by Debra Webb
He twisted in the chair and picked up a spiral notebook from the desk along with a pen.
“Write what you remember about that evening. Anything at all. Take your time,” she assured him when uncertainty claimed his face.
As he focused on the page, she observed his ability to put his thoughts down in written form, not the writing itself, but the brain-to-fingers interaction. Slow, methodical and intensely thought-out.
Calling Simon Ruhl crossed her mind again. Not yet. She wasn’t completely sure there was reason to call at this point. What would she say? I’m sitting in the apartment of a man splattered in blood. His roommate is dead. The police consider him a suspect but I don’t think he did it.
She would definitely wait about that call.
Minutes ticked by. Three…five…then ten. Finally his fingers flattened the pen against the paper and his attention returned to her. “Done.”
Now for the real test. The classic symptoms were undeniable. But Brandon Thomas had to be around thirty years old. No question. Her assessment was not in keeping with his age. He was at least half a decade beyond the usual age guidelines. “Would you read what you’ve written to me, please?”
He blinked. Stared at her as if she’d asked him to light himself on fire, then he extended the notebook in her direction. “You read it.”
“I need you to read it,” she pressed. “Stand up and read it.” She hated to add the “stand up” part but if he stood, she would be able to read his lips most of the time from her position below him.
The hesitation lasted at least half a minute. She had almost decided he wasn’t going to comply. Finally he stood. As he stumbled through the passage he’d written, he glanced up at her periodically. It wasn’t imperative that she catch every word, only that she could see the pacing and flow of how he formed the sentences.
Slow. Halting. As if he had a difficult time reading his own words aloud.
When he’d finished, she held out her hand for the notebook. He placed it in her outstretched palm, his expression full of guilt. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t read smoothly. She glanced over what he’d written. His handwriting was bold and neat. But one thing was glaringly apparent. He’d misspelled five words. Two of those words were not only simple but used several times throughout the passage. In each instance, the two words were misspelled differently.
Merri pulled the pages, as well as the three clean ones after the last one, from the notebook, folded and placed them in her purse. She understood Brandon’s situation now. As she pushed to her feet, she glanced around the compact living room once more. She would ask him about it…eventually, but not now.
“Why don’t you shower and change,” she suggested, “and we’ll go have coffee some place neutral and try to figure out what Kick was telling you with these seemingly disconnected phrases.”
Brandon tugged at the T-shirt he wore, then stood. “You’ll…”
He turned away from her as he spoke. But the slumped shoulders told her exactly what he was worried about. “Don’t worry. I’ll do all I can to help you figure this out, Brandon.”
He turned back to her then. “You’re sure you’re not going to slip out while I’m in the shower?”
What she’d missed was him asking if she would still be here. Made sense in light of the desperation choking his reason and logic. “I won’t be going anywhere until we determine how to move forward with proving your innocence. That’s a guarantee.”
He held her gaze a moment longer. The heavy defeat that had weighed down his shoulders had given way to glittering fear in those dark eyes. Something shifted deep in her chest. She’d only met this guy and already she wanted desperately to help him. There was more here than met the eye, so to speak. Brandon Thomas wouldn’t have a chance with the police. If they couldn’t find anyone else to hang this one on, they would railroad Brandon or push the case aside.
That he trusted her enough to shower, leaving her to do as she pleased, surprised her and was likely indicative of his desperation. She understood it far better than she wanted to admit.
When the water was going in the bathroom, she carefully went over the apartment once more. Using a pen from her purse, she flipped through files and the desk Rolodex. A framed photograph of Brandon and his roommate showed that the two were about the same age. Both good-looking. Kick’s framed degree in journalism decorated the otherwise stark wall above the desk. If Brandon had a degree, he wasn’t sporting any indication of the accomplishment. The drawing desk appeared to be where he did his work. After snooping around she decided he was an architect of some sort.
In the deceased’s bedroom, she found several family snapshots in the top drawer of the nightstand. Golf clubs on the bed amid the rest of the items that had been taken from the closet. Kick was not only proud of his accomplishments, he had pricey taste in attire, as well. Designer labels were stamped on virtually all of his sizable wardrobe.
Brandon’s bedroom revealed quite the opposite. No family connections that she found. Not a single photo. His closet had apparently been as sparsely furnished as the rest of the apartment. He defined the phrase living simply.
It wasn’t until she went through the kitchen a second time that she found the shared bulletin board. On the back side of an upper cabinet door was a makeshift bulletin board with numerous handwritten telephone numbers, most belonging to women. Not Brandon’s writing. Something else Kick appeared to have plenty of—female attention. Or, at least, their numbers.
Only three names were male, also evidently in Kick’s handwriting. Merri made a note of the male names and numbers on one of the sheets she’d tucked into her purse. Though she doubted he would keep the name of the contact Brandon had seen posted in such a way.
