Brittle Shadows

by Vicki Tyley

  By the time the locksmith had finished, not only did the apartment have a new door lock, but it also had a solid brass security latch, not unlike those she had seen in hotel rooms. She clipped it into place, murmuring a thank you to Marcus. Unless her intruder was an accomplished cat burglar, she saw no way he could get back into the apartment. Not while she was inside it, anyway.

  She headed to the kitchen, divesting herself of her irksome bra as she crossed the tile floor. Pulling it out from under her top, she balled the offending item and tossed it in the direction of the laundry. It fell short. With a sigh, she retrieved it and lobbed it at the plastic basket atop the washing machine. She missed again, the bra disappearing down between the wall and the machine.

  Cursing, she stretched her hand down into the gap, feeling nothing but thin air. Her arm wasn’t long enough. She looked around for something she could use to hook the AWOL bra.

  Behind the door, she found a plastic coat hanger. Holding it at one end, she poked around in the narrow space, like a blind woman groping for something she couldn’t see. It might have worked if the hook had been on the other end and not in the middle.

  Kneeling on the hard tiles, she tipped her head sideways, trying to get a fix on the elusive black bra. Her eye caught something else instead, something white. She tried the hanger again, giving up after a couple of attempts.

  She sat back on her haunches, weighing up her options: forget about it or find some other way of recovering the bra and whatever else was there. Damned though, if she was going to sacrifice an expensive bra to the laundry gods. Besides the white thing might be important. Or not.

  She stood up, taking a step back to appraise the situation. With the washing machine wedged between the laundry tub and the wall as it was, she wouldn’t be able to move it sideways. Unless she could think of something better, the washer would have to come out. That meant disconnecting the hoses and somehow manhandling the unwieldy machine forward enough for her to get behind it. She only hoped it was lighter than it looked.

  After much grunting, straining, groaning and swearing, she managed to jockey the washing machine out. She picked up the bra, shaking off the dust and lint it had collected, before chucking it in the laundry basket. Apart from a thick layer of grey dust and a lone twenty-cent coin, all that remained were two scraps of paper about the size of Post-it notes.

  Smoothing the bits of paper along the steel edge of the laundry tub, she tried to work out what it all meant, if anything. Both appeared to have been torn from the same sheet of paper, each having two straight edges and two ragged ones. The black all caps typeface, a sans serif font, had to be at least 36-point. Someone trying to get a message across? But what was the message? By themselves, the two sections she had made no sense:

  HOW WELL DO

  YOU KNOW YO

  AT?

  E WHO CARES.

  Not a shopping list. Not an appliance instruction sheet. Not a love note: what sort of person typed a love note? Not a…

  She shook her head. What did it matter?

  She gathered up the two paper pieces and, leaving the washing machine stranded in the middle of the laundry, stepped through into the kitchen. Right, she thought, dropping the note fragments on the raised countertop. Glass of water, cool shower and a decent meal. And in that order. Her aunt was right: if she didn’t look after herself, she would be no good to anyone, let alone herself.

  But before she could do any of those things, the intercom buzzed. She jumped, still not used to the shrill sound.

  A mustached man wearing a peaked cap appeared on the monitor. “Delivery for apartment 367.”

  “Are you sure you have the right apartment?”

  Lowering his gaze, he checked something out of camera range. “Ms Jemma Dalton, apartment 367, right?”

  “Yes, but I’m not expecting anything.”

  He snorted. “When you don’t give ‘em flowers they complain, and when you do, they want advance warning. Men can’t win. Look, I haven’t got all day. Do you want ‘em or not?”

  She pressed the door release button and went to meet him, realizing halfway across the carpet she wasn’t wearing a bra. With no time to do anything about it, she could only hope it wasn’t too obvious. Standing with crossed arms, she waited for the deliveryman at the door.

  The flowers, a massive bouquet of long-stemmed red roses and greenery, arrived before he did. He thrust them in her direction, before pulling a clipboard out from under his arm for her to sign.

