by Erin Huss
Oh, come on. "It's a prison, Tom. Why didn't you just say he's in prison… Are you laughing at me?"
"No, I'm laughing with you."
"I'm not laughing."
"Do you honestly think I would give you the home address of a man who has a violent criminal history?"
"No?"
"He's five years into a twenty-year sentence," Tom said. "This is probably your guy."
"I've narrowed the victim's identity down to six immigrants from El Salvador who all match the description of the woman in the barrel, and they lived there around the time when she was killed."
"Cool. Case solved. Will you marry me now?"
"Goodbye." I hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of my nose.
"Can we go home?" Kevin asked. "I need to find a job, and I'm hungry."
"I still think you should take Trevor up on his offer."
"He only made the offer because he took some coo-coo-head meditation course about mending fences, and balancing family, and blah…blah…blah. He feels guilty because he has my inheritance. Instead of giving me a job, he could make my rent free again."
"But isn't having a job better?"
"No!"
"You could learn all about property management."
"I grew up in the business. I know everything there is to know about the industry."
"Then why do you constantly break the rules?"
"Knowing the right and doing the right are two different things."
Ain't that the truth.
* * *
When I got home, Amy was curled up on the couch reading. The blinds were drawn, and an açai bowl from the health food mart down the street was on the floor, untouched.
I liked Clean Amy better than Bookworm Amy.
"How'd you get here?" I asked.
"Uber. Your office phone has been ringing off the hook," she said, not lifting her eyes from the book.
"What are you reading?" Kevin asked.
"The first Zankla book. Ever heard of the series?"
Kevin bent over in a laughing fit, slapping his knee and gasping for breath.
"Is that a yes?" I asked.
"That's the former manager chick." He ran a finger under his eyes, catching the tears, still laughing. "It's supposed to be about her time working at Burbank. Let me read that when you're done."
"Mmmhmm," Amy said, not exactly paying attention.
I went to my office and checked the messages. Three were from Silvia, still trying to confirm our double date on Friday, and to let me know Larry, her neighbor, was on his patio shirtless. I had a message from Fox, wanting to talk about his goats. There was one message from Marlene in Apartment 11A at Burbank, wanting to talk about her neighbor. Nothing from Patrick.
Great.
I dropped my face into my hands. Patrick was making it very difficult to not suspect him of murder. But then, it was Patrick. I remembered the day he'd offered me this job. I had locked myself in the bathroom of the crap-hole apartment I'd been living in at the time. When he told me the job was mine, I'd practically passed out from excitement. We'd been through so much together over the last ten months: a drug problem, murder, fire, murder, fire, and that time Larry fell from the roof. I'd never had a hard time getting ahold of Patrick. I managed his flagship property. He took my calls.
Unless… I sat up straighter. Was he ghosting me? Had he spoken to the Dashwoods already and he was so upset that he couldn't talk to me? I wasn't sure how Dr. Dashwood managed to get ahold of him. I'd given them his cell number, and his phone was off and went straight to a full voice mail box.
Ugh. I hated not knowing what was going on. I wrestled with dropping everything and going to look for Patrick, and staying put to do my job.
Ultimately, I went with the latter.
I looked up Alvin Leo on Facebook. He was easy enough to find. Alvin now had a goatee, shaggy white hair, and diamond earrings. I sent him a message with my phone number, asking him to please call me.
Then, I called Marlene. She answered on the first ring. "Cambria, we have a big problem. I can hear someone being tortured."
Tortured? "What happened?" I asked.
"I heard a woman screaming upstairs. It might be coming from the attic. I heard the police found something suspicious up there yesterday."
Yes, they had. They found a dead woman, not a screaming one. Of course, I didn't say this to her. "Did you call the police?"
"No, I didn't. Should I call them?"
"If you believe someone is in danger, then you should absolutely…" A thought came to my mind. "Hold on one second." I put Marlene on hold and called Fox using my office phone. As soon as he picked up, I could hear the goats screaming in the background. "Fox, I'm getting complaints from residents about the goats."
"It's not my fault," he said. "They're not happy."
"They would probably be happier if they weren't cooped up in an apartment. Have you made any progress in finding them a home?"
"No. I was able to download a certificate off the internet to make them emotional support animals, though."
Ugh. This was a muddled area of property management. Legally, residents were allowed to have emotional support pets, so long as they provided proof that said animal was for therapeutic purposes. Legally, I wasn't allowed to ask what the therapeutic purpose was. Illegally, the residents could print off a fake certificate online stating that these animals were for therapy. Legally, I couldn't ask if the certificate was fake. Nor could I charge a pet deposit.
I was completely sympathetic to those who did need an emotional animal. Hell, if I weren't allergic to everything with fur, I'd have been first in line to get one. I was an emotional wreck.
However, Fox just openly admitted to printing a certificate online, and I felt comfortable enough that any judge—should Fox sue for discrimination—would see that accidentally buying two goats wasn't good for anyone's mental health. Including Fox's. Being that he'd yelled at them to stop screaming at least three times since he'd picked up the phone.
"Fox, if you don't remove the goats, then I'm going to have to serve you with a notice to vacate."
