by Whitley Gray
The elevator dinged and shuddered to a halt. Zach gave him a peck on the cheek, and Beck’s face warmed. PDAs were nerve-racking, even if there was no public witnessing the display.
The doors parted, and Zach stepped out. He gave the humorless smile. “Bye. See you at lunch?”
Snap out of it, damn it. “Sure. If we’re done.”
Slowly the doors closed, leaving Beck alone.
With luck, Hogan would have the affidavit ready to go. The sooner the search warrant was signed, the sooner they could get it over with. Likely it’d be mundane, turning up the detritus of an ordinary life. Then at lunch, he could tell Zach how boring it had been, and maybe Zach would come out of his funk.
On the other hand, if they discovered Perny’s place was a crime scene, Zach might withdraw further.
Beck entered robbery/homicide, noting Van hunched over a desk with Richfield next to him. Lord, have mercy. A doubleheader of irritation. No way could Beck face the day without caffeine. He detoured to the coffee corner and poured a cupful.
“Beck?” SJ motioned from her office. “I have our visitor here.”
The man was dressed in dark polyester pants, a gray-striped dress shirt, and cowboy boots. He had watery blue eyes set in a ruddy face. At one time his hair had probably been straw-colored, but now had the ash-blond color of encroaching gray. He stood and stuck out a hand. “Detective? Clay Hogan. Good to meet ya.”
Beck shook. “Beck Stryker. Good to meet you too.”
They both took seats. SJ leaned back on her desk. “Detective Hogan has been filling me in on Mr. Perny.”
What could Beck say? Good things, I hope? “Okay…”
Hogan’s pale gaze settled on him. “I’ve got documentation for the warrant. If you can pull up an affidavit form on your computer, I can paste a copy, and we can get underway.”
“Sounds good. I can get you started.”
“I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” SJ sent them on their way.
As soon as Beck was clear of the office, he took a slug of coffee. Not bad, for once. Not as good as what Zach made at home, but not bad. “Care for coffee, Detective Hogan?”
“It’s Clay, and no, thanks. Had breakfast at the hotel. Bottomless cup.”
Beck led the way to an unoccupied desk and opened a blank warrant document on the computer. “Here you go, Detec—er, Clay. I’ll check in with my partner while you work.”
“Good enough.” Hogan plopped down and began two-finger typing.
This could take a while. Beck ambled over to Van and Richfield. “Morning.”
“Morning.” Richfield’s glance darted away. He’d paired navy pants with a yellow shirt and a brown sports coat. An orange tie with tiny pink pigs bound the package into a four-alarm fashion faux pas. The man needed Matching Outfits 101.
“You’re not taking me along, partner?” Van gave Beck an unfriendly look.
“It’s a coordinated search, not a collar.”
“Word is it’s a possible connection to a killer.”
Beck raised his eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”
Scowling, Van swung his chair to face Beck. “Around.”
Around? How? Van’s fiancée, Katie, worked vice; she wouldn’t know. And SJ wouldn’t have talked to Van. Beck focused on Richfield. The rookie detective flushed scarlet and directed his attention to the floor.
There’s the culprit. Beck wanted to strangle Richfield with the piglet-polka-dot tie. The day couldn’t go further downhill, could it?
Beck sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m working with the visiting detective. A couple of uniforms will assist. That’s all.”
Richfield cleared his throat.
“And Detective Richfield.” Unfortunately. Beck would rather put up with Van and his advances than the inept newbie.
Van glared. “For now, I’m your partner.”
“Hey, take it up with SJ.”
“Is your shrink going along?”
Just the sort of comment Beck expected. Don’t give in. “It’s—”
“Beck?” Hogan waved him over. “Ready to go.”
Casting a stony look at Van, Beck pushed off the desk and went to assist. One click and the printer hummed. “That was fast.”
“Copy and paste. Big time-saver.” Lowering his voice, Hogan said, “A word, Beck.”
Now what? He settled into the straight chair next to the desk.