  She scrawled her signature in the space provided, took two steps back and kicked the door shut. Unable to remember if she had thanked the deliveryman, she searched the arrangement for a note. Nothing. Not even a florist’s card.

  Who would be sending her flowers? She could count the number of people who knew she was staying in Tanya’s apartment on one hand, and none of them were likely candidates. Not unless it was Ross, but then again, why break a habit of a lifetime? She looked again for a card. If Ross had gone to the expense and effort of sending her roses, he would have wanted her to know they were from him.

  She held the bouquet up to her nose and sniffed. The fern fronds had more scent than the roses. No matter, they were still beautiful and just what the room – and she, if she were to be honest – needed. Carting them to the kitchen, she went in search of a tall vase.

  Only when the flowers were in water, did her thoughts turn to herself. “Now where was I? Drink…” she reminded herself, removing a bottle of spring water from the fridge door and unscrewing the cap, “then shower, then food.”

  Ten minutes later, she stepped out of the shower feeling like a new woman, ready to face the world again. Wrapping one towel around her torso and another around her head, she collected her dirty clothes from the floor and dumped them in the laundry.

  Brrring…

  Who now? She was about ready to disconnect the bloody thing. With a resigned sigh, she went to see who it was. With any luck, another apartment’s visitor had simply pressed the wrong buttons.

  “DS Sykes.”

  “Hi, Jemma. I was just going past, so thought I would check to see if the locksmith actually turned up. Don’t want you having another sleepless night.”

  “Thanks, Chris. Yes, he did.” She paused. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything later, would you like to join me for a cheap and cheerful somewhere?” She had spent too much time cooped up in the apartment, but nor did she relish the idea of wandering around alone at night in an unfamiliar city.

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Um…” She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Whatever suits you. Come up, if you like. I just have to finish getting dressed, but I’ll leave the door unsnibbed. Make yourself at home.”

  She pressed the door release button, dashed across the carpet to the door to unlock it, and then hightailed it back to the study where her clothes were. Old family friend or not, she ought to be at least half-decent.

  Midway through buttoning her shirt, she heard music coming from somewhere in the apartment. She paused, listening to Norah Jones’ distinctive, smoky voice: “I don't know why I didn't come…”

  She glanced at the stack of moving boxes to her right. According to the label, carton number four housed Tanya’s CD collection, so what was playing?

  Jemma hurriedly finished dressing. Then, grabbing a wide-toothed comb from her toiletries’ bag, she headed out to the living area.

  Chris stood in front of the entertainment unit, a faraway look in his hazel eyes. He wore an expensive-looking ecru linen shirt, dark vintage-blue jeans and black boots. Casual but smart.

  “Hypnotic, isn’t it?” she said, uncoiling the towel from her head.

  “What?” He started, his eyes widening as if she had caught him doing something he shouldn’t. “Sorry, I’ll turn it off.”

  “No, it’s nice.” She draped the wet towel over her arm. “I just didn’t think the packers had left any music out.”

  “It was in the CD player. I didn’t see a case
for it.”

  Jemma’s throat tightened, a tug from beyond the grave turning her feet to lead. She was listening to the last music her sister had heard, perhaps as she lay dying.

  “…so my heart is paying now for things I didn't do…”

  “Are you all right?” Chris’s hand touched her shoulder.

  She swallowed hard, nodding as she twisted out of his reach. As much as she yearned for the reassurance of another human’s touch, she didn’t trust herself to keep it together.

  He averted his gaze. “Would you prefer I came back later?”

  She sucked in a couple of sharp breaths, trying to compose herself. “No. I could really do with the company.” She managed a weak smile. “Besides, I’m hungry now.” She also needed the escape.

  “Right then,” he said with a clap of his hands, evidently happier now that he didn’t have to contend with an emotional woman. “Why don’t you go and finish getting ready, and I’ll think of somewhere we can go.”