"My lawyer said I could keep them."
"Great. What's your lawyer's name and number? I'll have him speak to mine."
"Uh…his name i-is…," Fox mumbled something under his breath. I'd called his bluff, and he knew it. Residents threw around the "lawyer" word like it was candy. I had serious doubt Fox had an attorney on retainer on the off chance he'd accidentally buy two goats. "I'll figure something out."
"Soon." I hung up and returned to Marlene. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. You'll be happy to know that no one was being tortured. The screaming was coming from a resident who has goats in his apartment. They are not allowed to be there, and he will be getting rid of them shortly."
"That's…weird."
Agreed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No. I guess not." There was a brief pause. "You sure it was goats?"
"I am. Please feel free to call me if the problem continues." We hung up, and I called Patrick. Again, he didn't answer. The call went straight to a full voice mail. I wanted to groan out loud, to throw something, or to bang my head against the desk. I was so sick of hearing: "The voice mail box is full. Good-bye."
That's it!
* * *
I'd never been to Patrick's office before. His address was displayed on my direct deposit stubs, and I pulled up the directions on my phone and said a quick prayer of thanks to the traffic gods that my ETA was only eighteen minutes. My car grumbled to life, and I was on my way. Neither Kevin nor Amy asked where I was going, how long I'd be gone, or why I was limping (I'd rammed my knee into the side of the desk in my rush to leave). They were far too invested in their Zankla books to care about murderous matters.
Elder Property Management was located in a pale building across the street from a Trader Joe's. Much to my surprise, there was a free parking lot designated for the small industrial park.
/> There were few things that made me happier than free parking.
Up on the second floor in Unit 293, I found a tinted door with Elder Property Management engraved on a brass plate. I yanked and pushed on the handle a few times with no luck. The door was locked, despite the Hours of Operation 9AM-5PM M-F decal on the window. I kept pushing and pulling anyway, hoping the door would magically open and there would be Patrick, sitting behind his desk, already on the phone with Hampton, assuring him that he had nothing to do with any women in barrels.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my forehead against the window. The blinds were partially drawn, and all I caught was the edge of a desk. I crouched down to get a better look. From this angle, I saw the backside of a computer and a hand on the mouse. Patrick was in there!
Or at least someone was.
I knocked on the door politely at first. When that didn't work, I used the inside of my fists until I heard the click of the lock. Patrick opened the door with his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He had on a blue, collared shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants and stark white Nike shoes on his feet. His attire often reminded me of Forest Gump's, minus the Bubba Gump hat. Patrick had a cul-de-sac of hair and a no-nonsense air to him.
"Cambria," he said. "I thought you were sick today."
So he had read my email. Just hadn't bothered to reply.
"I'm feeling better." I wanted to come right out and ask him why he'd been acting so suspicious these last two days, but decided to ease into the accusations. "Did you talk to Chase or Hampton?"
"Detective Hampton and I have been playing phone tag."
"I tried your office line, and it was disconnected."
"Everyone calls me on my cell. There was no point in paying for a line I don't use."
"Oh. OK" was all I could think to say. I clasped my hands and waited, thinking he'd invite me in. But all he did was stand there, wedged between the door and frame, staring down at me as if I'd just crashed a party I wasn't invited to. "Is that why your voice mail box is full?" I asked.
"I underestimated how many phone calls I receive a day."
Kind of hard to know how many calls you get when your phone is off was what I wanted to say. But I convinced myself to remain composed.
"Speaking of phone calls," Patrick said. "I had an interesting conversation with the Dashwoods."
Crap.
"You interviewed for a job next door," he said.
My lips were numb, and I forced words out. "Yes?"
"Is that a question or an answer?"
"Answer?"
"Why didn't you tell me you were looking for a new job?"
"They asked me if I would interview. I wasn't looking."
"I told them you'd do a great job."
My heart lifted. "Thank you, Patrick. I really appreciate it. I've loved working here, and I'm so grateful for all that you've done."
"My pleasure. Your leaving has made my decision easier."
"What decision?"
"I'm finally quitting the business."
"What? Why?" My mind went to the woman in the barrel. Maybe Patrick was the killer after all, and his guilty conscious had him making hasty decisions. He wasn't even old enough to retire!
"This business is exhausting, and now we have another murder. Do you know how much paperwork is involved every time you find a dead body?"
"Actually, Fox found the body."
"It doesn't matter. I'll let Trevor know tomorrow, and he'll hire a new management company."
"What will happen to Mr. Nguyen?"
"He's a good employee. I'm sure he'll find another job, just like you did."
My throat clenched, and I made a strangled sound. The thing was, I didn't have a new job, yet. There was still this murder business to deal with, and who knew if the story would get out in the news? Who knew if the Dashwoods had a more qualified applicant?
This wasn't even about my job. What about Mr. Nguyen? Not only would we both be unemployed, but also we'd be out of a place to live.
"Patrick, what if I stay?" My voice sounded high and shaky, and I was, I knew, seconds away from actually starting to cry. "Would you reconsider quitting?"