“Before we head out to get this thing signed, I’d like to speak with Dr. Littman.”
“He’s on vacation.” Beck could hear the protective challenge in his tone.
“Still.” The syllable had a hard edge, the tone of a man used to getting his way. “Agent Ruskin isn’t here yet. I’ve cleared Littman’s involvement with your captain.”
Anger and frustration swirled together in Beck’s stomach. Hogan was going to embroil Zach in the Crossroads case once again, pull him into the world of profiling. Pull him away from Beck. He swallowed the protest lodged in his throat. “I’ll call him.”
* * * *
No doubt about it, Beck was pissed. From the passenger seat, Zach stole a look. Beck’s profile could have been carved from granite, and he’d said about as much as a statue since they’d gotten in the car. Still mad. With Richfield in the backseat, there wouldn’t be any discussion about Zach’s tagalong. But later…
Beck would have a lot to say later. Probably an expletive-filled soliloquy at top volume.
Hogan followed in his rental car, trailed by a cruiser with two uniforms. It had surprised Zach when Hogan asked for Zach’s assistance. Beck had oozed disapproval when he summoned Zach to robbery/homicide this morning, and Zach had done his best to hide his excitement.
Beck had behaved like he had to share his favorite toy, but secretly Zach had been pleased. More pleased than he should be, given the circumstances. Hadn’t he promised Beck he’d left this behind?
But I’ve invested so much work in the Crossroads case. This will be it. The final hurrah. No more behavioral cases after this, I swear.
Beck pulled to the curb in Sunnyside. Hogan and the squad car parked behind them. The house was an elderly Victorian foursquare converted into apartments. Peeling white paint revealed silvered clapboards, and the gingerbread appeared eaten by time and weather.
The three of them climbed out and joined Hogan and the uniforms. In silence, Zach followed Beck and Hogan up the porch steps. A mum Richfield hung back with the patrol officers.
It’s technically not a crime scene. And holy hell, Zach wanted that to be true.
A short man with thinning blond hair and a wispy mustache waited on the porch. He zeroed in on Beck. “Detective Stryker? Mick Mackelroy, the property manager.”
Beck shook with him. “Thanks for meeting us here.”
“Here ya go.” Mackelroy handed over a ring holding several labeled keys. “When you’re done, leave ’em with the girl in three, okay?”
“Sure.” Beck passed the keys to Hogan. Mackelroy thumped down the steps and disappeared around the side of the house.
Zach stared after him. Why had Hogan let the man leave? They could have interviewed him. Had the guy known Perny? Why hadn’t he offered to let them in? Most people were intensely curious about a police search.
“The place is divided into six apartments.” Beck seemed to look past Zach, irritation in action. “Three units on the first floor. One’s vacant, and the students in the others are in the process of moving out. Perny lived in one of the two second-story apartments, and the other is vacant. There’s a single studio apartment on the third level, and it’s empty.”
“Who had lived in the other second floor apartment?” Zach walked to the porch railing and squinted at the upstairs.
Neutrally, Beck said, “The elderly woman who owned the place.”
“Past tense?”
“Yeah. She fell down the stairs and sustained a closed head injury; died last month.” After a moment Beck added, “Medical examiner ruled it an accident.”
>
“Who owns the property now?” Hogan jingled the keys.
“The son—the guy who gave us the keys.”
Hogan’s pale gaze met Zach’s. “You think there’s more to it than an accident?”
“Not sure. Nothing turned up on the interviews with the other residents afterward?”
“No.” Beck sounded convinced. “No one saw her fall. According to the police report, Perny wasn’t around when it happened.” Beck opened the front door and motioned everyone inside. The entry opened into a foyer featuring ancient wallpaper and a scratched-up wooden floor. The space smelled of old wood, overcooked onions, and dust.
To the left there was a door bearing a metal 1. There was another door straight ahead, 2, and one to the right labeled 3. Beyond door number three, a staircase hugged the right-hand wall, disappearing upstairs.
“Let’s go.” Beck jerked his head at Richfield and climbed the steps.
