by Erin Huss
Gross.
There was a very real possibility the worst-case scenario part of my brain took over and I had this all wrong. So I might as well ask. "Antonio, how'd you know about the flood in Violet's apartment if you didn't get my voicemail?"
He pulled up his pants. His chest still bare of clothing, and the cross around his neck still tangled in hair. "A resident told me there was water coming down from Apartment 105's ceiling, and I figured it was coming from Violet's."
"Oh." Made sense. Made perfect sense.
Well, that was embarrassing.
My phone buzzed. It was Chase. I answered. "Sorry. I'm on my way."
"You OK?"
"Yep. I'll be there in a sec." I hung up and rocked from heels to toes. Stormy and Antonio still staring at me.
This is awkward.
"Sorry. You two can…continue…I'm going to…just…" I cocked my thumb to the door. As I turned, my eyes swept the office. On the floor was a mess of files that had slid off the desk when I made my grand entrance.
On top, the file for Apartment 105, Dolores Rocklynn, lay open. Her assigned entry code, the one I had used earlier, had been whited out and a newly assigned entry code had been written in red.
They'd changed Dolores's code so I couldn't enter.
Or so David couldn't enter, I reminded myself. When I'd mentioned I knew Dolores's code, Stormy could have been worried about who else had it, given the situation with David, and changed it while it was fresh in her mind.
It was what I would have done.
Except…
The manila folders beneath Apartment 105's were for apartments 306, 402, 610, 509, 508, 404, 903, 314, 407, 612, and 10l. The tabs were written in the familiar chicken scratch.
Stormy's chicken scratch.
Violet had swirly writing.
Stormy said they didn't keep paper files.
Still, there could be a reasonable explanation for why Stormy had the files. Hampton asked for them, and she gathered all the information she could find and placed them in new folders. She and Antonio could have been working on the project together, when one thing led to another and…oops. Their clothes fell off.
Denial can be a powerful thing.
I backed away. "I'll leave you two to…continue." I grabbed hold of the door to close it and took note of the circular hole where the knob had crashed through the drywall when I'd burst in. "I'll…um…pay for that."
Antonio's shirt was stuck beneath the door, prohibiting its closure. I yanked it free and handed it to him, not making eye contact. He slipped the shirt on over his head without a word.
Neither he nor Stormy said a word.
They didn't need to.
The words on Antonio's shirt said it all. Vegas! Went on Vacation, Came Back on Probation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
—Some like it rough.
There was no denying it. Antonio was taller than Silvia, he had dark hair, and more incriminating, he had the black shirt matching Silvia's description. A shirt with holes on the bottom and white paint smudges on the shoulder. Obviously, his work shirt. He was the one looking in patios and peeping through windows. He was the one looking for Violet. Crap. If only I'd been around to see him, then I could have put this together sooner.
Except…
Silvia said the man was there Tuesday evening. Wednesday midmorning. And Wednesday night. I realized, every time Antonio was snooping around, I was preoccupied.
I was preoccupied by Stormy! She'd called about the virus. She called when her icons disappeared. She showed up at my doorstep with flowers. After I received Silvia's call on the emergency line and tried to leave, Stormy was desperate for me to stay. I thought it was because she didn't know what she was doing. In reality she didn't want me catching Antonio snooping around my apartments. He was looking for Violet.
I've been played.
I'd been played so badly I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I thought Stormy was an untrained assistant manager in over her head. I thought Stormy desperately needed my help. I thought Stormy was my friend. No wonder the office was at sub-zero temperatures—she was a sweaty-mess liar.
Just like Violet!
Never in my life had I ever wanted to beat the crap out of someone as I did in that moment.
Luckily, the reasonable side of me took over before I got myself in trouble.
And the reasonable side of me goes by the name of Chase.
"Cambria, there you are…" Chase must have felt the tension in the room, because he stopped midsentence and did a quick scan of the office, from the folders on the floor, to Stormy in her backward shirt, to Antonio, to Cindy on the wall proudly holding a Pepsi.
I didn't know what to say or what to do. From the look on Stormy's and Antonio's faces, they knew that I knew, and they knew that I knew that they knew. From the look on Chase's face, he was putting the pieces together.
So we all sort of stood there.
