The After Party (A Badboys Boxset)

by Karr, Kim

  Oh, God, maybe I shouldn’t have deleted it. What if that was the motive behind her murder? No, it can’t be, because why bury her at the plant when he had just gotten the biggest account of his life? It doesn’t make sense.

  I vow to forget about the photo and then get up to attack my list.

  Today I’m going to go to the storage unit to see what box I had taken items from before I went to the hotel on Friday. Having left the office late on Friday, I’d only had time to make a quick stop and just grabbed a stack of papers without paying too much attention. I knew I’d have some free time and thought I could go through them. I want to know what I’m missing before I bring Eve’s things to the police station.

  Before I even get out of bed I’m thinking of Jasper again. No, not again, still. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s lost my number, but that’s impossible since he programmed it into his phone before he drove me home the other night. Pushing thoughts of Jasper aside, I refuse to give in to the need coiling in my belly.

  Instead, I embrace the energy I’m feeling and go for a run to clear my head. The streets are filled with noise, construction workers, cars, and buses. The People Mover is full. Men in suits. Women too. Everyone on his or her way to work. Everyone but me.

  A quick glance at my fitness watch tells me I’ve clocked three miles and in decent time, too. Two more to go; maybe I can hit an all-time record for speed. Running faster, and faster still, my feet pound the pavement trying to rid those feelings of desire that only seem to be growing with each passing day.

  Just as I turn the corner, a newspaper dispenser stops me in my tracks. Today’s headline reads, “Detroit’s White Knight Brought in for Questioning.”

  Bending, I squint to read the first paragraph. “Late last night, Jasper Storm was officially brought in for questioning concerning the woman found dead at the old Laneworth Automotive Parts Plant this past Saturday. Details are still unknown.”

  My heart stutters. Jasper. He must be going through hell. Quickly, I head back to my apartment, all thoughts of breaking records long forgotten.

  Once I’ve showered, I hover over my phone.

  Call him.

  Don’t call him.

  Call him.

  Don’t call him.

  Unable to decide, I settle on thinking about it for now.

  Still, I need to know what is going on.

  I can watch the news.

  Technically, I didn’t promise I wouldn’t do that, and my concern for him is driving me to need to know the details.

  What comes out can’t possibly be any worse than what I already know.

  Coffee in hand, I pad over to the credenza where I keep the television remote and open the top drawer. Alarm prickles my skin when I notice someone has rifled through it.

  Setting my cup down, I run over to my desk and open those drawers. They are all in disarray too. Swinging open the closet next to my desk where I keep all of my research documents, my knees start to shake and I have to sit down. Someone has definitely been in here looking through my things. I can’t imagine the plumber would have been interested in any more than what was in my underwear drawers and medicine cabinet.

  So who?

  And why?

  My breath comes faster and I have to force myself to calm down. Inhaling, I blow out and push a piece of stray hair from my eyes. Out of fear, I look around. Has someone been in here recently or is this from when I was gone overnight at the hotel?

  Grabbing a kitchen knife, my finger hovering over the 911 button, I carefully open the other closet door in the living space, and then move to my bedroom. I was in the bathroom, so I know that is clear. Looking under my bed, I know for certain no one is here now.

  Trembling, I’m uncertain of what to do. Call the police? And tell them what? Someone has been in here and I don’t know when, I don’t know why, and I don’t know what he or she was looking for?

  What I do know is that this has to be related to Eve.

  Yes, I should call the police. And I would call them if I thought they’d help me, but as soon as I tell them who I am, I know they’ll see me as a victim.

  Instead, I think about calling Jasper, but he has enough on his mind. Then I think about calling Cole to see if anyone else at work has had his or her apartment broken into, but I know better. He probably wouldn’t take my call anyway. I could call Vince, though. He works at The Detroit Scene and was always nice to me. Maybe he knows something. I make the call and leave him a message.

  I’m scared and keep the knife at my side.

  Two minutes ticks by, and that’s all it takes for me to decide I need to call the police.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Instinctively, I already know who’s on the other side of the door, and I’m more than thankful. After moving the knife back to the kitchen, I peer through the peephole. Detective Hill is standing right in the center of it.

  Both welcoming and abhorring the intrusion, I swing open the door.

  “Miss Lane,” he says with a nod.

  “Detective,” I greet him back.

  He hands me a piece of paper and I already know what it is. “This is a warrant to search the premise as it relates to the Eve Hepburn murder case.”

  I swallow. Murder case. The words somehow seem so much more powerful said that way.

  I’m physically shaking when I say, “Come in.”

  He allows the two police officers to pass and then steps inside. The two officers separate. One goes toward my room; the other strides toward my desk and closets where I had just been standing moments ago. The detective looks at me. “I believe you already know the drill.”

  Shrouded with unease, I nod my head. “Detective, can I talk to you about something possibly related to Eve’s murder?”

  The officer outside my room shouts, “This is it, just the two rooms and one bathroom. I’ll start in here.”