"I'm sick of this business, Cambria. The decision has already been made." He opened the door wider, revealing moving boxes stacked up against the wall. "I had planned to move to a home office, but I think it's time I move on."
I stepped back and bumped into a woman pushing a stroller.
"Watch where you're going," the mother said and maneuvered around me.
"W-w-w-w…" It was like my mouth had forgotten how to make words and my lips suddenly felt about ten sizes too big for my face. "You can't just quit!"
"Yes, I can." Patrick's tone was not unsympathetic. Which didn't help matters.
"B-b-but. Why did you tell me that Trevor said I couldn't look through the archived files?" I knew how accusing I sounded, but I couldn't help myself.
Patrick jammed his hands into his pockets, but he offered no words.
"Did you have something to do with the woman in the barrel?" I figured I might as well come right out and ask. It wasn't like he could fire me at this point. He was already closing up shop!
"No, I did not," he said, but I wasn't sure if I believed him or not. "I do have a lot of work to get done, and I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else about this until I've had the chance."
"OK," I said, shaking my head, feeling utterly disappointed. I thought we had a good enough working relationship. Hell, we were even Facebook friends! I couldn't believe he'd quit and leave his employees high and dry. It seemed like an odd time to make such a drastic decision.
Too odd.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vast experience in dealing with hopeless situations
I drove home, listening to Semisonic's "Closing Time" on repeat. Chances were a new management company would bring in their own staff. That's what had happened to former maintenance guy, Neo. Why wouldn't it happen to us? I never thought interviewing at Cedar Creek would mean Mr. Nguyen would lose his job, too. If I had known, then I wouldn't have done it. Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen were family.
It wasn't quite four o'clock when I pulled into my carport. I somberly walked along the pathway to my apartment, dragging my feet and feeling like someone had just dropped a fifty-pound weight on my shoulders. I opened the door to my apartment to find Amy and Kevin in the exact same positions I'd left them in. I didn't even bother saying hello and shuffled straight to my office.
I plopped into my chair, crossed my forearms on the desk, and rested my forehead against them. For a while, I concentrated on pulling air into my lungs, inhaling the lavender scent of my soap. What a giant mess.
My phone pinged. It was my mother, wanting to know how Lilly's first day of preschool went. I imagined she was sitting at her desk at work, counting down the minutes. When I didn't immediately reply, she sent another text message:
What's wrong?
I began to craft a reply when a text from Tom came in. It was a picture of Lilly standing in front of his car holding a finger painting. She was missing a bow, her hair was a mess, and there was paint on her shirt, and grass stains on her knees. But she'd never looked happier. I felt a swell in my heart. My kid was happy. At least I was doing one thing right.
I forwarded the picture to my mother, and she replied back with seven hearts. I imagined her setting the picture as her phone's background, just as I was doing.
"Is that Lilly?" Amy asked, looking over my shoulder. "What happened to her?"
"She had fun. Why aren't you with your book?"
"I finished. Kevin's reading it now. I have to be in this movie. It's going to be a massive hit."
"Maybe I should write a book about my job."
"Can I play you in the movie?"
"Sure."
"Good." Amy rolled up the other office chair and plopped down, crossing her legs in a slow, exaggerated movement, like a therapist preparing for an intense session. "I'
m ready to hear all about New York now."
"I'm not ready to talk about it." I started organizing the drawer again.
Amy tapped her nails on the armrest in slow, rhythmic motions. "I found the ring in your suitcase."
Crud. "What were you doing in my suitcase?"
"Looking for your hair straighter."
Oh. Shoot. Served me right for not unpacking. "What did the ring look like?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Like a beautiful one carat, white gold, vintage, halo-style, channel-set, round diamond engagement ring," she said. "Now dish. Who proposed?"
I returned my forehead to the desktop. "Chase," I said, my voice low. Which was true. The engagement ring she found was the one Chase gave me.
Amy made a strangled sound, and I turned my head to make sure she was still breathing. Her mouth was open so wide I could practically see her tonsils. "You two haven't even been together a year. Why would he propose?"
"I don't know. We hadn't talked about marriage, per se. He's been waiting for his FBI training orders, and I think he's scared I won't wait for him."
"What did you say?"
"Yes."
Amy jumped up, sending her chair crashing into the shredder and knocking it over. "She said yes!"
"Shut up!" Kevin hollered from the living room couch. "I'm reading."
"This is amazing." Amy started pacing. She did this when she was either stressed or sick or drunk or excited. I assumed it was the latter. "We'll do two bridal showers. One here, and one back home in Fresno. Bachelorette party in Cabo. I'll pick out the bridesmaid dresses, of course. I'm thinking a low cut with a high slit, black. And we're going to need to pluck your eyebrows."
"Slow your roll." I stood in her pacing path. "There's more to the story."
"Oh, no, you ruined it, didn't you? Why, Cambria? Wwwhhhhyyyy?" She perched her bony little butt up on my desk. "Wait, no. No. Tom ruined this. How many times have I told you that man does not love you? He does not want to be with you. This whole song and dance about loving you is because he hates the idea of another man in Lilly's life. Period. Please, please, tell me you didn't allow him to ruin the healthiest relationship you've ever had."