The cupboards were bare, as she’d expected. Mismatched dishware and flatware. The dishwasher held nothing but a cup and one small plate; the rest of the soiled eating utensils were in the sink. Microwave and oven were empty. Nothing beneath the stovetop burners. The range in Kick’s puzzle definitely wasn’t the one in their apartment. Not that she’d expected it would be, but she’d given it a look just the same. She had to cover all bases.
A window above the sink stared directly at another window some twenty feet across a side alley. The neighboring apartment was dark. She wondered briefly if Brandon ever came face-to-face with his neighbor via this window. A woman would have a shade over that window. She shook her head and leaned down to check the lower-level cabinets.
The cabinet beneath the sink held a few cleaning supplies but nothing else of interest.
The final place she inspected was what at first appeared to be a pantry-type closet but was, in fact, a laundry closet complete with a stackable appliances set. A white button-down shirt had dried in the washer. She wondered why the techs hadn’t taken it. As difficult as it had been to see in the white laundry tub, if she’d noticed it, the techs should have. She lifted the stiff material to her face and sniffed. The pungent smell of bleach had permeated the fabric. She shook out the shirt and looked it over, couldn’t see any trace of stains.
Merri dropped the shirt back into the washer and leaned forward to see if she could spot anything on either side of the stacked appliances. Nothing but dust bunnies and an old newspaper.
Closing the door, she turned back to the kitchen at large. Her breath trapped in her lungs. Clean shaven, Brandon stood in the doorway. He wore a blue sweater over a white T-shirt, well-worn jeans and the only pair of sneakers she had seen in his room.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
The realization that he’d likely spoken to her once or twice without her reacting was no doubt the reason for the question.
“Is that your shirt?” If she skirted the question smoothly enough he might leave it alone. “The one in the washer?”
He shook his head. “Kick’s.”
Maybe Kick just liked his whites extra white. That would certainly explain the bleach.
“You ready?” she encouraged, manufac
turing a smile of assurance.
“Sure.” He glanced around the kitchen as if he’d just now considered that she had likely looked at everything, hoping to find clues.
Would he worry that she’d found some secret he’d kept? If he was innocent, he had no need to worry. She had already made a preliminary judgment: innocent. That assessment remained subject to change, but she read people fairly well. She picked up no vibes whatsoever that Brandon was the type to hurt another human in this manner. Still, he was guarded.
The hint of suspicion that lingered in his eyes didn’t bother her that much. She figured it was as much to do with her lack of a response when he’d entered the room as anything.
“Don’t forget your coat.” She walked past him and made her way to the front door. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away that would work well for her purposes. She was acquainted with lots and lots of restaurants all over town since she rarely dined at home. The place she had in mind stayed open until eleven, so there was plenty of time. At that point she would decide the best course of action for delving into this case.
After ducking under the tape once more, she waited while Brandon locked the door. His pale blue coat looked lightweight but she knew from the brand, one skiers preferred, that it would keep him warm despite the chilly Chicago weather.
He stood back, allowing her to descend the stairs first. A few steps down, she glanced back to see if he had said anything. That he watched her so closely warned her that he was suspicious to some degree. She would have to share the truth with him—soon.
It was only fair.
She had already made an assessment about his challenges. Approaching the subject would be touchy and would have to wait. Her own challenge, however, would not wait. Yet she put off the inevitable. Selfishly clung to any reprieve. Her previous superior had called her on that strategy many times.
The stairwell abruptly shook as if an earthquake had rocked the entire building or block. Brandon had stopped his downward momentum and now whirled back toward his apartment. With her attention over her shoulder, Merri lost her balance and barely caught the railing before plunging forward.
When the building had stopped shaking, she turned back to check on Brandon and to better assess the situation. The door of his apartment had blown open, and now hung precariously on its hinges. Even as she stared at the unexpected sight, debris drifted downward to settle on the scarred tile floor.
Fear brushed against Merri’s skin.
Not an earthquake or any other natural disaster.
An explosion.
They had just exited the apartment. Fifteen, twenty seconds ago! Her sense of smell was keen. She’d noticed no gas…nothing.
Instinct railed at her.
Get out of the building!
Now!
Chapter Three
“Brandon!”
He couldn’t look away from the landing outside his door.
“That was an explosion!”
Something had blown up in his apartment! He blinked, stared at the door barely hanging on its hinges.
What the hell had just happened?
“Brandon!”
He turned to the woman waiting a few steps below him. The questions reeling through his mind would be the same as hers. Should they call the police? What the hell would they say? Your crime scene just blew up. But this wasn’t just a crime scene, this was his home.
“We have to get out of here,” Merri urged.
His feet were taking him down the stairs before his brain analyzed her warning. They were in danger. Imminent danger. If they hadn’t walked out that door when they had…damn! It was a miracle they weren’t dead.
Like Kick.
When Brandon hit the step where she waited, she grabbed his hand and rushed downward. They moved past the second floor and onto the first in record time. He moved toward the front entrance.
She held him back, her face a study in worry. “Is there a rear exit? There could be trouble waiting for us out there.”