Hogan wiped his face with a handkerchief and followed, along with the patrolmen. Zach brought up the rear. Some treads squeaked. Several were spongy, as if rotted underneath. The banister wobbled beneath his palm. Falling down the stairs wouldn’t have been difficult for an elderly woman unsteady on her feet.
The steps ended in a landing, with doors on three sides. Here the left had a 4, and the right had a 5. The middle door had the letter A.
“Four was the old lady’s place,” Beck said. “The door straight ahead goes to the studio apartment. Our guy was in number five.”
An ordinary door, was five. With luck, there would be no horrors to discover inside.
Hogan found the right key and turned it in the lock. The door swung open on soundless hinges. Interesting. With the neglect visible elsewhere, Zach had expected creaking worthy of a horror movie.
The apartment smelled of nothing more sinister than stale air. Not a hint of a coppery odor, not a breath of rot. The place was furnished in Early American Thrift Shop. Secondhand furniture and TV, nothing on the walls. Very minimalist.
Neat and orderly. Certainly nothing that screamed Serial Killer Central. They all pulled on plastic gloves.
Hogan looked around the room. “Not much, is it?”
“Not on the surface.” Zach squinted at the single window. Good natural light. “Electricity on?”
“Yep.” Beck crossed his arms and pinned him with a steely gaze.
Zach swallowed. “We need to check the fridge first.” We need to make sure there are no human remains in there.
Without another word, Beck headed to the tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Nothing weird. Condiments and past-date milk.”
Zach’s gut relaxed. Thank God. No body parts. “Freezer?”
Squaring his shoulders, Beck swung it open. “Frost. That’s it.”
“Okay, folks. Let’s take a look around.” Hogan directed the uniforms to the bedroom. “Detective Richfield, why don’t you take the shed in the backyard?”
Flushing, Richfield nodded and made a hasty exit.
“Beck, would you do the bathroom?”
“Sure.” Beck turned on his heel and headed down the short hall. Zach stared after him. As Zach wasn’t there as law enforcement, he wouldn’t be participating in the search. He’d be…interpreting? Cogitating? Taking up space?
Hogan eyed him. “You want to look around out here with me? Might be helpful.”
The apartment had a built-in bookcase in the living room. The books were arranged in alphabetical order, and then from tallest to shortest in sections according to the topic. Popular fiction seemed to be the biggest grouping. Then there was true crime, poetry, and photography.
The last division was devoted to textbooks: law, political science, economics. Organized to the point of compulsion. Zach turned to Hogan. “What did he do? Anyone know?”
“Not yet,” Hogan replied. “Landlord said he was a nice guy, charming, but not around a lot. His rental application said ‘student.’”
An organized offender. White, male, age twenty-eight to thirty-five, associated with a university. A transfer student from Omaha? “How long did he live here?”
“He had the place since last June.”
“He must have some connection to Omaha.”
“When we get into his financials, we should be able to get some of that figured out,” Hogan said. “For now we know he was in school somewhere within the last year, and was in Omaha before his death.”
“Did you find his car?” Zach asked.
Hogan’s lips thinned. “We did. The car turned up near the body. Still pending some on trace, but nothing useful so far. Had a temporary plate—he hadn’t had it long.”
“You didn’t find a murder kit?”
“No.”
“Thought we’re investigating Perny’s death here,” Beck said, walking into the living room. He held a baggie of green material.
“We are.” Zach raised his eyebrows. “Just talking.”
“Pot.” Beck held up his find. “Need an evidence bag.”
Zach pulled one off a pile next to the front door and held it out. Beck still wore the stony expression, devoid of his usual humor. Zach tried a smile, but it wasn’t returned. The tension between them had to be obvious. Right now he wanted to drag Beck somewhere private and straighten things out, but it would have to wait.
Beck dropped the baggie inside, sealed it, and initialed the tape. “Back to work.”
