by Nic Joseph
She wished the same were true for her dating life.
But right now, she just wished she could go home.
Thirty minutes later, she was behind the wheel of her car, doing just that. She was already regretting how she’d spent the first part of her night off, but there was no need to dwell on it. She would go home, climb into bed, turn on Midsomer Murders, and settle into a deep, deep sleep.
• • •
Five hours later, she wasn’t settled into any sort of sleep, deep or otherwise.
Instead, she was standing under an umbrella in front of the three-flat apartment building at 115 West Oak. She was wearing the blazer and comfy heels from her car on top of the black slacks she’d pulled over the shorts she’d been relaxing in. When she’d heard her phone ring and saw Detective Greg Kuchi’s name on the screen, she’d groaned out loud, since it had to be something huge for him to interrupt her on one of her very few nights off.
“Kuchi,” she had said.
He had sighed loudly into the phone. Greg was adamantly opposed to the use of his last name—which, in his own words, was pronounced “like ‘cookie,’ but in the way Cookie Monster says it.” He insisted that everyone call him Detective Greg, a rule by which Claire typically abided, except in rare circumstances when she was annoyed with him.
“All I wanted was one night. Just one.”
“I know,” he said. “Tell people to stop being assholes and quit killing people.”
“Where am I going?”
“Gold Coast.”
It had taken her about twenty-five minutes to get to the apartment, and when she arrived, there was a crowd gathering. She walked toward the building with her shoulders squared, her eyes shrewd, her jaw determined. Around her, a few cops looked up and then whispered to one another.
She saw them and held back a smile.
The apartment sat in a long line of mansions and row houses at the northeast end of the Gold Coast. They were just a few blocks away from Lake Michigan and the typically bustling shops of Michigan Avenue. It was almost 3:30 a.m., and cars still whizzed by on Lake Shore Drive as the warm Chicago night came to an end.
The building looked like something out of a historic painting. It was a warm-brown brick three-flat with ornate black-iron trimming around the windows and Juliet balconies that added little beyond a bit of added charm. The hedges out front were immaculately trimmed, so perfect, they looked like they’d been clipped one leaf at a time. The concrete steps led up to a beautiful, chocolate-stained door, and there was an orange-cushioned swing on one side of the small porch. It was a stately and beautiful building, at least from the outside.
Claire had a feeling that what she would find inside would be a sharp contrast.
“I’ve heard there’s a vacant unit now if you love it so much.” The voice came from behind her, and Claire turned to see Greg walking toward her. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “You look nice.”
There was a question in there—something like “why do you look so nice?”—and Claire felt heat rise to her cheeks, remembering that she hadn’t actually taken the time to remove her makeup from earlier that night.
“Thanks,” she said and then turned toward the building to signal that the conversation was over. As they walked up the steps side by side, Claire tried to prepare herself for what she was going to see inside. She had a strong stomach—she had to in this line of work—but it didn’t mean that it was easy for her to be the person who had to walk into a crime scene when everyone else was running away from it. One of the doors had been propped open, and she passed through the threshold, Greg a couple of steps behind her.
The inside of the building was not as impressive as the outside. It was obviously well-kept, but there was no hiding the fact that it was an old building, and old buildings had old-building problems. Beneath the beautiful rug in the foyer, the floorboard gave, just slightly, under their feet as they walked in, and there were noticeable chips in the paint on the walls near the baseboards.
On their left, there was a door to the first-floor apartment, which was slightly ajar. Across from it was a small table that contained a scattering of postcards and mailers, left there to collect dust. Claire moved past them, Greg close on her heels. Just past the small table, on the right-hand side of the hallway, was the start of a flight of stairs that led up to the second floor.
“There are three units, but the main action is on the third floor,” Greg said, pointing his chin up the stairs.
Claire nodded. She followed his lead and walked toward the staircase before climbing up, her shoes sinking into the plush floor runner as she did. As she walked, she noticed smudges on the wall and the carpet, along with a noticeable chip in the paint the size of a quarter.
“Is that blood?” she asked, eyeing the smudges.
“Looks like it,” Greg said. “There’s more.”
Indeed, Claire saw another few spots of the same, reddish-brown substance on the wall leading up to the second floor. When they reached the landing, there was a woman there holding a box with latex gloves, and they both took a pair. Slipping them on, they turned the corner to see the door to the second-floor apartment open.
“Guess everybody’s up, huh?” Claire said, looking back at Greg, and he nodded.
Dr. Claribel Ortiz was walking out of the unit with a tape recorder in her hand, and she nodded hello to the two detectives as they approached.
“Dr. Ortiz,” Claire said as she walked up. “I thought you were still out on maternity leave.”
“Second week back on the job,” she said. “Never a dull moment.”
“What happened here?”
