by P. A. Wilson
She pushed away from the door and ducked back into her own apartment. Should she call the police? What if it was something innocent? She reached for the phone to call Rafe for advice before she remembered the fight.
She put her eye to her own peephole, but there was no one in the hall. She knew that calling the cops was the right thing to do. She knew it wasn’t something innocent. Why would someone innocently be going through the murdered guy’s apartment? She glanced at the phone and made her decision.
“Hey, cut it out,” a woman shrieked.
Monique ran back to the door to see who had come from the apartment. It wasn’t a stranger. Mac, the guy who lived next door stood in her line of sight. He had his arm around a skinny blond chick, a bottle of Jack in the hand dangling near her breasts. He slobbered a kiss on her cheek and then elbowed his door open. They fell through it, both giggling.
Glancing at the apartment across from her, Monique decided to wait. If she called the cops now, she didn’t have any details. If she kept watch, maybe she would see something useful. She hated her father for many things, but mostly right now, because he’d made her afraid of the police, and that was making her look for excuses to delay the call.
Monique took the phone from its cradle and held it ready to call if something happened.
Keeping her eye to the peephole, she couldn’t help imagining what was going on in the apartment. Why would someone need to come back there? Had they used a key? She tried to think back over the month since the guy had moved in. Alexi, that was his name. She’d told the police she hadn’t noticed any visitors, was that really the case? There was that one time, some older guy was banging on Alexi’s door. But he wasn’t home, so that probably doesn’t count.
Music started thumping out of Mac’s apartment. It sounded like a porn sound track. Monique snorted a laugh. At least someone was having fun.
She checked the clock. Whoever was in the apartment had been there for fifteen minutes. They might not come out for a while. If she’d phoned the cops when she first heard the door, they would be here by now. She pressed 911 and waited for the response. Her hand trembled. She shook it out to release the tension, hoping that it would work, and that the trembling wasn’t the start of a panic attack.
“911 what is your emergency?”
“I… um, I saw someone go into an apartment,” she said. Damn nerves, damn history.
“Ma’am?”
Monique took a breath. “Sorry. I live across from the guy who got murdered… at the Montrose… on 15th… near Main. Someone is in the apartment.”
“The police are on their way. Are you in danger?”
Keeping her eye on the door across the way, Monique said, “No. Whoever it is doesn’t know I heard anything. They are still in there. I heard them tossing stuff around.”
“The police will be there in two minutes. I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive.”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll wait for them. Thanks.” Monique hung up the phone and put it back on the cradle.
A sound drew her back to the peephole. A man, tall, skinny, and bald was locking the door behind him. He turned to Mac’s door and said something Monique couldn’t make out, but he followed it with a dirty leer.
Then he turned to stare at her apartment.
She jumped back at the sight of his dark eyes burning through the door. He looked like something from a horror movie. The one monster that looked human until you got close and saw the blankness behind his eyes.
Telling herself he couldn’t see her, Monique put her eye back to the peephole and was relieved that his gaze was on the floor. She watched him bend and retrieve a black gym bag from the carpet. He checked the weight of the bag and then headed to the stairwell.
The elevator chimed just as she heard the stairwell door bang shut. Monique pulled open her door to see detectives Watson and Adams step into the hall.
“He went down the stairs,” she kept her voice quiet, not wanting the man to know she’d seen anything. “He just went down.”
The two detectives ripped open the door and raced though. “Stop! Police!”
Monique heard the words then a clatter of feet on the uncarpeted stairs. Glancing at Mac’s door in case the sound had penetrated the bump kachunk of the music, Monique retreated to her apartment. If the cops were successful, she was done for the day. That would be fine. She didn’t need to get involved. She could get back to her life.
Monique grabbed a bottle of Malbec from the rack and unscrewed the top. After pouring a glass, she opened all the windows and lit a cigarette. To hell with the smell. Wine glass in hand, she stood inside the living room watching the street, hoping to see the arrest. Nothing but a few pedestrians and some guy trying to park a jeep in a space big enough for a Smart car.
She stubbed out the cigarette and blew the last lungful of smoke through the open window.
Maybe it happened out in the alley. She knew the cops didn’t need to let her know what happened, but it would be nice. The memory of those black eyes burning through the peephole made her skin crawl. There was no way he would know she was there. It was just a coincidence.
She reached for her cellphone. Maybe calling Rafe would help her settle. As her fingers traced the pattern to unlock it, she decided to wait. Phoning Rafe only when she was struggling seemed unfair. If she wasn’t ready to commit to him, she shouldn’t be ready to use him.
In the kitchen, she topped off the wine and reached for a package of Ramen noodles. Then dropped them as someone banged on her door, and the shock stopped her heart. She braced herself on the counter to stop the sudden rush of dizziness that flooded her when her heart started again, pounding so hard it felt like she was jerking to a four-part beat.
“Hang on,” she called, taking one last deep breath before she swallowed a gulp of wine.
“Ms. Duchesne?” It was Watson and he sounded worried.
If they were here, the guy must have gotten away. “Yes, just a second.” She checked through the peephole before opening the door, just in case.
