by Mary Maxwell
“Do you see anyone?” Kate whispered.
“No,” I said. “But why don’t you wait here for a sec, okay?”
I walked through the vestibule and into the living room. I wanted an unobstructed view to be certain I wasn’t seeing something that could be explained. Maybe Delilah’s sorting things for a rummage sale, I thought. Or maybe she’s cleaning out her closets.
Unfortunately, both of those innocuous possibilities were dispatched instantly when I turned and looked around the corner.
A man was on the floor, sprawled on his back in a widening pool of blood.
Viveca suddenly tugged at the back of my blouse. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
From where she stood behind me, she couldn’t see the man. I motioned for her to move back into the hallway.
“What is it?” she said in a jittery voice. “I can tell something’s wrong.”
“It isn’t your brother,” I told her. “And it isn’t Delilah. Just please go back out and wait for me, okay?”
“I will,” she whispered. “But you’re really freaking me out.”
As I stared at the man in the middle of the faded Oriental carpet, it was obvious that we’d stumbled upon the aftermath of something violent and deadly. He was bleeding from a severe head wound, a gruesome lesion on the back of his head. I’d seen similar things in Chicago, but it was always a shock to the system. I gazed at the gash for a brief moment before quickly checking the surrounding area. A small black pistol sat on the floor beside the man’s left hand. It looked like a plastic toy gun against the pale carpet. Something colorful was tucked beneath one of his legs, a splash of yellow, green and red that I instantly recognized as a package of Rowntree’s Jelly Tots. One of my close friends in Chicago used to nibble on the British candy every time we went to a movie. Finding something so frivolous and familiar at the scene of a murder was jarring; my eyes stayed on the multicolored cellophane wrapping until I heard Viveca again.
“When are you going to tell me what you found?” she called from the hallway.
I turned away from the ghastly tableau in the living room, gulping down the familiar sense of dread that I knew from the crime scenes and morgues I’d visited during my days as a PI. I retraced my steps out of the apartment, joining Viveca across from the open doorway.
“What is it?” she asked. “I can tell from the look on your face that it’s not good.”
“Let’s go downstairs,” I said, reaching for my phone. “We need to call 911.”
She moved toward the door, her face suddenly twisted into a tight grimace. “Are you sure it’s not Tim?”
My arm instinctively lifted to prevent Viveca from entering the apartment and glimpsing the shocking scene.
“Come with me,” I said in a dry murmur. “We shouldn’t be up here.”
Without another word, we quickly walked to the stairs, hurried down to the foyer and pushed open the front door of the building.
“911,” said the voice that answered my call. “What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Kate Reed,” I said. “I’m at the AltaVista Apartments on Franklin. There’s a man upstairs on the second floor. It looks like he’s been shot.”
The dispatcher asked me to repeat what I’d just told her. When I added that I was with another friend, she instructed us to wait outside for the patrol cars to arrive.
“I’ve got two units on the way, Miss Reed. And I’ll stay on the line with you until they arrive.”
“Okay, thank you. I should also add that I didn’t try to check for vitals or resuscitate the victim because it was obvious he was deceased.”
“How can you be sure?” The dispatcher’s voice was a lifeless whirr, a flat and steady monotone that was completely devoid of emotion.
“I was a PI in Chicago,” I explained. “Unfortunately, I was on more than one crime scene that involved a similar outcome.”
The woman asked me to hold so she could check on the arrival time for the patrol cars. While I waited, the faint wail of sirens sounded in the distance. By the time she returned, I could see the flicker of their lights a few blocks away.
“Both units are just seconds from your location,” the dispatcher said. “Do you see them?”
“Yes, thank you,” I answered. “Do you know if Detective Adam Caldwell is on duty?”
She repeated the name quietly to herself and then confirmed a second later that he was working. “Why do you ask?” she said.
“It’s a friend of a friend kind of thing,” I explained. “We just met him yesterday and—”
“I can call him if you’d like,” the dispatcher offered. “I’m not sure exactly where he is at the moment, but since you know him maybe it would be a good idea.”
The first Denver PD car screeched to a stop at the curb. Viveca waved at the two officers as they climbed out and headed toward us.
“If you don’t mind, that’d be great,” I told the dispatcher. “My name is—”
“Kate Reed,” she said. “You already gave it to me, ma’am. I’ll contact Detective Caldwell and let him know what’s going on over there.”
CHAPTER 17
An hour later, Viveca and I sat in the back of a patrol car as it idled at the curb. When the first responders learned earlier that she was related to someone connected to the Delmar Singer case, they asked if we’d be willing to take a drive to the precinct for a conversation.
“But we didn’t do anything,” Viveca told the bulky cop sitting in the passenger seat. “We came here today to talk to my brother.”
The guy ignored her, so she tapped on the partition between the seats.
“Did you hear me?”
Without looking up from his clipboard, the man told Viveca to sit back and keep quiet.
She moaned loudly. “We’ve got rights, sir!”
“Viv?” I said, taking her hand. “Just try to relax, okay? This is all standard procedure.”
“Seriously?” she snapped. “This is the second time in as many days that I’m having to deal with the lunacy of this kind of standard procedure.”
