by Madelyn Alt
He turned his back to us and quickly locked the door before coming toward us, holding his hand out to Lou in greeting. “Ah, Tabor,” he said, “good. You made it.” He gripped Lou’s hand hard, his thumb pressing down on Lou’s knuckle as though trying to make him cry uncle. And as I watched on, Lou seemed to return the favor. How . . . odd. Must be a guy thing. Some of them seem willing to do almost anything to be top man on the totem pole. “Is this the young lady you told me about?”
“It is indeed. Maggie O’Neill, this is Robert Locke.”
“Rob, please.” Locke held out his hand and smiled down at me as his somewhat buggy pale hazel eyes—which looked more gray than green or blue—roamed over me. He wore his sandy brown hair slicked back because it was growing sparse up front, but his crazy eyebrows more than made up for the loss, as did the hair sticking out around his ears. No . . . no, it didn’t. Poor guy. I dropped my gaze to his hand, then took it gingerly, unable to help wondering just how much we’d rushed him. His hand was dry. I hoped that meant he hadn’t skipped bathroom hygiene entirely. If there was anything more off-putting than encountering a wet grip after a person used the facilities, the thought that he hadn’t washed at all was it. “A pleasure, Miss—it is Miss?—O’Neill?”
I nodded, politely extricating my hand when he didn’t immediately let go. “Mr. Locke. Hello. You’re the manager here?”
“General manager, chief maintenance facilitator, community planner, and chief hand-holder when any of our tenants have an issue,” he returned agreeably as he used his just-freed hand to smooth down the front of his tie. Which had palm trees on it. And a bikini babe, complete with grass skirt. Classic.
Well, I didn’t expect this to be the Ritz, so I couldn’t expect the manager to be the Stony Mill equivalent of Carlton, sophisticated man-about-town, now, could I?
“I hear you’re looking for a place,” he continued. His gaze lowered, taking me in, as though assessing my viability as reliable tenant. I hoped the bedazzled cast wouldn’t put him off.
I nodded. “Ground floor, hopefully.” I wiggled my cast around for good measure.
“I understand completely. And I think I have one available that might interest you.” He sat down and opened his desk drawer, indicating the chairs opposite with a wave of his hand. “Sit, sit.”
Lou turned his attention away and wandered over to the windows, obvious in his efforts to give me some room to do my own thing. I lowered myself to a chair and perched on the edge while Locke dug around in his drawer.
“Ah, here it is,” he said. He pulled out a folder and opened it, removing a couple of cheaply printed brochures and a few photos on glossy stock. “Let me just run through general items quickly, hey? We have a number of apartments that are currently unoccupied due to our recent across-the-board renovations. The complex was purchased a year ago last fall. At the time it was in a condition that was not conducive to renting. The owner decided that it would make the most sense to do a complete overhaul of the property and then begin renting out the spaces as each separate apartment house was finished. Unfortunately, with the economy being what it is, not to mention a few personal issues on the part of the owner, it made funding a bit difficult from time to time over the course of the year, which stretched out renovations . . . but, I’m happy to report we are nearing the finish line and have several apartments to begin marketing. One of which is the space I’m going to show you today.”
He spread the photos out in front of me.
“One of the upgrades to the property is something I think you’ll enjoy. A health center, complete with a weight and exercise room, properly air conditioned, of course, and a brand new, inground pool. Now, you may not get to make use of that this year,” he said apologetically with a deferential nod toward my cast, “but I’m sure it will be a big hit next summer once the temperatures warm up.”
“I’m sure,” I said agreeably. I reached out and picked up each photo spec sheet, murmuring with approval over each one, as expected to. It wasn’t difficult, truth be told. The new tenant community spaces really did look quite nice, and I had to admit, the idea of having a sunny, bright, and cheery exercise room and a pool handily located too close to ignore sounded like a really good idea. Oh, what Steff and I could have done with a perk like that! Unfortunately, the Victorian was all there had been when we were first looking for a place, and there had been no reason to pull up stakes. Until now. On the other hand, the fact that this place had been unrentable prior to being purchased by this new property group kind of gave me pause, as did the casually mentioned mid-remodel funding issues. I’m sure he thought nothing of his comment, but it made me wonder what kind of, er, shortcuts might have been made in the reconstruction process.