“Are you okay?” Detective Adams asked.
Monique recognized the canned emotions, meant to put a suspect, or victim, at ease. The good cop part of the equation. She knew to avoid believing he really cared. “I’m fine. He didn’t see me. I swear I didn’t confront him. Just tell me what happened. Is he still out there?”
“I can’t tell you much,” Watson said, glancing at the coffee pot.
Monique wasn’t planning to make them feel at home, so she ignored his hint. “Does that mean you didn’t catch him?”
Adams pulled out his notebook, and waited for Watson to take the lead.
“We missed him. He could have hidden too many places when he went out the back. We need to know exactly what happened. Start with what you saw.”
Taking a sip of her wine, Monique sat on one of the stools at the counter. “I heard a noise…. the door slamming across the hall. I wasn’t sure what was going on, so I listened at the door and heard someone banging around inside.”
Watson leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Why didn’t you call us then?”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“Did you? Was he only in there a minute or two?”
Monique couldn’t think of a way to avoid the question, so she shrugged. “I wasn’t sure that there was any problem. It could have been you guys. I would have looked pretty stupid calling the cops if it was you.”
He twisted his lips then relaxed as though he’d made a decision. “No you wouldn’t. What you did was stupid. If it happens again, call. So you want to give your statement here, in your apartment?”
Wary of the change in his attitude, Monique said, “Here is fine. Like I said, I heard someone banging around the apartment. Then I decided to call. I don’t know maybe I realized cops would have removed the crime tape, or something.”
Adams was scribbling notes. “What did you see?”
“When I was on the phone the guy came out. Mayb
e fifty, around six foot, maybe a couple of hundred pounds… No, he was really thin, probably more like one-eighty. Shaved head, gray stubble. Am I going too fast?”
Adams looked up. “No, carry on.”
“Okay. Weird eyes. Black like they were all pupil. Oh, maybe he was high.”
“Any distinguishing marks? Scars? Tattoos?”
Monique closed her eyes and reluctantly drew on the memory of that face. “No. Just the eyes were weird.”
“Anything else?”
She ran the memory like a movie. “He had a black gym bag. It seemed heavy, but there was no sound when he lifted it, so whatever was inside it wasn’t hard, or metal.”
Watson straightened. “Have you ever seen him before?”
Monique shook her head. Then memory flashed. “Wait. There was a tattoo on his hand, the back of his hand. It was faded but I think it was an eagle… it was clutching something square.” She held out her hand for the notebook. “Let me draw it for you.” She sketched quickly. An eagle’s head in profile, but she couldn’t put any detail around the square. She pushed it back to Adams.
“Anything else?” Watson asked.
“No that’s it. So, you can go now.” The words felt harsh, but Monique wanted them out of her house, wanted to start putting this behind her. She’d had plenty of practice at that.
“Do you have somewhere else to stay?” Watson actually looked like he cared. She reminded herself he was just playing good cop.
“I’m fine here.” Monique hoped she was right, but what if the guy came back? “He doesn’t know I called you.” If he came looking, there were only six apartments on the floor. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out who did call. “It could have been someone downstairs, or anyone who saw him come into the building. Anyway, what are you going to do?”
“We’ll send a team to check out the apartment. They’ll remove the tape like you thought, so you don’t think there’s a problem. Then we’ll get back to the investigation.” Watson gestured to Adams. “We have to go. Be careful, Ms. Duchesne.”
Monique strode to the door and pulled it open. “I’m a big girl. I won’t open my door to strangers. Just catch the guy, and we’ll all be fine.”
“It’s on the list of cases. We’ll solve it, just be careful.”
She watched them check the lock on the door across the hall and then leave. When the elevator closed, Monique stepped back into her apartment and locked herself in. Pulling a chair away from the dining table, she jammed it under the handle again.
What did he mean? It’s on the list of cases? How many of these kinds of brutal murders did they have on the list? What did it take for a case to get priority?
How long did she need to keep the door locked?
CHAPTER 3
Monique curled up on the couch, trying to put the events of the last hour into the past. Shoving the memory into the same place that she put everything she didn’t want to deal with. It worked in the past. It would work now.
She stretched out and wrapped the chenille throw around her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she imagined a peaceful time. She realized that was only yesterday, right after her gig. She’d been looking forward to a late night tryst and a full day’s sleep. What she’d gotten was a fight with Rafe and a brutal intrusion into her well-controlled life.
Her imagination couldn’t overcome the vision of blood all over the floor next door and satanic eyes of that intruder. She struggled to unwrap herself and then put the wine bottle on the coffee table next to her. She swallowed her half-full glass and then refilled it. The alcohol would help her sleep, and after a good sleep, she would be ready to get back to normal. She took another gulp of wine and lay back on the couch. It was getting dark. Maybe she should call Rafe. Maybe it would be better to spend a few days at his place. Swallow her fears, and let him talk to her about trust, and emotions, and all the things she kept running from.
The phone rang, tearing her out of a doze. It was full dark outside, and the room was cold. Monique ran for the phone with the throw around her shoulders. “Rafe?” She hoped.
