by Erin Huss
She continued to stare at me.
"Never mind. I don't really need him." I pounded back down the stairs, past Silvia, who huffed and puffed as if she were about to blow my house down. No time. I was on a mission. It was so obvious!
My determined march slowed to a yielding shuffle. Was it obvious? Had I jumped to conclusions again? Was I about to blow this entire situation out of proportion? I'd been so wrong lately.
Or had I?
My gut told me something was lurking behind the corner, waiting for me to get comfortable before jumping out and revealing him or herself. Isn't that exactly what happened? I was asleep, warm in my bed, tucked under my comforter, when I was summoned to meet Kevin. Spencer, technically, was selling illegal items out of his apartment just as I'd thought. Did I anticipate it being stingrays? No. Would any reasonable adult assume it was marine animals? No. Wick was in fact on parole. Therefore he was a criminal, and therefore I was not overreacting when I'd approached him. OK, maybe when I had called the police and hid behind a box. But who knows what he was on parole for?
I was right all along…in a roundabout sort of way.
I was going for it, I decided. Resolute and fast, I rounded the corner. Kevin stood under the archway below his apartment, wearing cargo shorts and a white tank. I almost didn't recognize him with so many clothes on. He brought a cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag.
Kevin's presence was problematic. I hadn't included him in the plan I'd devised during the one-minute walk over. Chase would have been helpful. Kevin, not so much, especially considering he'd snapped the olive branch I'd extended. Though he never did call Patrick to tattle. If he were serious about firing me, wouldn't that be his first item of business? Telling Patrick what happened?
Perhaps the olive branch remained intact?
I tapped his shoulder. He jumped and spun around, dropping his cigarette in the process. I brought my finger to my lips before he could say anything. "Shh," I whispered.
His face contorted into all-consuming anger. His jaw tight, eyes narrowed into furious slits, hands clenched into fists.
Or perhaps he left Patrick a message?
Then it happened. His jaw relaxed. His hands went limp and were promptly brought to his clothed hips. He lifted his brows high to the middle of his forehead and shrugged. "Well?" he whispered back.
It took me a moment to process the shift in his demeanor. He had not stormed away, taken off any clothing, called me a tramp, or slammed a door in my face (granted, there wasn't one around to do so with). "Well…how are you?" Might as well start with pleasantries.
"Fine, you?" It was the most normal conversation we'd ever had. He stuck his pinky into his ear and gave it a jiggle, pulling back to inspect his findings. For the first time I noticed the diamond studs glittering on each earlobe. His auburn sideburns were peppered with strands of white hair. His face had rather strong, masculine, well-defined features. He was, I realized for the first time, attractive. It's amazing what you notice when not actively avoiding staring at someone's exposed genitalia.
"Kevin," I said in a hushed tone, trying not to sound too amazed. "You really do look good in clothes. You should wear them more often."
He looked down, pulling at the bottom of his tank. His mouth twisted to the side as if deciding if making the effort was worth it. "Eh," he finally said, mirroring my hushed tone. "You here to see," he said, jerking his head toward Alice's apartment.
"Yeah, why? You know something?"
He looked around. "It depends on who's asking."
This was the Kevin I'd come to know and love, and by love I meant tolerate, and by tolerate I meant I hadn't smacked him upside the head yet. Which had to be some kind of world record. "Me, Kevin. I'm asking you," I answered in an angry whisper. "I don't have time for games."
He looked taken aback. "Calm down. I was only joking."
Joking? Joking? Was I talking to Kevin's reasonable identical twin brother? "Oh, sorry. Can you please tell me if you know anything?"
He folded his arms over his chest and looked around again. Confident we were alone, he leaned in and whispered, "I know everything about this place and everything about everyone." He winked.
"Ugh. I'm done. I've got bigger fish to cook."
"You mean fry?" Kevin corrected.
"Whatever," I said, pushing past him.
The carports wrapped around the building and backed up to the patios of first-floor Apartments 39, 22, 36, and 19.