“Victim’s up on the third floor,” she said. “That’s the primary site. No one has been up there except the responding officer and me. Her name is Beverly Brighton. She and her husband live in apartment 3. Time of death is about 2:00 a.m. Apparently, there was a dinner party going on down here, and Beverly and her husband attended. Not sure when it ended, but the host agreed to let us swab for prints in there too.” She paused and then nodded her head upstairs. “It’s not pretty.”
Claire turned to head up with Greg and the medical examiner following close behind her.
She saw the hand before she was halfway up the stairs.
“Wow,” she heard Greg mutter as they reached the top. The landing on the third floor of the building was a small, rectangular space that couldn’t have been more than eight feet across and five feet wide. Against the far wall was the door to the third-floor apartment, which was propped open. The only furniture in the space was a hip-height glass table next to the door.
The woman was sprawled on her side, one arm flung over the top of the staircase. She was in her mid- to late thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair, olive skin, and bright-green eyes that stared lifelessly in front of her. She wore a pair of red pajama bottoms and a black spaghetti-strap tank top, and her feet were bare. There was a large gash near her temple and a bloodstain beneath her head that feathered out from under her hair and seeped into the carpet. Next to her lay a large, shiny, black-and-white statue of a zebra.
The three people on the stairs stood there silently for a few moments, the unimaginable sadness of the scene not lost on them, even though they’d each seen many bodies before.
“Cause of death was two blows to the head,” Dr. Ortiz finally said softly. “One right in the center of the back of the skull, most likely from being struck, hard, by that statue. The second is near the left temple. That’s the one responsible for most of the blood, and it was made by impact with something very hard and equally sharp.”
“So, in other words…” Claire said.
“In other words, I think she was hit with the statue and then fell to the side and struck the corner of the table as she went down.”
Claire nodded, taking a step forward, moving carefully around the body. “
Where’s the husband?” she asked, turning to Greg.
He nodded his head toward the door of the apartment. “He’s inside. The officer on the scene woke him up when he got here. He was inside, in bed. I think you’re going to have to wait a little bit to talk to him. I heard he’s been retching for the last hour.”
Claire nodded. She, Greg, and Dr. Ortiz turned and walked back down the steps. When they reached the ground floor, Greg indicated that they should move toward the back of the building. Claire followed down a narrow but still-bright corridor that led to a short of flight of steps down to the building’s back door.
It was a simple wooden door with a dead bolt and lock on the doorknob. Claire saw immediately that one of the glass panels in the window next to the door had been busted open, and there was glass on the floor covering the large mat. She took a look around, examining the broken shards of glass all over the mat and concrete floor.
“We think this is how the perp got in,” Greg said. “Busted the window, opened the lock, and then, for some reason, made it up to the third floor and encountered Brighton.”
Claire peered at the floor for another moment and then finally looked up. “Do we know what Beverly was doing out of her apartment?”
“Nope,” Greg said. “That’s the million-dollar question. Or at least one of them.”
They both looked up as a tall, wiry officer walked toward them from the front of the building. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
“That’s the responding officer,” Greg said. “If you want to talk to him.”
Claire nodded and walked over to the man, who looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“You were on the scene first?” she asked.
The officer looked at her nervously and nodded without saying anything before dropping his eyes to the floor.
Claire lowered her voice. “First body you’ve seen?”
The officer looked up for a moment and then nodded before averting his eyes again.
“If it’s any consolation, it doesn’t get easier for anyone, not the first time or the hundredth.”
He looked at her and nodded, letting his shoulders slump.
“I know it’s in your report, but can you tell me about what happened when you got here?”
The officer took a deep breath. “The couple that called it in, apartment 1—they’re the ones who let me in. I walked up to the third floor with them and saw the body,” he said. He swallowed and then continued. “I called it in and then pushed the door open and went inside.”
“It was unlocked?”
“It wasn’t even fully closed. When I got inside, I went into the bedroom and found the husband asleep. I thought something was wrong with him. I had to shake him to wake him up. Turns out he was pretty messed up from whatever they were taking at that party.”
Claire nodded. “Security cameras on the property?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Landlord on premises?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where are all the tenants now?”
“They’ve all gone back to their apartments,” he said.
“Okay, thanks,” she said before turning to walk away. She took two steps and then paused, looking back over her shoulder. “And nice job, by the way.”
The cop blinked and then nodded slightly. “Thanks.”
Claire walked back over to Greg, who was standing by the bottom of the staircase. “All right, let’s go see who’s awake,” she said.
Greg frowned, looking at his watch. “Really?” he asked. “At this time of night? You’re not going to let the dust settle a bit?”