“No, sis,” her brother said.
She let the hope drop away. “Didi, what do you want?” He usually wanted money to feed his habit.
“You always think I want something, Nique.”
“You always want something. Spit it out, Didi, I’ve had a bad day.” She closed the window.
“I think you’ll be happy, Nique. I’m going into rehab.”
Monique rubbed the bridge of her nose. If he meant it, she was happy he’d gotten this far; to be ready to kick the habit. Heroin was all around her. It was the bane of the jazz world. She’d never been tempted, but her brother had run to it as though it was a safe haven. Everyone handled life’s shit differently. Who was saying her way was better? “Where are you going?”
“Life Clinic. They said I could come tomorrow.” His voice was shaky. “Can I leave some of my stuff with you?”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Jeez, Nique, nothing bad,” Didi said, a whine creeping into his voice. “It’s just a couple of bags.”
She really wanted to believe he was turning his life around. But it wasn’t the first time she’d fallen for his promise to get clean. Could she trust him not to drop his stash with her? If he left something illegal, would Watson or Adams have any reason to find it? “Why can’t you leave it at your place?”
There was no answer and Monique thought Didi had hung up. Then he finally said. “I don’t have a place any more. I got evicted. I’ll find a new place when I get done with rehab. I promise, Nique. This time I’m getting straight.”
Questions and arguments played out in her head. What was he going to do tonight for a bed? Why couldn’t the clinic take him tonight, isn’t that what happened? “What’s different this time, Didi? I want to help, I do, but we’ve been through this before.”
“I’ve hit the bottom this time. I never thought I’d get this low, Nique. I… look never mind what I did, I just don’t want it to get any worse. Please, Nique.”
“Okay, Didi. Come over, stay the night. I’ll take you to rehab in the morning.” She let herself hope it would be the last time he needed to detox.
“Thanks, Nique. Hey, can we have pizza? And watch a movie? Like when we were kids?”
“Sure, how long before you get here?”
Didi ended the call. Frustrated, Monique started to dig through a pile of old DVDs. They’d call for food when Didi arrived.
A knock at the door startled her. She hated the way her life was starting to run on fear. She crept to the peephole and saw Didi standing in the hall. He listed to the left and his face was covered with bruises, but his grin was the same as when he was five years old and realized for the first time that he could charm his way out of any scrape.
Monique took the chair away and pulled open the door. “You are going to tell me what happened as soon as I get some food into you.”
He picked up his stuff, two plastic grocery bags bulging with clothes. “You look like you haven’t eaten in six months, Nique. You make me look robust.” He kissed her cheek and dropped the bags into the corner of the dining area.
Monique watched him limp across to the couch. It looked like whoever had administered the beating knew exactly how much damage to do without killing Didi. She called for a large pizza and a liter of Coke before joining him. “What happened?”
“I thought I was going to get fed before I had to tell.”
“Don’t mess with me, Didi. I’ve seen enough crap today. Tell me.”
He shifted on the couch and grimaced. “I got in debt with the wrong people. They persuaded me to make an effort to repay.” He touched the wine bottle. “Any chance of a glass for medicinal purposes?”
Booze had never been Didi’s problem, so Monique retrieved a glass from the kitchen. “This is the last of it. How much do you owe these people?” She had some savings. If Didi needed it, he could have it all. One day she wouldn’t be able to help
him, but that was one day.
“Nothing.” He sipped the wine. “Nice drink, Nique.”
“How did you pay them back?”
He glanced away, at the television, at the movies spread out on the floor beside the television, anywhere but at her.
“Didi, how did you pay them?”
“That’s the thing. Nique, don’t be mad. I had to turn some tricks for them.” He swallowed the entire glass of wine. “That’s what convinced me to check into rehab. I’ve done some shitty things. I know I’ve been an embarrassment, but I’ve never turned tricks. And I never want to do that again.”
Monique tried not to react. Sometimes he just seemed determined to make the worse choice. “I wish you had come to me. I could have –“
He held up a hand. “No, Nique. It’s past. I don’t want to think about what I should have done.”
“Fine.” Monique regretted the tone as soon as the word was out. “Sorry, I guess I’m taking my night out on you.”
Didi shrugged. “What happened? Bad set at the club?”
“The cops were here – twice.”
Didi jerked a look at the door as if the police would barge in. “Why?”
“There was a murder.”
“Shit, Nique. Did they think you did it?”
Monique shook her head. “No. But it brought back memories.”
“Yeah, those memories aren’t ever too far away.” He tossed back the last drops of his wine. “If they come after you the way they did before…”
“They won’t.” She crossed her fingers that she wasn’t tempting fate.
“Do you know who got killed?”
“The guy across the hall. I didn’t know him. Some Eastern European guy.”
Didi glanced at her door again. “I know some of those guys.”
“How do you know people like that?”
Didi laughed. “I’m a junkie, Nique. I know all kinds of criminals. Plus, I got interested because of dad.”
“Don’t mention him.”
“Yeah, I know. But you remember he told us he changed his name, right? When he came to Canada. Duchesne is French. He figured it would be better.”