I would have an unrestricted view of Alice and Vincent's patio from the carport roof, and if the blinds were open, the bedroom.
The crime started the day I arrived. Alice was the only one to technically move in on my watch. She said her name was Alice, yet everyone calls her Wysteria. Makes sense to use a stripper name. Or did it make sense to use a different name if you were using a different identity? She said she'd lost her license, yet she had a bag with medicine because her "Boo was totally, like, sick with a gnarly cold." You can't purchase cold medicine anymore without swiping your driver's license! And I learned from my crime shows it's because you can make meth with cold medicine, so the stores track who's buying cold medicines in large quantities. Ha! See? Chase shouldn't have given me such a hard time about watching those shows when that knowledge is clearly coming in handy now. So Alice had lied. She'd never left her license at a club. Her name wasn't even Alice. It was Wysteria. She knew we would run background and credit reports, and any criminal hits would show up. She only turned in an application because Joyce had asked her to, and she didn't want any negative attention.
The clincher was her appearance. The day we met, she was bouncy and colorful. The new Alice (or whoever she was) was layered in clothing on an extremely hot day. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken, and those dark spots looked an awful lot like pregnancy melasma (I'd suffered through it my entire pregnancy with Lilly).
Alice had left the office, and not thirty minutes later, I'd found the wallets and backpacks discarded in the dumpster. She didn't a have a purse or wallet with her. The application and photo ID were folded into quarters, as if stored in her pocket. Did I think she killed Kenneth Fisk? Maybe. It seemed unlikely she'd be able to haul him to the dumpster herself. Which meant she had help.
Kenneth Fisk was last seen hurrying toward the back stairwell. The stairwell right above Apartment 39. What if Kenneth witnessed something happening in Apartment 39—a theft, drugs, something illegal—and called to report this to Joyce but was killed before he could finish his message?
Could Wysteria or Boo be into something illegal?
It was, once again, a theory. A theory that I wasn't about to tell anyone—police, Patrick, Chase…until I had hardcore proof.
The carport roof was much taller than I anticipated. Chase and his accompanying ladder would have been helpful. I squatted down and with all my might sprang upward with my arms outstretched, hoping to catch the top of the carport.
Not even close.
Note to self: You are not Michael Jordan.
That said, it didn't stop me from trying two more times. I leaned against the rough stucco surface of the too-high wall, catching my breath.
"Here," Kevin said, appearing at my side. A freshly lit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He stood in a braced position with his fingers intertwined.
"You sure?" I asked, cautiously inserting my Converse'd foot into his makeshift lift. I was heavier than I appeared. At least that's what every nurse said as I stepped onto the hateful doctor's office scale. "You're solid," they'd say, and I'd want to punch them in the face.
Kevin wrapped his thumbs around my shoe for extra support. "I'm sure," he replied, keeping his cigarette balanced in his mouth. "They've been selling coke in there for a couple of months now. The guys are pretty cool. They don't make it here. They get it from somewhere else," he said, as if it should make me happy. "It's decent stuff, best I've ever had. Grabbed an eight ball from them this morning."
My mouth fell open. My frontal
lobe worked frantically to decipher which disturbing piece of information to process first. "Kevin," I scolded, removing my foot. "You just got out of rehab."
"I didn't stay. Checked myself out and went to Mexico instead."
Good grief. "Promise me you will not touch whatever you bought from them." I noticed his dilated eyes. "Too late?"
He brought his thumb and forefinger together, leaving a small half-inch gap between them. "Just a wee bit," he said, stifling a giggle.
And yet another piece to the puzzle—Kevin acted the way he acted because he was on drugs. Again, it should have been obvious. To be fair, I did have a hunch.
"Do you know if they had anything to do with Kenneth Fisk's murder?" I whispered.
Before he could answer, we heard Apartment 39's sliding patio door opened and shut.
Kevin, I mouthed, pointing to his hands. He returned them to their boosting position and squatted down to better bear the weight. I placed one foot into his hands and jumped up with the other. Kevin lifted me until I managed to hook my hands on the edge of the roof.