“Now, you’ll notice,” Locke said, sliding the brochure over in front of me, “the apartment you’ll be looking at is a two-bedroom, one-bath selection. Galley-style kitchen, living room, and French doors opening onto the private patio.”
I cleared my throat and took a look at the brochure. The apartments pictured seemed fairly typical, though the low-quality inkjet print job used for the brochure made it hard to see the details in the photos.
“I’ll just”—Lou cleared his throat and jerked his thumb toward the door—“I’ll just head out to the truck and get the drive for you. My nephew delivered it just today.”
“It’s here?” The news seemed to reach beyond Locke’s attempt at an all-business façade. Excitement burst in his eyes like surprise fireworks. His nostrils flared. Then in the next moment it was gone, hidden, as he licked his lips with a flickering dart of his tongue. “That was good timing. Excellent, excellent. Thanks, Tabor.”
Lou left, and Locke turned his attention back to me, but as he went over the details, room sizes, laundry facilities, and utility arrangements, I couldn’t help noticing his focus was sketchy. I caught him glancing over my shoulder toward the door at least twice. I got it. I did. A new, high-powered, superfab computer trumped renting out an apartment . . . but still.
Locke stood up and reached into the center drawer for a tray of numbered keys. “Well, let’s go take a look at it, why don’t we?”
I used the chair arm in conjunction with my crutches to push myself up to balance on one foot, but before I could get myself turned around, the door swung inward behind me and slammed into the wall behind it so hard that I nearly sat back down in surprise.
Chapter 3
“What the—” Locke’s face reflected stunned surprise.
“This is it, Locke. This is it! You and me, we’ve got to have ourselves a discussion.” The African American man who stalked into the office literally took my breath away. It wasn’t physical beauty—his features were regular, even ordinary—and it wasn’t his body, which also appeared to be ordinary beneath loose-fitting jeans and an untucked button-down shirt. It was more his energy, which swept ahead of him like an invisible corporeal presence to announce his arrival much akin to trumpeters heralding the kings of old. It came in with a hint of swagger and the kind of attitude that said he knew what he wanted and he knew that you had it, and he was now going to see about removing it from your possession, thankyouverymuch. “Angela has asked for your help. I’ve tried to be civil. We’ve tried doing things your way. And you . . . you refuse to cooperate.”
Locking eyes with the complex manager, he moved across the lobby as though only one thing mattered, and for him, I didn’t even exist. And perhaps in that moment, I didn’t. His entire outlook was pinpoint focused on the man behind the desk as he skirted me without a sideward glance or a by-your-leave. I wondered if Locke was grateful for the size of the piece of furniture. I would have been. The man didn’t crack his knuckles, flex his muscles, or even cross his arms, but he didn’t have to. The attitude said it all. I found myself easing away to a safer distance.
To his credit, Locke stood up straighter. He did not back down. “I thought we’d finished this conversation this morning, Mr. Hollister. I think I was clear when I explain
ed the situation to both you and Miss Miller—”
“The situation is, the contract is a scam, and you know it, Locke.”
“It’s legal and binding—”
“It’s a scam contract. No termination clause. It’s either stay or go, but pay us our money any damn way.”
“It’s a standard contract,” Locke said succinctly, taking the business high road. “Vetted by our attorneys. And, I assure you, it will hold up in court.” His words were calm and measured. His expression was anything but.
“Standard contract? That’s shit, man, and you know it.” Frustration blazed in the man’s dark brown eyes, and he gritted his teeth. “Look, Angela is trying to do things the right way. She’s been trying to work with you. And you’re doing everything in your power to shoot her down. Why can’t you just put the apartment on the market? Why is that too much to ask?”