I shook my head. “You don’t want to make them mad,” I advised. “It really would be best if you could just keep it together until we have a chance to talk to someone.”
The driver’s door opened and a slim woman wearing sunglasses climbed in behind the wheel. Her skin was the color of a café au lait and her tightly braided dark hair was tucked beneath her hat.
“Sorry for the delay, ladies.” She smiled at us in the rearview mirror. “I’ve been advised that one of you asked the dispatcher to contact Detective Caldwell.”
“That would be me,” I said.
“I was talking to him just now,” the officer said, sliding the car into gear. “We were trying to figure out if he was coming over to the scene or if we’d meet at the station.”
“And since we’re moving,” I said, “I guess the answer is we’re talking to him at the station?”
The woman confirmed my comment with a silent smile. Viveca began nervously tapping her fingers on the seat and mumbling under her breath. I tried to resist the temptation, but a couple of blocks later I pulled out my phone and checked messages. There was one from my parents, three from my sister and two from Blanche Speltzer. They would all have to wait until we’d had our meeting with Caldwell and headed back home to Crescent Creek.
“Do you know who the dead guy was?” Viveca suddenly asked, leaning forward.
The cop in the passenger seat glanced back. “Probably best for you to wait and ask the detective,” he said. “The deceased’s identity hasn’t been substantiated, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to comment on an active investigation.”
Viveca glanced at me. “Can you believe this, Kate?” Her hands were trembling and the muscles in her neck twitched wildly. “We help them find a poor dead guy and they won’t tell us who he is. What’s the deal with that?”
“It’s like I already explained, Viv—standard procedure. Nothing to get worked
up about.”
She sighed loudly and fell against the seat. “I’m not worked up, Kate. I’m worried about my brother.”
“I know you are,” I said, giving her hand a second squeeze. “Anybody would be. Let’s hang on until we have a chance to talk to Detective Caldwell. Maybe he can help sort out a few things for us.”
CHAPTER 18
Adam Caldwell was standing at the end of a long table in a conference room at the precinct when Viveca and I arrived. One of the officers from the patrol car escorted us to the door, knocked and waited until the detective waved us inside.
“We meet again,” he said, sliding a stack of papers into a folder.
I followed Viveca into the room and sat beside her after she’d pulled out a chair.
“Do you know where my brother is?” she demanded. “And do you know who killed that poor man in the hospital?”
Caldwell’s face remained impassive as he shook his head and told us that he didn’t have a clue about Tim’s whereabouts. “As far as Delmar Singer,” he added, “we’re working every possible angle—at the hospital as well as the apartment building. And that means your brother’s still a person of interest.” Caldwell’s phone rang, but he kept his attention on Viveca. “I know this must be an impossibly stressful experience for you, Miss England. And I can appreciate the confusion you must feel. But we’re doing everything we can.”
From the way she clutched the edge of the table, I could tell Viveca was getting ready to explode. Before she could make a scene, I put one hand on her shoulder and looked over at the detective.
“Did you find Delilah yet?”
He shook his head and settled into a chair across the table. “Who’s that?”
Viveca sighed. “My brother’s girlfriend!” she said. “The dead guy was in her apartment!”
Caldwell shrugged. After Viveca repeated everything that she’d just told him, he carefully opened the folder, studied the top sheet and cleared his throat.
“According to the notes I have here,” the detective said, “our officers didn’t find anyone by the name of Delilah at the scene when they arrived.”
Viveca stared at me blankly; it was the dazed and confused look of someone ready to burst into tears.
“What about the man we just found?” I asked.
Caldwell’s eyes flickered briefly. “What about him?”
“Did you find his ID?”
“We didn’t find a wallet,” answered Caldwell. “But his prints were in the system, so we know his name is Toby Wurlitzer.”
The first name got my attention. “Did you know that a guy named Toby rents the apartments to Tim and Delilah?” I said. “I guess his name is on the paperwork, but he subleases them or something.”
“That makes sense,” Caldwell said. “And it dovetails nicely with what we’ve uncovered so far about Mr. Wurlitzer.”
“Is he related in any way to Mr. Singer?” I asked.
Caldwell shook his head. “We’ve just started working on that. Why do you ask?”
I smiled. I’d played this game before. And I knew why it was necessary. I’d worked closely on more than one occasion with the Chicago PD when I was a private investigator. I was well aware that I had no official capacity in Caldwell’s investigation, but I also knew that he was juggling plenty of cases at the moment. Although he’d probably welcome anything Viveca and I might find, his hands were tied when it came to sharing evidence that he and his team had already uncovered.
“Why do I ask?” I repeated his question to emphasize the fact that I knew what he was doing. “I ask because it’s pretty rare when two residents of a small apartment building are murdered in the same year, let alone the same week. I ask because Tim and Delilah seem to be involved somehow and they’ve both gone missing. And I also ask because I’m really just trying to help my friend…” I squeezed Viveca’s shoulder as I gave her a quick sideways glance. “…so she can find her brother and figure out what’s going on here.”