After another hour of watching, Zach excused himself to the front porch. He eased into one of a pair of ailing wicker chairs and enjoyed the spring breeze. It was clear and beautiful, without the humidity of Minnesota. The air was redolent with honeysuckle and fresh-baked cookies. A nice day to do just about anything but search a dead man’s apartment.
A dark-haired girl stepped onto the porch, carrying a tray loaded with cookies and two bottles of water. She set it on the table between the chairs. “Thought you might like a snack, Officer.”
“Thanks. But I’m not a law enforcement officer.”
She sat in the other wobbly wicker chair. “You’re not with the others?”
Not really. “I’m more of an adviser/observer. I’m Zach.”
“Hello, Zach. I’m India. Have a cookie.”
Chocolate chip. Zach picked up one and took a bite. “Good. Thanks.”
“Welcome.” She nibbled on a cookie. “Sooo…what did Nap do?”
“Nap?”
“Nathan, the guy whose place you’re searching? Nathan Andrew Perny. N-A-P. He goes by Nap. Too many unpaid parking tickets?”
“It’s…confidential.” For now, anyway. Apparently the other inhabitants didn’t know of Perny’s demise. “Police business.”
“Does it have something to do with the envelope?” Her dark eyes widened.
“What envelope?”
“Last winter Nap took off for about a week. It was over Christmas break, right after he got settled. When he came back, he seemed kind of…wound up. He wanted to know if we’d received any of his mail by mistake. He was missing some important envelope he’d been expecting.” She propped her chin on one hand.
Huh. “Did he say who the mail was from, or why it was so important?”
“No. But he seemed pretty crazy that it was missing. Usually he’s laid-back, but he went off the deep end, ranting about federal offenses for mail tampering. The mailboxes here aren’t exactly secure.” She swept a hand toward the group of lift-top mailboxes by the front door. One appeared newer and had a US Post Office key lock. “Nap never asked us to bring in his mail, so it’s possible someone did steal something. After that, he installed the locked mailbox.”
Odd. “What did…uh, what does Nap do for a living?”
“He doesn’t. I think his family is well-off. Nap’s a law student.”
There was a lead. “Are you a law student too?”
She laughed. “No way. Grad student in abnormal psychology. Both of my roommates were grad students, one in history and one in journalism. Those boys are done and off to job
s in the real world, and I’m staying here in academia.”
Abnormal psychology, yet she hadn’t recognized the killer next door. “Are you planning to live here alone?”
“No.” India gave a wry smile. “At the end of the month my brother is coming to help me move into a smaller place closer to school.”
The building was unoccupied except for this girl. Potentially dangerous. “Your roommates wouldn’t help you move?”
“They would have, but my new apartment isn’t ready until June first. Bai and Tong are on a road trip to San Diego.” She sighed. “A beach vacation sounds pretty good about now.”
Too bad—Hogan wouldn’t be able to interview them. Someone must have known Perny. “Do you know where Nap goes to school?”
“University of Denver, I think.” She frowned. “But he was clerking for someone this summer. Same guy as last summer. A big-shot attorney or a judge. Can’t remember who.”
“Do you know where he’s from, where his family lives?”
India glanced at the porch ceiling. “Somewhere back east, maybe? I’m not sure. He’s nice-looking in an East Coast preppy way, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Button-downs and wingtips, styled hair, manicure. Sort of Ivy League.”
Zach twisted the cap off his water and took a drink. A law student. Was that the connection to Omaha? Maybe there was family in Nebraska. “Did you date him?”
Her cheeks turned pink. “No. He prefers blondes.”
* * * *
Beck had had enough. Books were piled on the living room floor after inspection of the pages. The morning sun had heated up the place, and there was no air-conditioning. Beneath the plastic gloves his hands were dripping with sweat.
The apartment contained little, and what there was had been searched to the nth degree: inside the light fixtures, behind the refrigerator, under the furniture. They’d assessed for loose floorboards, baseboards, cupboards. They’d checked behind the mailboxes. Perny’s basement storage unit had been empty, but Beck had searched it anyway and then gone over the shed after Richfield finished with it.