“A side exit. To the alley.”
“We’ll try that way.”
Once more she urged him forward. He took the lead, showing the way. She stayed close behind him, weaving through the narrow corridor that ended at the only other exit on the ground floor.
Brandon hit the release on the door, bursting out into the alley between his building and the next. The cold air slapped him in the face, making him immensely thankful for the coat and sneakers. He’d half frozen this morning. The cops hadn’t cared, probably could care less that there had been an explosion in his apartment, except that there might have been more evidence to collect. This was insane!
Why would anyone do that?
The tug on his hand slowed his rush toward the street. He turned back to the woman who’d stopped shy of his destination.
“We should call the police.”
He tried to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. She was right. He patted his pockets for his cell phone. Tried to remember if the police had given the phone back to him. No, he decided, they hadn’t, hadn’t given him back his wallet, either.
Didn’t matter. She had her phone in her hand before he could explain the absence of his own.
Headlights fanned across the dim alley. The vehicle had come from the narrow cross street at the back of the alley. Only the city’s garbage collection truck or a delivery truck usually drove through the area. The lights bobbed as the vehicle cut around Dumpsters and trashcans, coming closer. Too close.
What the hell?
She was pulling on his hand again, moving toward the street at the front of the alley.
Hadn’t she said they shouldn’t go out toward the front?
But the vehicle was bearing down on them now.
After them.
Damn! What the hell?
He surged forward, letting her drag him toward the street.
Tires squealed.
Brandon ran faster in an effort to keep up with the woman one step in front of him.
“Stop!”
The male voice was close behind them. Too close.
Merri Walters kept running for the street that seemed so far away. Brandon slowed but didn’t stop as ordered. She kept moving…shouldn’t he?
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Brandon dared to glance back. The blinding headlights on either side of the man made Brandon squint. But there was no mistaking the black ski mask he wore, his fire-ready stance…or the gun in his hand.
Brandon stopped. Merri’s forward momentum jerked on his hand. He tightened his grip, halting her movement. He didn’t have to wonder if she looked back and saw what he’d seen. She was suddenly standing next to him, staring at the man with the gun.
“Put your hands up,” the man warned. “Now!”
Brandon heard the sirens in the distance. Help was on its way, but it wouldn’t get here in time to stop this man from shooting one or both of them if they failed to obey his command. Brandon’s hands lifted in surrender. Merri looked at him, then did the same. He didn’t know if she carried a weapon, but Brandon definitely didn’t. This was bad.
“This way,” the gunman ordered as he gestured with his weapon toward the van behind him.
Brandon glanced toward the woman at his side. She didn’t move. Should he?
“Now!” the man shouted. “Or you’re both dead.”
Brandon didn’t wait for Merri to make the first move. Keeping his hands up, he started toward the van. Merri followed him. Was she playing the part of reluctant victim? Trying to seem the noncompliant of the two? Sort of good cop-bad cop?
The van’s side door glided open. Another dark figure popped out. Another weapon. Another mask. What the hell was this? Brandon climbed into what he now recognized as a cargo van. The interior lights were dim, but those from the dash allowed him to see that a network of canvas straps were fashioned like mesh separating the front seats from the open space where Brandon found himself. No seats. The low height of the interior
forced him to lower his head and shoulders. His hands remained up as he watched Merri climb into the vehicle.
The gunman behind her shouted, “Sit. Keep your hands on your head.” When she didn’t readily comply, the man snatched the bag from her shoulder. She glared at him but still did not obey his order. Fear for her safety rammed into Brandon’s chest.
The van was moving in reverse before the side door slammed shut. Brandon had scarcely hit the floor, his hands positioned on his head as he’d been told, before the backward momentum had him struggling to stay sitting upright. He resisted the urge to use his hands to keep his balance.
Merri practically fell on top of him as the gunman pushed her to the floor. The first man, the one who’d shouted at them in the alley, was behind the steering wheel. He continued backing the van until he wheeled out onto the cross street at the back of the alley. Brandon got a glimpse of blue lights pulsing from the street at the front of the alley.
The police had arrived…too late for them.
His attention settled on Merrilee Walters. Brandon didn’t have to wonder if this had anything to do with Kick’s death and his story. Brandon understood that both he and the woman he’d gone to for help were in serious trouble.
The police should have listened to him.
Now they would both likely end up like Kick.
Dead.
MERRI CLOSED HER EYES and ordered them to adjust to the darkness. She had to be able to see the faces and read the lips of anyone speaking. The mask the second gunman wore, like the first, pretty much prevented her from reading his lips. The near nonexistent lighting kept her from seeing Brandon’s lips well enough to understand anything he might say.
Brandon leaned slightly closer and whispered something against her ear.
She didn’t understand!
She should have told him right up front. That was one of the points Ian Michaels had attempted to get across to her. She could not pretend she was like everyone else. The need to ensure her potential clients understood her lack of hearing was essential.