  The other officer looks down the hall. “I’ll take the kitchen and living space.”

  “You were saying, Miss Lane?” Detective Hill directs his attention back to me.

  I blurt out, “Someone has broken into my apartment.”

  Casually, he walks over to the door, opens it, and inspects the lock. “There is no evidence of forced entry.”

  “Somehow, someone got in here.”

  He walks over to the sofa, leans over it, and checks the window. “You keep this locked?”

  I nod.

  “And all your windows?”

  I nod again.

  Doubt crosses his face. “Anyone else have a key?”

  “Just the super, but it wasn’t him. Someone was looking for something.”

  He raises a brow.

  “Let me show you.”

  I start in my bedroom and show him my drawers, and then I lead him back into the living room and show him what I recently discovered.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you report it when you first discovered the violation?”

  “At first I thought it was the plumber the building superintendent sent to do repairs, but I’m not sure that’s the case any longer. I think someone’s been in here looking for something.”

  “Any idea what someone might be looking for?”

  “No. The only thing that makes sense is that it is somehow related to Eve.”

  The detective seems to ponder this. “Officer Zimmer,” he calls to the male in the kitchen.

  The tall, husky officer looks over just as the female officer enters the room, reporting, “Nothing.”

  “Dust this area for fingerprints. The bedroom dresser as well,” Detective Hill tells them.

  “I’m on it,” she says. “I’ll grab the kit.”

  The other officer continues searching and when they see the bag of Eve’s things on my couch, they look inside without really paying any attention.

&nb
sp; Thirty minutes pass as the two officers dust for fingerprints and finish searching the apartment. They find nothing. There is nothing to find.

  Afterward, the officers leave and it’s just Detective Hill and myself. “I have to notify you that although we didn’t find anything, you are still a person of interest.”

  A shiver passes through me. “May I ask why I’m a person of interest?”

  “There was mud found on your boots in the hotel room search.”

  “I already told you my car broke down. I was out in the mud trying to fix it.”

  “I know what you told me, and soil samples will be examined. If I have to call you down to the station, you might want to have a lawyer present.”

  I have to fight every cell in my body to stop from breaking down.

  I have no money.

  There is no way I can afford an attorney.

  Getting an attorney sounded like a good plan in my mind the night Eve’s body was found, but that was before the reality of losing my job had sunk in. Now I’m faced with the real possibility that I might end up homeless.

  No need to burden the detective with that information; he wouldn’t care anyway.

  When he leaves, he advises me to have my locks changed and to call the police if I have the slightest indication that someone has managed to get back in.

  I intentionally neglect to tell him about the things that I have in my possession from the hotel room that belonged to Eve. I haven’t cataloged them yet and don’t want to just hand them over. I will go through them today, right after I call a locksmith.

  “Oh, Miss Lane,” he says as I’m closing my door.

  My pulse starts to race as if he’s read my mind.

  “The lock downstairs is broken. You should advise your superintendent to have it fixed as quickly as possible.”

  “I will,” I tell him and close the door.

  Slumping back against the cold metal, I fight off the tears that threaten to spill. I have too much to do to spend time crying.

  And I set to it.

  When I awake on Wednesday morning it’s raining, and any energy I might have had over the past two days seems to have vanished with the sunshine. Raindrops cling to the window like tears, and I roll over and go back to bed.

  My phone ringing wakes me, and when I look at the screen I can see it’s the automotive garage. Once the message light has beeped, I listen to it. The deep voice tells me that I have until Friday to agree to the repairs or I’ll have to have my car towed elsewhere.

  Sighing, I decide not to bother with a return call. I can’t afford to have the car repaired right now. And I have nowhere to store it. Hopefully, he’ll hold on to it until I can get the cash together regardless of what he said.

  A glance at the clock tells me it’s noon and I should get up. Yesterday after my locks were changed I walked over to the Bronx Bar to inquire about available positions. The owner hired me on the spot. I start tonight. It’s temporary and if I work nights, I can still spend my days looking for a job in journalism and researching my father’s theory. So far all of the companies I’ve submitted résumés to have responded with the standard, “We are not hiring at this time.” Even the ones I answered that had posted ads.

  Either Cole, my former boss, has more pull in town than I thought and has blacklisted me or my family name has made me persona non grata. Either way, I’m not leaving Detroit until I do what I came here for.

  With that said, today I’ll take the People Mover to the police station and hope to exchange Eve’s possessions for mine. The only item of interest I found in her things was a notebook with a page inside it titled, “Jasper Storm—the Tarnished King.”

  It must have been her hook for her blog post. There was no text beneath it. Still, I took photos and made a list of everything even though nothing else seemed significant.

  Nothing worth killing someone over, anyway.

  The urban police station is dingy, with yellow-stained drop ceilings and tiny barred windows. To enter the building I have to go through security.

  The officer behind the desk, a mountain of a man, glares at me. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Detective John Hill.”

