by Peter Hartog
“Here, make yourself useful.” I handed Deacon the portable scanner.
He grumbled but took the device and waved it in arcs in the space between the door and the end of the exit ramp. A few moments later, he reviewed the findings and shook his head.
“Just the normal shit tracked in by people coming and going,” Deacon scowled. “It also found traces of lemon freshener and chemicals common to domestic cleaning products.”
“Lemon freshener?” I cast him a sharp look. “Let me see that.”
Deacon flicked the butt of his expired cigarette away with a practiced motion, then handed me the scanner.
I punched a few keys and studied the readout. Besim was silent as she observed the intermittent foot traffic outside.
“This scanner picks up fingerprints, footprints, traces of DNA,” I explained, my eyes focused on the data. “But it can also separate chemical agents from other compounds. Like lemon freshener.”
I placed the scanner on the ground and away from any running water.
“It’s far from perfect,” I continued, scratching my jaw stubble thoughtfully. “The sensors can be fooled, though, which is why we rely more on CSI, who have better equipment, more experience, and would crawl all over everything with a toothbrush. Thank goodness we don’t have CSI to get in our way. I mean, why make this investigation easier?”
“Our murderer didn’t leave behind shit, Holliday,” Deacon said, ignoring me. “Did the scanner detect the chemical in the alleyway?”
I tapped the holo-screen to retrieve the historical data, then shook my head.
“Perhaps one of the tenants works as a janitor?” Besim suggested. She smiled at an old woman gawking at her. The woman stumbled down the block, muttering under her breath. “Their footgear tracks the chemicals while they are so engaged.”
“Which floor is Tony’s apartment?” Deacon asked.
“Seventh, apartment seven forty-two,” I replied.
I followed up with EVI about her contact with the eyewitness.
“There has been no response. I have made three attempts thus far. Shall I try again?”
“Please do,” I instructed, glancing at the others. “No response from Tony. I know both he and Julie were discharged from EC General a few hours after the murder, and then taken to the nearest precinct. He should be home by now.”
EVI confirmed a single protective detail had been assigned to the eyewitnesses.
“Where are they now?” I asked aloud. She provided the home address for Julie. “Okay, please contact the officers on duty, and inform them we’ll be coming by to interview the eyewitnesses as soon as we’re done here.”
I addressed my companions…co-workers…friends? Okay, not friends.
“It looks like they’re at Julie’s,” I said. “That still doesn’t explain why Tony hasn’t answered EVI’s call.”
Besim turned to leave, but I forestalled her with a furrowed brow and a raised hand.
“What is it, Detective?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
I exchanged a look with Deacon, who nodded his understanding.
“Lemon is an effective cleaning agent, and masks other scents,” I explained. “And the murderer is still at large. We can use the scanner to track the lemon traces and see where the trail leads. There’s been too much rain outside for it to work, but inside is another story. If it’s from a janitor, then we’ve at least ruled that out. But if it isn’t…”
“Not bad, Holliday,” Deacon approved, a slight smile creasing his lips.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This could be a complete waste of time.” I picked up the scanner and handed it to Besim.
We spent the next half-hour slowly following the lemony-fresh breadcrumbs. The trail led up to the fourth parking level, through an access door, and along a dim and musty hallway. No security cameras were in view. A threadbare, ochre-colored carpet decorated the floor. The interior had the look of an old, frayed hotel, with chipped wooden paneling against the walls, and faded brown doors. The doors included keyholes, unlike the electronic passkeys more modern apartments employed. Midway down the hallway was a small alcove for the elevator. A few doormats here and there indicated occupied units, and the faint sounds from holo-visions burbled behind the doors. Besim led the way to another stairwell at the far end. We trudged up three more flights of stairs, my leg muscles burning with the climb.
Don’t get me wrong: I was in decent shape, for a guy my age. I always broke a big sweat walking from my desk to the coffee pot. We’re talking at least ten times before noon. I also walked two blocks to the Metro station near my apartment.