  Remembering the comb in her hand, she realized she must look like a wet, long-haired rat, sans the beady eyes. Or maybe those, too. “I’ll be quick as I can.”

  She left him to it, re-emerging minutes later to find him studying the two note fragments she had found in the laundry.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” she said when he looked up. “You’re the detective. What do you think they mean?”

  Chris scratched under his collar. “No idea, sorry. Where did you find them?”

  “Under the washing machine, of all places.”

  An eyebrow arched.

  “I was looking for something else.”

  The other eyebrow arched.

  “Don’t ask. It’s a long story,” she said, rolling her eyes. He didn’t need to hear about her bra woes.

  “That would explain why the washing machine is in the middle of the floor. Do you want a hand putting it back?”

  “Later. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  He raised his hand in an exaggerated salute.

  “God, I didn’t mean how that sounded.” She took a breath and started again, her face deadpan. “Thank you, DS Sykes, for your kind offer. If it’s all right by you, I will take you up on it later. Right now, though, I would prefer to go out.”

  He laughed. “Your wish is my command.”

  “Now, you’re sure you didn’t have any other plans?” It occurred to her that she knew next to nothing about him, except what he had told her and that wasn’t much. For all she knew, he had a wife and family waiting at home for him.

  “Only if you can call a date with a TV dinner, plans.”

  That answered that question. Keys in hand, she hooked her bag over her shoulder and gestured at the door. “After you.”

  “Nice flowers, by the way,” Chris said, opening the door. “From the boyfriend?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Outside, the temperature had dropped to a comfortable level, a light breeze carrying away the last of the day’s heat. Since Jemma had no idea where they were headed, Chris led the way. At times, she had to break into a half-jog to keep up with him, but then he would realize and slow.

  On Spring Street, he caught her hand, pulling her through the tidal wave of workers and shoppers on their way home for the day. She stumbled, her forward momentum only just keeping her upright. She hoped they didn’t have far to go. Her sandals’ narrow straps were already cutting into her feet.

  He slowed, drawing her to the side of the footpath. Not sure where she was, she tried to orientate herself, her head snapping from left to right.

  “In here,” he said, leading her across a black-and-white checkered entrance into a wide corridor, reminiscent of a timber-paneled rail carriage from another era and another continent. A mismatch of old, varnished tables lined one side, the mix of chairs just as eclectic. On the other: a long, narrow bar.

  The maître d', resplendent in white shirt and crimson bowtie, rushed to greet them. He ushered them to a table deep in the restaurant, far from the heat and noise of the street. With an audible sigh, Jemma slid into the seat on the farthest side of the table. Her breathing slowed in time with the music’s calming tempo, the surrounding conversation hum almost trance-inducing.

  A waiter materialized, bearing a carafe of chilled water and a basket of sourdough bread. Not waiting, she delved in, tearing off a hunk of the warm bread and popping it in her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the tanginess. Bread and water had never tasted so good.

  She opened her eyes to find Chris watching her, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Sorry,” she said, unable to resist helping herself to another piece. “In case you haven’t guessed, I’m starving.”

  He said something she didn’t catch. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Wine?” he asked, tapping the wine list.

  She swallowed. “Sounds good. You choose,” she said, craning her neck to read the blackboard specials.

  The menu sounded as mouth-watering as the garlicky aromas emanating from the kitchen. She opted for the rack of lamb with field mushrooms and apple balsamic dressing.

  Chris ordered the pan-fried kingfish. “And a bottle of the 2004 Valminor Albarino.”

  “Not due to be on duty, then?” Jemma asked.

  “I actually have a few days off, rare as that is.” He topped up the two water glasses. “So if you need me to run you around or give you a tour of our fine city, just say the word.”

  She nodded, her mouth too full to respond straightaway. “Thanks, but I think I’ll be sticking close to home for the next few days.”