"We're going to be late for dinner," Chase said causally.
"You're right," I said, equally casual. "We have reservations."
We turned to leave.
Antonio leapt in front of us and kicked the door shut. In one quick swoop, he had me in a bear hug with a sharp knife at my throat.
Where was he hiding this knife?
I'd seen the man naked ten minutes ago.
Kevin was right. You can stash a weapon anywhere!
Chase didn't react. Like me being held hostage, with a knife to my throat, was neither surprising nor alarming.
I, on the other hand, was reactive. I wouldn't consider myself proficient in the human anatomy. But I was pretty sure nothing good happened when a knife sliced through your carotid artery. The more I struggled to break loose, the tighter Antonio held. "He killed Violet," I rasped. If I was going to die, I might as well get the truth out.
Chase cocked his head. "Let her go."
"Antonio!" Stormy cried. "Antonio, don't hurt her!" She dramatically sunk to the floor and hysterically screamed into her hands, a performance worthy of a daytime soap.
Antonio ran the tip of his knife under my chin, and I felt a drip of blood trickle down my neck. I closed my eyes.
"Let her go," Chase demanded again.
I could feel the perspiration seeping through Antonio's shirt and the beads forming on his arm. He didn't answer Chase, but his breath quickened. I wondered if this was how it ended for Violet.
My mind raced through every single crime show, hostage situation, and YouTube video I'd seen, but I had no idea how to get out of a knife to the throat. What I did have was an FBI agent standing in front of me. Granted, he had not been trained yet. Also, I had no idea if he was armed.
"My name is Detective Chase Cruller with the LAPD. I'm wired, and there is a SWAT team waiting for you outside that door," he said. "You drop the girl, and we go peacefully."
He was bluffing. Unless I'd missed something.
Stormy screamed. "Oh my heavens! Heavens no! No!" She rose to her knees and clasped her hands. "Help us, please! Help!"
Chase produced a gun out of, what felt like, thin air. Because apparently everyone has had weapons hidden in their nooks and crannies but me.
Chase had a gun aimed at Antonio.
Antonio had a knife on my throat.
If Stormy produced a weapon, we were both screwed.
"Drop your gun, or I'll kill her," Antonio said. "I'll slice her neck, and she'll be gone in thirty seconds."
On TV, when the criminal had the girlfriend hostage, the cop would drop their weapon and back away slowly with their hands up, ready to negotiate.
Chase doesn't watch enough crime shows.
Instead of dropping his weapon, Chase said, "You kill her. I kill you."
I liked the television version of this scenario better.
"I'll do it," Antonio said. "I'll kill her right now!"
"How is killing Cambria going to get you what you want?" Chase asked. "She's the only thing keeping you alive right now."
Antonio's grip around my neck loosened, but the knife remained pressed against my neck.
Stormy remained on her knees, silently pleading, or praying, or both.
Chase remained in wide stance, gun drawn, and finger on trigger.
I remained lucid, which is saying a lot because it took every ounce of willpower I had to not freak out. In a situation such as this, I assumed I'd be the hero. I assumed I'd be able to disarm the perp. But kicking and thrashing around didn't seem like the right approach for a man holding a sharp object to my major artery.
Unfortunately, kicking and thrashing was my only idea.
A commotion outside caught my attention. It sounded like an army was fast approaching, or a charge of angry residents.
Antonio turned his head in the direction of the noise, and his grip loosened enough for me to slip out. No sooner did I move, than a shot was fired and Antonio dropped to the floor.
"No!" Stormy screamed. "Oh heavens no!" She crawled toward Antonio until Chase told her to be still.
The door kicked open, and, sure enough, a SWAT team arrived. Chase had been right.
Or, 9-1-1 had received my text.
Either way, I made a shield with my hand, not wanting to see Antonio on the ground. I had no idea if he was dead or alive. On TV he would be alive but injured, but this was clearly not one of my "trashy" crime shows.
Chase spoke to the team of men and women entering the tiny room. I caught every few words, my heart still pounding in my ears. "Drawn down…Hit the X…"
Stormy was still on the floor, with her hands over her face, crying. I couldn't understand why no one had cuffed her. Until Chase said, "…both hostages uninjured…" and I realized Chase thought Stormy was a hostage, not an accessory.