And I didn’t eat a lot of donuts.
Life is a marathon, people, not a sprint.
I tried not to huff and puff, but when Besim called a halt in front of one door, I let out an audible sigh.
“Just happy we’re here,” I wheezed, as a sickly smile pasted my face.
Besim moved further down the hall, waving the scanner while glancing at the readout, then returned.
“The trail continues behind this door,” she stated. The consultant stared at the wood with that same cold, clinical look she must reserve for administering proctology exams.
I bet she ate her dinner uncooked too, like raw meat and stuff. The bloodier, the better.
Yeah, even my issues need a prescription.
The door was demarcated with a brass unit number attached above one large brass knocker. There was a joke here, but I left it alone.
No intercom or door bell. A thin doormat with the faded word Welcome on its surface sat crookedly on the floor.
I did a double take at the unit number.
“This is Tony’s apartment,” I said.
I eyeballed the hallway before drawing my hand-cannon. It was very quiet.
Besim’s eyes widened at the sight of the SMART gun. She stepped away from the door.
“Size does matter,” I muttered defensively.
Deacon took up a position at an angle that would keep him hidden to anyone inside opening the door unless they stepped out into the hallway. He wasn’t holding a weapon, but he looked at me and nodded once.
I knocked on the door.
“Tony Marrazzo, this is Detective Tom Holliday with the Empire City Pol…err…Special Crimes Unit,” I said, employing my authoritative policeman’s voice. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I waited a few heartbeats, but there was no response. One of the neighbors opened their door, but after a quick glare from me, they disappeared. I knocked again.
“Mr. Marrazzo, this is Detective Holliday with ECSCU. Would you please open the door?”
Nothing.
My heart rate picked up. An old, familiar anxiety weighed down my shoulders. I willed my muscles to relax, then silently counted to five. Years of training and experience allowed me to maintain a clear, level head. If you’re in this business long enough, you’ll run into someone waving a gun and pointing it at innocent people. I’d shot people before, and as far as I and the law were concerned, they damned well deserved it. That’s not to say right now I expected someone to come at me with a weapon, but as a cop, I’m supposed to be prepared for anything.
Besides, I couldn’t find Vanessa Mallery’s murderer if I got killed on my first day on the job.
“It ain’t opening by itself, Holliday,” Deacon murmured.
I glared at him but didn’t move. Besim cocked her head to one side, listening. I glanced from her back to Deacon.
“There is no one home,” she stated quietly. “I do not hear anything beyond the door.”
“They could be standing still, or on the far side of the room,” I pointed out, my voice low.
“A distinct possibility,” Besim said. “However, I hear neither breathing nor a heartbeat, other than present company.”
“You don’t hear a heartbeat?” I looked to Deacon for help. “Seriously, she can hear that?”
Deacon shrugged as the consultant offered me a patient sm
ile. “I am certain you will learn to trust me in time, Detective Holliday. I understand your reservations, but I hope to prove myself to you.”
“Fine,” I groused. “But you’d better be right.”
After holstering the gun, I donned rubber gloves and removed a cloth roll from my blazer’s inner pocket. Inside were several thin metal instruments.
Deacon gave me a sly look.
“We’re conducting a murder investigation,” I explained in a matter-of-fact tone. “One of our eyewitnesses could be in danger, so now I have probable cause.”
“Still illegal,” he chuckled.
I ignored him, selected the tools I needed, and stuck them in my mouth while I rolled the cloth back.
My modest lock picking skills were more than a match for the door’s basic lock. I heard a faint click-click sound, then turned the knob, slowly pushing inward. To my great relief, no flying bullets, feral cats, or psychotic ex-girlfriends rushed out at me. Instead, I was met by the pleasant scent of lemon. I stepped into the dark foyer. Soft lamplight appeared further ahead. The apartment was a one-bedroom affair with a living and kitchen area, a bathroom and two closets.