“This is not the time, and it’s not the place—” Locke said with a sideways glance my way.
The guy caught the look and sneered. “Oh, you’re with a would-be tenant? Well, maybe Miss Would-Be would like to know about the problems, huh? Maybe she’d like to know about all the weird sounds we hear, and things that move around or even go missing that no one could have taken. Maybe she’d like to know that, huh?”
Whoa there. Sounds? Things going missing? Were there spirits at play here? Certainly that was common in places where remodeling chaos churned the energies that had lain dormant over time. No matter that the brochure had said, the apartments had been built in the 1970s. A building didn’t have to be ancient to have spirits wandering its rooms. Heck, it didn’t have to be a building at all. Lots of open land boasted spirit activity, earth energies, even nonhuman entities to be wary of. Scary, but true.
Locke shrugged away his accusations. “Buildings settle over time.”
“Settling buildings don’t explain missing personal items,” he pointed out angrily. “It’s a security risk.”
Well . . . to any normal person who didn’t know what odd things had been taking place in Stony Mill in the last year, yes, missing personal items might indeed indicate a safety issue, worthy of a home security system and new locks at the very least . . . but I wasn’t about to enlighten him. What he didn’t know, he wouldn’t be watching for. And without actively watching, there was less risk of accidental awareness. Less awareness equaled a probability that he and his girlfriend would be left alone. Better he didn’t know.
“Angela won’t stay here. She’s made up her mind. All we’re asking you to do is to show the apartment. That’s all we ask.”
Locke sighed dramatically. “I don’t have the time to market an apartment that has already been leased. I did my job with your girlfriend. Everything was aboveboard. Cut and dry. She’s lived there for eight months. Why is she just now having these issues? You know what I think. I think the two of you are just trying to get out of your lease, period. Maybe you found another place, one with more room or closer to work. Ah-ah”—he held up his hand when the guy started to splutter—“I’m just saying. So you’ve found another place. She’s just going to have to do the right thing, what she is contractually bound to do, and pay through the term of her lease. It’s over and done with in, what, four months? It’s not the end of the world.”
“For Chrissakes, you’re not listening. She doesn’t have the money to pay for two places. She’s a teacher. I don’t know if you’re up on all the reports about—”
“Neither of which is my problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, holding out a hand and officiously gesturing me forward, “I have another apartment to show.”
Glowering, Hollister stared at Locke, as if in disbelief that he would dare be so rigidly insensitive. The next few moments seemed to happen in a blur. As Locke made to move dismissively past him, Hollister’s hand whipped out with the swiftness of a cobra striking and grabbed Locke’s arm. Uttering a coarse word in surprise, Locke made an attempt to shrug him off, but Hollister wasn’t having it. He gripped Locke’s shirt and tried to yank him back around. The subsequent testosterone-charged scuffle resulted in one ripped shirt sleeve, one chair knocked over, a plant that narrowly missed the same fate, and a couple of punches that missed their marks—mostly—before Lou charged into the room and inserted his bulk between the two slighter men.
“What in Sam Hill is going on in here?” Lou bellowed, holding each off at arm’s length. An impressive feat, I must say, the way the two men were surging and twisting to get back in the fray and take each other down.
I had watched the whole shebang from the sidelines (that is, the far end of the desk) from start to finish, half in disbelief of what I was witnessing and half in fascination. Men . . . they are a strange breed at times.
With a stern look in his eyes as a warning, Lou took immediate control of the situation. He pushed Locke back with a shove to the shoulder and said, “You. Stay put. And you,” he said, taking Hollister by the shoulder, “come with me. We’re going to get this sorted out.”
“Like hell we are,” Hollister said, scrambling for purchase on the tile floor. Lou grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and headed for the door.
“Like I said. We’re going to get this sorted out. Aren’t we, mister?” He nodded Hollister’s head for him, bringing on a fresh string of muttered curses. “I thought so. Good man.”