Claire shook her head. “Nah. Let it settle, and people tend to find their footing. That’s exactly what we don’t want.” She turned and looked at the back door. “At least we know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
Claire jogged down the short flight of steps that led to the back door and crouched on the concrete where the busted glass was scattered all around. With a gloved hand, she picked up one of the largest pieces and held it between her fingertips, her thumb pressed gently against one of the sharp edges. As she examined it, she spoke softly, more to herself than to anyone around her.
“We know this is complete and utter bullshit.”
Greg had reached the top of the short staircase, and he stared down at Claire’s crouched frame, a frown on his face. “What are you talking about?”
Claire didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to press her finger against the glass as Greg slowly made his way down the steps to join her. She finally dropped it and stood up, turning to face him.
“This so-called break-in. Careless, sloppy, and almost insulting, to be honest.”
“What are you talking about?” Greg asked again, looking at the busted window and glass shards that surrounded their feet.
“It’s completely dry,” Claire said. “The floor, these stairs, not a drop of water. It’s been raining all night, and you mean to tell me that somebody managed to break that window, open the door, come inside, and walk to the front of the building without leaving a drop of water on this concrete floor?”
Greg followed her gaze and cursed softly.
“Somebody staged it,” he said.
Claire nodded. “And the only reason you’d do that is if—”
“You’re trying to hide the fact that the killer was already inside the building.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “Still want to let that dust settle?”
Chapter 4
Paula
Six days before
Vanessa and I had been at the party for all of twenty minutes, and I was already giving her the look.
Me: You regretting this yet?
Her: No.
Me:
Her: Well…maybe a little.
Me: How much longer do we have to stay?
Her: Just until I find Tim and say hi.
Me: Then we can go?
Her: Then you can go.
We were standing at an impossibly small table in the middle of Agave Restaurant and Bar, a beautiful, modern restaurant in Chicago’s River North neighborhood. To be fair, the high ceilings; deep, red-and-gold booths; and inherent sense of celebration were infectious, and there was a small part of me that was happy we’d come.
But the rest of me was uncomfortable, awkward, and, more than anything, tired.
All I could think about was how much money I could make if, instead of partying with them, I was spending the night taking all these people home.
The large-screen televisions around the room were showing pop music videos, the sounds of which had several people bopping back and forth while they sipped their cocktails and pretended to be disinterested in everyone else around them.
“I know what we need,” Vanessa said suddenly. “Shots.”
“No,” I said. “That is precisely what we don’t need.”
“Yes!” she said, launching both fists into the air, as if I’d agreed with her. She spun around toward the bar. “I’ll be right back.”
I sighed and finished the cocktail I’d bought when we first arrived, the one that I’d promised would be my first and last. It was sort of an unspoken rule: the more Keith drank, the less I did, since it seemed that one of us should be sober, at least most of the time.
Besides, I’d never done well with alcohol. I treated alcohol the way some people treated sweets. I never had to have it, but one taste, and I craved more, and more, and more. Whereas Keith could drink just the right amount to knock him out and allow him to wake up refreshed in the morning, I tended to be either completely sober or completely horizontal—there was rarely much in between.
As I stood there, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned
, expecting to tell Vanessa that she was on her own with the shots, but instead found myself face-to-face with a man who was about my height and wearing a leather vest with no shirt beneath it.
“Hey,” he said, stepping close and talking loudly near my ear. “What kind of guys…”
“Sorry?” I asked as the end of his sentence got lost in the noise around us.
“Oh, I just said what kind of guys do you like?”
I held up my left hand. “Oh, I’m married,” I said. “Thanks, though.”
He frowned. He started to walk away and then turned back. “Thanks for what?”
I blinked. “Huh?”
“You said ‘thanks.’ Was that ‘Thanks for coming to talk to me, now go away’?”
“I didn’t—”
“‘Thanks for putting yourself out there so I can make you feel like an idiot’?”
“No—”
“‘Thanks for making me feel attractive because my husband sure doesn’t, and that’s the only reason I came out tonight’?”
Before I could respond, Vanessa walked up with two shot glasses in her hands, and she looked back and forth between the two of us before stepping closer to him.
“How about ‘Thanks for understanding that sweat, armpits, and cheap leather do not go well together and for moving on to stink up some other area of the club’?” she said.
The man grumbled something, shook his head, and walked away.
Vanessa turned back to me, holding out one of the glasses. “I think you ordered this?”
I stared at the retreating leather and then the shot glass, all my planned protests flying out the window.
“What the hell,” I said, taking it and lifting it up.
She smiled and lifted her glass as well before we tossed them back. The thick liquid burned, like it was supposed to, and I coughed loudly as I put the glass down on the small table.
“What the hell!” I exclaimed again, wiping my mouth, those famous last words some of the last ones I remembered of the night.
• • •
Two hours later, I was in the fiery pit of hell but too drunk to know it.