It was also immaculate.
From the straightened comforter to the pots and pans hanging from pegs in the kitchen, the apartment reeked of excessive cleanliness. Either Tony employed cleaning fairies, or he was fastidious to the extreme. Even the bottles in the wine rack next to the coffee table looked like they’d been dusted off. The rack was nearly full, except for one spot at the bottom where the pinot was kept. I pulled a bottle at random from its setting.
“Expensive taste,” I remarked, then put it back.
I handed Deacon and Besim rubber gloves and watched them move about the apartment, opening cabinets and drawers. Several colorful plastic pamphlets were neatly stacked by the coffee table. They were advertisements for Wrigley-Boes Pharmaceuticals, highlighting their spectrum of vitamins and other health aids. The covers were split in half. One side displayed a scrawny-looking older man wearing a white lab coat surrounded by laboratory equipment. The other depicted a handsome young man holding hands with an equally fit young woman. The caption read “Live the life you’ve always wanted!”
“Cleaning service is thorough,” Deacon observed.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Doesn’t this seem too neat and clean?”
“Or he pays his cleaning service to be thorough,” Deacon countered.
“I don’t know,” I grumbled. “There’s just something wrong about all of this.”
“Mr. Marrazzo is no doubt traumatized from the encounter last night,” Besim pointed out. “It is natural he would wish to remain as far away from the occurrence as possible. Perhaps his cleaning service is scheduled for this morning? They would have access to his apartment regardless of whether he was home.”
What they said made sense, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was missing something. I walked over to the window and peered out at the gray and gloom.
“Holliday, there ain’t nothing here,” Deacon said. “Should we head up to the roof?”
He was right. There was no point in staying.
Forty minutes and a fruitless search of the roof later, we returned to the pod. The scanner hadn’t picked up anything on the roof, not even lemon scent.
It was time to interview the witnesses.
Chapter 8
I brooded as we sped toward Julie’s apartment. Deacon smoked another cigarette, while Besim stared at the evidence bags resting on the slide table, an unreadable expression on her face.
“I’m going to dig more into Vanessa’s background,” I said after a while, if only to break the silence. “There has to be somebody in her life who is connected to this. Jilted ex-lover, a co-worker, maybe a pissed off milk man?”
No one responded to that, content to sit and wait. I re-examined the physical evidence, as well as Vanessa’s file. Investigating a murder, or any case for that matter, was an exhaustive and tedious process. Most times, you ran into red herrings that lead nowhere fast. Solving these types of crimes required patience and dedication, and a meticulous attention to detail. Even the smallest clues held significant meaning. However, everything I reviewed spun a simple story about a single young woman living in the big city. She must have had friends, a close confidante, somebody with whom she socialized that I could talk to and get an idea of what happened. And there was always the work angle, much like the Murray case.
Yet my instincts told me the truth was far more sinister. Her blood had been drained from her body, which threw normal out the window.
The eyewitnesses would add color and depth to the bigger picture, but how much truth would they provide? They had both been wasted on ’joy. Anything they had seen the previous night would be suspect.
I spent the remainder of the trip nursing my jumbled thoughts, and a cold mug of coffee.
We arrived in a classy neighborhood in Soho. The streets were a lot cleaner here, and the eclectic mix of boutiques and residences made the area a haven for artists, free thinkers and musicians. Julie’s apartment building was a renovated warehouse with a covered entrance and a uniformed doorman. Its dark exterior walls gave it an industrial character, and tendrils of ivy clung to the brick.
The rain dripped in fitful spurts with no end in sight. I secured the pod, and as we crossed the narrow street, I planted a foot in a pothole filled with cold rainwater.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I exclaimed, shaking my leg. A young couple out for a stroll gave me a dirty look.
It was turning into one of those days.
As we approached the doorman, I ID’d myself and explained our purpose. His nametag read “Phelps.” The doorman’s eyes widened as he took in Besim and Deacon.