Hollister’s heated words trailed back in before the door closed on its pneumatic hinges: “This isn’t over, Locke, you hear me? If you’re not going to play fair, then—”
“Keep it to yourself, mister.” Lou’s baritone cut him off. And then the door shut with a sybillant snick.
Locke straightened his shoulders and clothes the way a rooster might ruffle his feathers, and then glanced my way. The bikini-babe tie looked a little worse for the wear. “I’m very sorry you had to see that, Miss O’Neill. These things, well, do happen. It’s the nature of the beast, dealing with the public. Sometimes you suffer a little collateral damage. That’s a big reason why I prefer to rent to women. By and large, they make far better tenants. Unless they have big, beefy black boyfriends who think they can push and shove until they have their way. I should have called the cops, so they could slam his ass in jail with all of his gangsta buddies. That would teach him.” He cleared his throat before I could even react to the not-so-subtle racial slur. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I think a change of shirt is going to have to be in order.”
Gangsta buddies of big, beefy black boyfriends. I didn’t even know what to say, other than, “Wow.” So not cool. It was a little discussed fact that Indiana had ties back to the very earliest days of the KKK. One would have hoped in our modern age that we had grown past such nonsense, but the reality was that some people still clung to their old prejudices about color and creed. Not to mention, the Hollister guy didn’t look remotely “gangsta.” No more than Marcus, Lou, or even Mr. Locke here, whom I suspected was just stuck on the color of his skin. Furthermore, the only “gangstas” to be found here in Stony Mill were pathetic wannabe-bads acting out against society by painting unrecognizable symbols on the backs of privacy fences and selling drugs to other wannabe-bads and breaking into cars and houses and somehow coming to the conclusion that the life of a petty criminal was somehow preferable. In other words, fail, big time, as far as “gangsta” goes. Thank goodness for the rest of us.
But Locke? What. A. Jackass.
Locke headed off to the nearest of the two interior doors, still gazing with annoyance down at his torn sleeve. As the light flipped on, I saw the unmistakable glint of light reflecting from a mirror, and in the corner, a toilet. I guess I had gotten it wrong earlier. To give him some privacy and keep my lunch from coming up, I crutched my way over to the windows and took a moment to try to get my bearings. To the far right of the grassy yard that lay between me and the first apartment building were a pair of small enclosures that hugged the parking lot. The latticework meshed with the plain fencing surround indicated their probable designation as Dumpst
er disguisers. At a right angle to the enclosers stood the first of five apartment buildings. From the windows here, I could see plainly into the windows of the apartments in most of the buildings. Well, at least the ones where the curtains weren’t drawn. To the left was another building, and between me and it, the pièce de résistance: the pool. An actual, inground model, fitted with both deep and shallow ends and a diving board. Hallelujah and glory be. Rare around these parts. If I weren’t wearing a cast, I’d get down on my hands and knees and kiss the concrete surrounding it.
“That right there is the new health center.”
Locke’s voice came from right behind me. Startled out of my musings, I turned my head to find him leaning close over my shoulder, his face inches from mine. I gasped and clumsily sidestepped away. “Oh my goodness. You scared me.”
Amusement played in the five o’clock shadow that made his cheeks and chin look scruffy and borderline disreputable when combined with the wrinkled shirt he’d changed into and the mangled tie, which was . . . well, it was not likely to see better days once again. “Sorry about that. I thought you’d heard me come out. Shall we go look at the place, then?”
His gaze had dropped to my chest, not long, just enough to ensure that I noticed he’d looked. I lifted my shoulders slightly, just enough to take any interpreted prominent display out of the equation. “Sure.”
As long as he didn’t get too close again, and as long as he didn’t breathe on me. The guy had some serious coffee breath going on.
He held the door for me, stumbling over a box just outside on the step. “Christ! Who put that there?”
I recognized the box Marcus had loaded into the miniscule storage area in Lou’s car just that morning. “Lou. It’s your computer. He must have set it down when he came in to break things up.”