"You're heavy," Kevin quietly wheezed, his face turning apple.
"Just a little farther…" I inched my foot up the wall until I could leverage it on the ledge as well.
What a sight this must be.
With every ounce of strength pulsing through me, I made it to the top of the carport roof.
Note to self: Work out!
I paused to look up at the gorgeous full moon while I caught my breath.
Then it was back to business. I army-crawled across the roof to get a better view of the patio.
The bedroom blinds were closed. Dark trash bags filled to maximum capacity were piled two deep next to the sliding glass door. The patio was littered with broken plastic chairs, crinkled papers, and food containers. Paragraph three on the third page of the House Rules says patios are to remain free from trash, broken furniture, and wood-burning barbecues. There was also something in there about not being in possession of illegal drugs or involved in the distribution of them.
In short, I had plenty of grounds for an eviction.
From the reflection off the sliding door, I saw Vincent leaning against the wall directly below me. The patio door slid open, and I flattened myself against the roof. Footsteps approached. I held my breath. The footsteps stopped below, out of my line of sight. "Boo, are you, like, mad at me?" It was Alice. Her voice was small, submissive.
"I told you not to leave the apartment," Vincent said, his voice angry.
"I was just, like, walking around. Getting some air."
"Yeah, last time you got some air, you took a damn car and police were crawling all over this place. What part of lay low do you not understand?"
Alice took Daniella's car?
"I told you it was just to get away from Rev, not you."
"Don't play me," Vincent warned.
"I'm not," she said. "Rev's crazy. Why does he have to stay here?"
Who the hell is Rev?
"I told you, it's just until we get enough money to pay off my debt."
"We don't need him," she said. "We can figure it out on our own, Boo. I told you I'd help."
"Like you helped last time?"
"I told you, I didn't know," she grunted.
Know what?
There was a long break of silence.
"I didn't do anything. It was all Rev," Alice said, her voice louder.
"Dammit!" A trash bag sailed to the other side of the patio. "Rev is the only reason I'm not in prison right now."
"But it wasn't you, Boo. It was all him. Don't blame yourself."
Blame himself for what?
For Kenneth?
"Shut up. I'm done talking about it…I have to go," Vincent growled. "I expect you here when I get back."
"You're meeting Malone at Alcove right now, right?" Alice asked, her voice even louder.
"You on my phone?" He punched the wall. That had to hurt.
"No, no. I just…like, I heard Rev say something."
"Just you remember, if I go down, you go down too. Get inside."
I heard them walk across the patio, so I dared to lift my head. Vincent's hand was wrapped around Alice's waist as they disappeared into the apartment, sliding the door closed behind them.
I reached into my back pocket for my phone and quickly texted myself. Vincent meeting Malone now at alcove. Rev. Alice is Wysteria. She stole the car. Vincent should be in prison. But why? Did he kill Kenneth?
I would wait, I decided, for Vincent to leave. I would wait for my feet to hit solid ground before I called the police. This was huge!
The moments ticked by. The moon grew brighter and higher. Finally, Vincent left. The car parked directly under me in the carport roared, and…
Ack!
It happened in an instant. One second I was lying on the carport roof, and the next second I was on the patio floor, with a pair of crazy, angry eyes glaring at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tenant will, at Tenant's cost, keep Premises in good, clean condition.
I took a quick assessment of all limbs and organs. Everything was accounted for, and nothing throbbed. Hurt like hell, yes. Throbbed in a need-to-replace-a-kidney kind of way, no. I lay in a bed of stuffed, black trash bags with a hand wrapped tightly around my left ankle. The hand belonged to a man with a sprawling spider web tattoo across his neck, angry jaw, strong limbs, and eyebrows so blond they blended in with his face. I gulped. He made Teardrop of Death look like Mary Poppins.
"When are you going to learn to not be so damn nosy?" the man asked through gritted teeth.