“Yeah, Miss DeGrassi’s home with her boyfriend,” Phelps said. He was mid-fifties, with a plain face and worker hands. “She in any danger?”
“Not on my watch,” I said over my shoulder as we entered the building.
We took the elevator. After a quick exchange with the two officers on duty, we made our way to Julie’s apartment. There were only six units on the third floor. The place smelled nice, with lighting from antique, torch-like lamps in sconces along the walls.
Julie greeted us at the door. She was pretty, athletic, and wore just enough makeup that she should give lessons to Besim. Her perfume was light and pleasant, and I couldn’t help but smile when she shook my hand. Julie hadn’t slept much, judging from the bags under her tired hazel eyes, although her clothes were fresh. Some of that exhaustion evaporated when she caught sight of the Vellan.
“Please come in,” she said, casting a sidelong glance at Besim as we walked past.
Julie’s apartment was the kitschy kind of cute that annoyed me for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’m a horrible interior decorator and have no sense of style or color coordination. Let’s face it, lawn furniture in the living room has never been popular, but at least I found it comfortable.
Her place was half again the size of Tony’s and included a powder room to the right of the entry door. A few quick steps brought us into a living room with two built-in bookshelves flanking a leather couch and matching loveseat, coffee table and reading chair. The shelves were filled with a variety of bric-a-brac as well as several holo-frames. From the images, Julie liked to travel to the European enclaves. An empty bottle of pinot and two wine glasses were on the coffee table. Red dregs stained the bottom of each glass.
The kitchen ran off the living room to the right, and a closed door on the opposite wall indicated the bedroom. A full wine rack rested against the wall underneath a breakfast bar that included two stools. The walls held a few paintings, mostly abstract oils and geometric shapes that art snobs fawned over.
“Not bad on an executive assistant’s salary,” I murmured to Deacon.
Sitting dejectedly at one end of the couch was Tony, wearing the same clothes from the night before if the mud-spattered pants and shirt were any indication. His head
was held in his right hand, and he didn’t look up as we entered the room. A few days’ growth covered his face, and he had that slick hairstyle James Reynolds and the other young Wall Street punks wore nowadays, a throwback to the Reaganomics era of the 1980s.
“Can I get you anything?” Julie offered. “Coffee or tea?”
I live by a few simple rules, one of which is when someone offers you coffee, you say yes. Unless that someone is trying to kill you, in which case you accept the coffee under advisement.
I smiled, thanking her. Besim requested tea. Deacon declined, wandering around the apartment to study the paintings and holo-frames with unabashed interest.
“I didn’t realize there were any Vellans on the police force,” Julie remarked from the kitchen.
“She’s on loan from their embassy,” I jumped in quickly before Besim could respond. “ECPD is test driving a new cross-cultural initiative. They show us theirs, we show them ours, that sort of thing.”
Besim arched an eyebrow but said nothing as she settled into the loveseat.
“That’s nice,” Julie replied. She asked us how we took our coffee. “You want any, baby?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Tony croaked in a rough voice.
He cleared his throat a few times before raising his head to take in the three of us with haunted, bloodshot eyes. I’d seen that expression a million times in my own mirror. Poor guy. He yawned and stood up unsteadily to shake my hand. I made with the introductions, then took the chair opposite him.
“Please state your full name for the record,” I said, leaning forward with my elbows resting on my thighs. EVI would catalogue the interview.
“Um, yeah, okay, it’s, um, Anthony Lukah Marrazzo,” he said. “But you can call me Tony.”
“Thank you, Tony.” I smiled. “Can you tell us what happened last night?”
The smell of roasting coffee grounds floated into the living room. Tony stared straight ahead, biting his lip. I noticed dried blood where he’d been worrying at it.
“It’ll be okay baby, you can tell them,” Julie encouraged from the kitchen. “They’ll believe you.”
