange. It was very modern LA. I loved it. Much better than the 80s drab it was before.
When I twirled in my chair, I could see my kitchen. It was the perfect setup for a single mom.
Mostly.
"Someone is here!" Lilly yelled from the living room.
I pushed against the desk and rolled backward to the door. Lilly was on the couch with her Mickey Mouse doll tucked under arm and her face glued to the television. "I didn't hear the door…"
"They knocked," she said without taking her eyes away from her show. "Me hear it."
"It's I heard it." Grammar is important.
I crossed the living room and checked the peephole. No one was there. I stepped outside and had a look around. Nope. I was about to go inside, when a hand landed on my shoulder. My fight or flight ignited. I was ninety-nine percent positive that whoever had me by the shoulder was the same person who took Violet, and I was not about to go down without a fight. I spun around and punched the intruder square in the face.
Note to self: you do have superhuman powers…oh crap.
Turned out my attacker was not an attacker at all. It was Tom.
Thomas "Tom" Dryer was my one-night-stand turned baby daddy. He was a defense attorney who represented the poor and falsely accused. He too had superhuman good looks. Tall. Very tall. Dark hair, hazel eyes, looked like a young Dylan McDermott if you squinted and turned your head to the side. My parents thought Tom was gay, but he'd slept with almost every woman this side of the equator, so I knew he wasn't. We were never a couple. I knew he had feelings for me. Maybe he even loved me in more than a she-birthed-my-kid-so-I-have-to-care-for-her kind of way. But commitment was his phobia, and I'd be old and gray with one foot in the grave by the time he'd be ready to settle down. So I'd resigned to peacefully co-parenting with him.
Except when I punched him in the face.
Oops.
Munch, Tom's dog, barked up at me from the ground. He had a UCLA bandana tied around his neck with a matching Bruins harness leash around his short torso. He was not happy with me.
Neither was Tom.
"Dammit, Cambria. What was that for?" Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his head back.
"Oh come on—there's no blood."
"There isn't?" Tom put his head down, and I grimaced.
"Well, yeah, OK, maybe there is. Come here." I ushered him and Munch to the kitchen table, where I placed a package of frozen peas on Tom's nose and shoved paper towels up his nostrils to stop the bleeding.
"Momma, why did you hit Daddy? 'Cause we're supposed to keep our hands to ourselves," Lilly said, pointing to the peas on Tom's face.
"That's a great rule. This was an accident, sweetie. Don't worry," I said and took a seat beside Tom. "What have I told you about scaring me like that? You're lucky I only punched you in the face."
Tom instinctually covered his manhood. "Munch ran into the bush, and I w
as getting him out. I wasn't trying to scare you."
"That's another thing. I've told you several times not to bring Munch here. This is a no-pet property." Also, I'm allergic to most things with fur in a can't-breathe, puffy-face, chug-the-Benadryl kind of way. Even though I adored Munch, just looking at him caused my throat to itch.
"You say that, but I see pets around here all the time."
"They're emotional pets. That's different." And a whole other issue. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were taking Lilly tonight."
"I was in the neighborhood…gah. This hurts." He lightly touched his nose and winced. "What's with you? Why are you so jumpy this morning?"
I scooted my chair closer and checked to be sure Lilly wasn't paying attention. "Violet, the manager next door, is missing."
Tom's eyes went round. "Since when?"
"Last night." I was interrupted when my phone buzzed. It was Amy. I held up one finger, signaling to Tom I had to take this call, and went to the kitchen, took a few breaths, and answered as cheerfully as I could. Amy and I had been best friends since the third grade. She knew me too well and could tell when something was wrong. And this was no time for her to worry about missing apartment managers. She had a tango to perfect.
Except I'm a horrible actor.
"What's wrong?" she immediately asked.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything here is perfectly normal. How are you feeling? Excited? Nervous? Ready?"
"Sore!"
I pictured her sitting on the studio floor in a tank drenched with sweat. They practiced ten hours a day, seven days a week. Which sounded a lot like my own personal hell. "I called with good news. The producer said if I make it to the finale, they'll fly you out."
I slapped my hand over my mouth. "New York? Really?"
"I have to make it to the finals first, but yeah, really!"
When Amy and I were kids, we'd talk about moving to New York, where Amy would become a famous Broadway actress and I would become a nanny (what can I say? I only dream big). The pictures of Time Square and Central Park in our Encyclopedia Britannica were enough to spark our imaginations. Years later, we moved to Los Angeles because it was cheaper and because it was closer and because Amy wasn't coordinated enough to dance and act at the same time.