Caldwell nodded glumly. “That’s all well and good, Kate. But we don’t generally divulge sensitive information from ongoing investigations.”
The last comment left a chill in the air. Viveca shifted nervously in her chair. I managed to smile at the detective. Then I asked if he and I could speak outside for a moment.
“Sure thing,” he answered. “Miss England? Would you like anything to drink while you wait?”
Viveca shook her head and reached for her phone. While she checked messages, Caldwell and I went into the hallway. There was an empty bench nearby, so he walked over and sat down.
“First of all,” I began, sitting beside him, “thanks again for taking time to talk with us.”
He nodded.
“I know Trent arranged for you to do this as a personal favor, and I’m really grateful. But I’d like to ask again if you have anything at all that might connect the two victims.” His mouth opened, but I kept going. “I don’t know if Trent mentioned this, but I no longer work as a PI. I run my family’s bakery café up in Crescent Creek, and I’m just doing this to help my neighbor.”
When I finished, Caldwell raised one eyebrow. “Trent was right,” he said. “You’re a live wire.”
“That’s me,” I said. “A real live wire.”
“And I think it’s admirable what you’re doing, Kate. Helping friends and neighbors is a very good thing. Like maybe giving them a ride when their car is in the shop. Or lending a cup of sugar when they’re out. But this kind of thing—the murder of Delmar Singer a couple of days ago and now the new guy? Those are times when it truly is best to leave it to the professionals.”
“I don’t disagree,” I said. “But Viveca’s basically having a complete meltdown over this. Her brother is the only family she’s got left. And even though I’ve never met the guy, I absolutely believe her when she says that he isn’t capable of committing these crimes.”
Caldwell looked down at the floor and chuckled. “Where have I heard that before?”
“I know, okay. Nearly everybody says that about family members. But I feel it in my gut that it’s true this time, Detective Caldwell.”
He flashed a grin. “You can call me Adam, Kate.”
As we sat and nodded at one another, I felt the urge to be ornery.
“Actually,” I said, sitting up a little straighter and doing my best to appear aloof, “you can call me Miss Reed.”
The little shudder of anxiety that raced across his face was worth the subterfuge. As he swallowed and fidgeted on the bench, I reached over and lightly punched his shoulder. “I’m just teasing, Adam. You can call me Kate.”
The nervous quiver in his eyes vanished. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “For a second there, I thought I’d actually offended you or something.”
“Me? Offended?” I smiled warmly. “I always roll with the punches. That’s what you have to do when you’re selling slices of pie to cantankerous retirees, worn-out tourists and everybody in between.”
He nodded. “Trent told me the name of your place, but…” He winced. “What was it again?”
“Sky High Pies,” I said. “You should drop by the next time you’re in Crescent Creek.”
He laughed. “The next time?” he said. “How about the first time?”
“Oh, you haven’t had the pleasure of visiting our thriving metropolis?”
“Not yet. But there’s a chance I’ll be up soon. Trent, Dina and I are working on something together. I think we might get more accomplished up there than down here in the city.”
I smiled. “Get more accomplished,” I said. “And enjoy a nice slice of pie!”
Caldwell’s eyes—light green flecked with brown—twinkled as he laughed again. It was nice to see that a guy who spent all day chasing criminals could still enjoy a lighthearted moment.
“Trent told me that, too,” he said. “From the way he raved about—”
His phone rang—the clanging chirp of a robotic bird—and the moment was gone. He shrugge
d, got up from the bench and accepted the call.
“This is Adam,” he said, walking toward a bank of windows. “Yeah, you bet, Phil.” He quickly glanced at his watch. “I can do twenty minutes. Am I coming to you or…”
He waited briefly for an answer to the unfinished question. “Okay, cool. That works. See you then.”
He tapped the phone, checked something on the display and turned around.
“Duty calls, Kate. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I don’t see what more I can discuss at the moment with you and your friend.”
I pushed up from the bench. “I just appreciate the opportunity to talk with you at all,” I said, cringing slightly when I realized how that might sound. “I mean, we appreciate it; Viv and I do. And if you hear anything about her brother that isn’t completely hush-hush and super secret, would you mind giving me a call?”
“Not at all,” he said, turning toward the conference room. “I’m just going to duck in and say goodbye to Miss England. Then I can walk you guys back downstairs.”
I shook my head and followed behind. “That’s not necessary,” I told him. “I can tell you’re busy. We’ll go grab a coffee from the vending machine before we head home.”
“Traffic will be a beast right about now,” he said. “There’s a semi jackknifed on the interstate going west.”
I groaned. “Well, that just made my day brighter. Thanks again, Adam.”
CHAPTER 19
The drive from Denver back to Crescent Creek was a long and torturous nightmare. Between Viveca’s mood swings, the sluggish traffic and my growling stomach, I was a bundle of twisted nerves when I walked through the kitchen door at Sky High Pies. Julia had left a note on the whiteboard—Welcome back, Kate! Have a cup of tea and relax! Everything’s ready for tomorrow!—along with a single daisy in a bud vase beside my favorite mug. I dropped my purse on the counter, sent her a quick thank you text and grabbed a clean plate from the shelf.