  “You want to see Sergeant Detective John Hill?” he asks, clarifying the detective’s proper title.

  I nod. I guess I’d been addressing him improperly. Perhaps that was the cause of his obvious dislike for me? No. Who am I kidding? It’s my last name.

  “Ha, good luck with that. Who should I tell him is here?”

  “Charlotte Lane.”

  Instantly, his good humor disappears and with a frown he presses a button and mumbles something into the receiver he picked up moments ago. “Have a seat,” he tells me when he’s finished, pointing to a bunch of plastic chairs secured to the floor over in the corner.

  Time passes slowly. Almost an hour goes by before Sergeant Detective Hill finally appears at the other end of the lobby. “Miss Lane, how can I help you?”

  With my hotel bag gripped tight in my hand and my palm a sweaty mess, I raise my arm. “Somehow my things must have gotten mixed up with Eve’s things. These are her papers and photos. I’ve brought these for you and I’d like to get my own research documents back if possible.”

  Skeptically, he glances at my bag and then takes it from me. “Why didn’t you bring this to my attention yesterday?”

  I hate all this lying, but again I know I have to do it. “With everything going on, it slipped my mind.”

  He nods. “Come with me.”

  We walk up a flight of stairs and into a room marked homicide unit, where the detective tosses the bag on the empty desk beside him and then takes a seat. After a moment he points for me to take one across from him.

  I do.

  Then he looks me directly in the eye. “What am I looking for?”

  “I brought a year’s worth of Lanesworth Automotive bank statements with me to the hotel and they are missing.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What are you doing with documents like that?”

  Insanity is the plea I’d be forced to take if I never leave this office, because I must have been crazy to come here looking for information like that. “I’m doing some personal research on my father’s company.”

  With a jiggle of his mouse, he wakes his monitor. “That was my first crime scene as a detective.”

  “The site of the explosion?”

  He nods.

  I want to ask him a million questions. “So you investigated the explosion?”

  He shakes his head no. “I was removed after my first day.”

  “Why?”

  “The DA insisted it was an open-and-shut case. Said the grieving people of Detroit didn’t need to be left with a cold case after a tragedy like that.”

  “And that was legal?”

  He shrugs. “No one questioned it. The DA took the case on personally, assembled his own team of investigators and attorneys.”

  “And you agreed with the outcome?”

  The detective gives me a wry grin. “Wasn’t my place to agree or disagree.”

  I say nothing.

  He directs his attention back to his monitor.

  Waiting, I stop breathing when I glance down at his desk. Photos of Eve’s body are spread all over it. The manila folder tab beneath them reads “Coroner’s Report.”

  Noticing my loud gasp, he quickly shuffles the photos inside the folder, but I get the feeling he left them there for me to see. When he’s done, he slumps back in his chair. “Sorry about that. I was just preparing a statement for the press about Ms. Hepburn’s cause of death.”

  “How . . . how did she die?” I dare to ask.

  “She was strangled.” He says it very matter-of-factly.

  Shivers run down my spin.

  Picking up a pencil, he taps it on the desk. “While you’re here do you mind if I ask you something? Informally of course.”

  I can feel my heart rate pick up. I can tell he know
s that I knew I had her things yesterday when he was at my apartment. “No, I don’t mind.”

  He falls silent for a bit.

  I almost blurt out that I lied to him, that I knew I had her things in my possession, but I keep it together because he didn’t call me on it for a reason.

  Finally, he speaks. “Did Ms. Hepburn drive herself to the hotel?”

  Not what I was expecting. “Yes, we both did.”

  He nods. “It’s just that we can’t seem to locate her car anywhere on the hotel grounds.”

  “She drove it to the hotel; it must be there. I assume she would have valet-parked it.”

  Since the company was paying, even I had done that.

  “We have footage of her pulling up to the valet sometime around six p.m. on Friday, but there was a line. She didn’t wait, and pulled through the drive and headed toward the self-parking area.”

  “She must have been running late; the unveiling started at six.”

  He nods. “And your car? Where might it be?”

  This is starting to feel like an inquisition. “It’s in the shop.”

  “Yes. That’s right. You broke down.”

  My palms feel sweaty.

  He looks at the bag of Eve’s things. “You have your own computer in your possession, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re certain of this?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We haven’t found her computer, her phone, or her purse, either.”

  I lean forward. “Her computer was in the hotel room in her orange case. Somehow my computer ended up in her case. I assumed it was a mix-up when the police were in the hotel room.”

  He diverts his gaze back to his screen and studies it for a long while before looking back at me. “Only one computer was logged in, and nothing has been entered into evidence that was marked as Laneworth bank statements.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  His gaze sharpens. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t. Procedure was followed to the letter. Perhaps you misplaced them?”

  I can’t tell if he is lying.

  Don’t know if I can trust him.

  Uncertain if he’s more worried about his case than anything else.

  He keeps staring at me.

  Waiting.

  For what—I have no idea.