  “The offer’s there, anyway.”

  The waiter returned, presenting the bottle of wine to Chris for his approval before pouring it.

  Jemma raised her glass in a toast. “To my beautiful sister.”

  “To Tanya. May she rest in peace.”

  She set her glass down again. “Chris, I want you to know I really appreciate everything you’ve done – everything you’re doing. It means a lot to me, and I’m sure it would’ve meant a lot to Tanya.”

  He looked almost embarrassed. “Don’t mention it,” he said, twirling the stem of his wineglass.

  “No, I mean it. There are not many people I could have called on in the middle of the night for help.” She waved a hand over the table. “Or who knew just the right restaurant to bring a hungry woman to.”

  He grinned, the flush rising in his cheeks.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She dug around in her shoulder bag, pulled out the security firm’s audit report, and handed it to him.

  His smile faded. “Where did you get this?” he asked, scratching his jaw as he studied the printout.

  When she didn’t answer, he glanced up. “Okay then, what am I looking for?”

  She pointed to the audit numbers running down the left side of the page. “See how it jumps from 587 to 592? Four transactions are missing.”

  “And?”

  “It means I’m not going off my rocker. Look at the times of the entries either side of those. Someone entered the building in the hour before you did. That someone wanted to make sure he covered his tracks. I don’t know how, but the audit logs have been tampered with.”

  “Couldn’t it just be a computer bug?”

  “Highly unlikely. Besides, what do you reckon the odds of a software malfunction at exactly the time in question?”

  “I had to ask.”

  “I know this isn’t exactly legit, but is there any way you could do a discreet background check on Gerry, the security guard?”

  Chris let out a low whistle. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “You’re right.” She sat back in her chair and picked up her wine. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Please forget I even mentioned it.”

  “Look, I can’t promise anything, but leave it with me. Although, I’m not exactly sure what you expect me to find. You do realize that to hold a security license the bloke must have police clearance?” He extracted a well-thumbed notebook from his shirt pocket
. “So, what’s this Gerry’s surname?”

  She dipped her head, peering up at him from under her fringe, before sitting bolt upright. “Ethan will know.”

  Chris’s hazel eyes clouded. “Ethan?”

  “Ethan Kelly, the building’s property manager.”

  “You’ve met him, obviously.”

  “More than once.” She then filled him in on her and Ethan’s encounters, finishing with his abrupt departure from the apartment.

  “What, you know this bloke for less than a day and you’re inviting him in?” Chris shook his head. “For all you know, he could be your intruder.”

  “No way,” she said, moving her arm from the table so the waiter could serve her meal. “Why would anyone who actually had a legitimate excuse to enter a vacant apartment, wait until it was occupied? And in the middle of the night?” She leaned forward and inhaled the mouth-watering aroma of roast lamb and balsamic, her stomach grumbling on cue.

  “You’re too trusting,” Chris said, once they were alone again. “Look at how easily you fell under Marcus Bartlett’s charms. You really should be more wary of strangers, you know. For your own sake.”

  She set her wineglass down. “Are you always this suspicious of other people?” His concern for her welfare wasn’t warranted, but still touching in a big brother sort of way.

  “Sorry, it must be a cop thing.”

  “Anyhow, I wouldn’t exactly call Tanya’s boss and landlord a stranger.” She picked up her knife and fork, waiting for Chris to do the same. “What is it with you and Marcus, anyway?”

  “Personality clash. It’s not important.” He sliced through his fillet of kingfish as if it had done him a great disservice.

  She flinched. “Okayyyyy…” She watched him for a few moments.

  “Something wrong with your meal?” he asked, indicating her untouched plate.

  “No, just thinking.” She ran her knife between two lamb ribs, revealing the succulent, pink meat.

  Chris put down his utensils and lifted the bottle of wine from the wine bucket. “Too much thinking is not good for you,” he said, replenishing their wineglasses. “Why do you imagine I brought you here?”