"Right now," I assured him, kicking my free leg. Without taking his eyes off my face, he grabbed my other ankle. "Help!" I screamed. "I'm being hel—" Before I knew what was happening, he was sitting on my legs, pinning me down, and his large, flat palm landed over my mouth, silencing my cries for help. I licked his hand. Blech. It tasted like fish.
"Who are you really?" the man snarled. I had a hunch this was crazy Rev Alice/Wysteria and Vincent were talking about.
I also had a hunch the spider web across Rev's neck was what Kenneth was referring to when he yelled "Spider web!" on the message. Gulp.
"Who do you really work for?" he asked, clearly rhetorically, since his hand prohibited me from answering.
Keeping his hand over my mouth, he slid off me and moved around behind me then hoisted my torso up with his free hand, holding me against him. Then he dragged me backwards through the patio door, my legs flailing the entire journey.
Frantic, my eyes dashed around, taking in the surroundings. A dark-spotted popcorn ceiling. Rectangles cut into the drywall along the bottom. The furnace was missing. A variety of colorful stains dotted the dingy carpet. As he dragged me over empty McDonald's containers and flattened In-N-Out cups, a Taco Bell wrapper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. The apartment smelled like burning plastic with a hint of the Tropical Rainforest I'd used in the office. Even in my current distressed state, I could see why Joyce asked for a high security deposit.
My tour continued down the short hallway. More rectangles. More stains. Into the living room we went. I could see the kitchen from there—the wall that separated the two had a hole so big a child could stand in it. All the kitchen cabinet doors were missing, leaving only the skeleton of what was once many-times-painted-over cabinetry. The apartment was void of any real furniture, only a few plastic patio chairs and a card table.
The spider-webbed assailant kicked a box blocking his route, sending it sailing across the room. We ended in the dinette area beneath a window adorned with thick, black curtains.
My fight-or-flight mode was alight and blazing, even though my attacker was twice my size and at least that much crazier. I had a hunch he was just as stupid as he was high. My arm was released, but my mouth was still muzzled. His hot breath at my neck triggered a tsunami of fear.
"You a narc?" Rev growled. I tried to shake my head, but his hand was too tight over my mouth.
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"Nooooo!" I muffled into his palm.
He didn't hear me.
I kicked and thrashed around, fighting with everything I had until his hands landed on my neck. His eyes bore in to me, like two black marbles. My vision blurred. My heart thundered.
I can't breathe!
The world tunneled…then came a knock on the door. Rev's head snapped, eyes faded from black to brown. He loosened his grip around my neck and returned a hand over my mouth. I grappled to stay conscious.
Another knock on the door.
"Hold on!" screamed Rev.
He grabbed a handful of zip ties conveniently left on the ground. This must be the hostage room, I figured. "Put your hands together behind your back. If you don't listen, I'll go after the kid. Lilly, isn't it?" he hissed into my ear.
Lilly!
Saying her name out loud didn't spark the compliant fear he'd intended; it ignited a fiery rage. With an accelerated rise and fall of my chest, to give the illusion his threats were working, I pressed my wrists together as instructed. Around went the shiny white tie, securely cuffing my hands together.
Another knock on the door.
I hoped it was the police coming to rescue me and take away Crazy Rev before I, literally, dismembered him. Threaten my kid, and I will kill you. I will rip off your balls and choke you with them. Dead.
Two more rapid knocks.
If not the police, I'd even settle for Kevin, or Silvia Kravitz. How she lived so close to drug dealers and only found the time to complain about two old people having loud sex was mind-boggling.
"Who is it?" hollered my assailant, agitated.
My breath hitched as we waited to see who our visitor was.
"It's maintenance," came the two most beautiful words I'd ever heard. Chase, despite our earlier kerfuffle, had come to rescue me. My hero.
"Not now, man," Spider-Webbed Assailant said, not detoured by my drill-toting knight in shining armor.
"Come on, man," Chase begged. "I've got to get to this before I leave." He was quite convincing, I'd give him that. I was ready for him to drop the act, though, and kick the door open. Or use his copy of the master key.