In my text I'd said as much.
They didn't know what I did.
My theory was confirmed when Chase lowered to one knee and placed a comforting hand on Stormy's back. She continued to cry, shoulders shaking, body sweating, shirt still on backward.
Chase stood, and Stormy peeked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, disdain on her face. She reached under the desk and produced a small silver pistol.
"Watch out!" I grabbed Chase by the shoulders and shoved him out of the way. The gun went off, and that was about all she wrote.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
—Almost
When Amy and I were kids, we'd close the door to my room and flip the light switch on and off so fast it looked like a strobe light. We'd strike silly poses and dance around. Our movements appeared to be in slow motion, and we thought it was hilarious. Light on: one pose. Light off: Light on: new pose. Light off.
That was what being shot felt like.
Minus the hilarious.
Light on: Stormy against the wall with her hands cuffed.
Light off.
Light on: Chase's face, lines creased across his forehead.
Light off.
Light on: a stranger saying my name.
Light off.
Light on: four bright fluorescent lights, the sound of a siren, and the slight jerking of movement.
Light off.
Light on: Brian T. Rains' giant face looking at me through the window.
Light off.
Light on: rectangular ceiling tiles.
Light off.
Light on: Chase at my side, smoothing an ice cube over my lips like he was applying gloss. I waited for the light to turn off again, but it remained on. I ran my hands along the stiff, sterile fabric of hospital sheets.
"What happened?" I asked, feeling groggy. It was a fight to stay awake.
"You were shot."
"Shot!" My hands went to my chest. I checked my arms. Felt my head. I could move my feet and my toes. "Where was I shot?"
"In your butt."
My butt?
I wiggled a bit.
Yep, that hurts.
Good thing I had padding there. Guess ice cream can do a body good.
"Did I lose a lot of blood?" I asked. "Why is there an IV in my arm? Why is my head so foggy? How did I get in a hospital gown? Did they do surgery? Did I lose a lot of blood? Why is there an IV in my arm?"
"You have a concussion." Chase dropped the ice cube into a paper cup. "You pushed me out of the way and fell against a filing cabinet and hit your head."
Got shot in the butt. Ended up with a concussion. Sounded about right.
"Where is Stormy?" I asked.
"In custody. She confessed to killing Violet."
I couldn't have heard him right. "Stormy killed Violet? I thought Antonio did."
"No. Stormy and Violet were in on the con. They embezzled close to a million dollars over the last three years. Prior to Stormy working there, Violet made about forty grand extra a year renting out one apartment. Enough to support her gambling habit. Then Stormy came on and beefed up the business. Violet paid her a third of every rental."
A third?
If only my head weren't so foggy, then I'd be able to do that math.
That was a lie.
Even when I was drug free, I still wasn't great at math. But I thought about the Post-it notes on the bottom of Violet's monitor. The tally marks. About a third of the rent would make sense. She'd kept track of what she owed Stormy.
"With the property owners doing an audit, they knew there was a good chance they'd get caught. Stormy wanted Violet to take the blame," Chase continued. "She went to Violet's apartment Monday night and found Violet on the toilet with the bathtub running. Violet was upset because she'd lost the last of the money to a bad bet. The two argued, and Stormy stabbed Violet, several times. Thought she'd killed her and called Antonio for help. The two were involved."
"Yeah, I saw." I saw everything.
"Together they put Violet in a plastic tub—"
"Did they use a dolly to take Violet down to the parking lot?" I interrupted, suddenly remembering the tire marks near the baseboard and the dolly underneath the stairwell.
"How'd you know that?"
I tapped my temple, and then forgot what we were talking about.
Um…
Right. Violet. Dead. Dolly.
"They put the plastic bin in the back of Stormy's car. Ran back upstairs to clean up the mess, but they couldn't get the bathtub to shut off. The plan was to pack all Violet's stuff into a suitcase and make it look like Violet took off. But when the bathroom began to flood, Antonio ran to get his tools."
"And that's when David showed up. Stormy hid while he tried to turn off the water. Then I came into the picture," I said with a shake of my head. "Antonio did announce our arrival before we entered, giving Stormy enough time to escape."
"Exactly. Stormy climbed out the window, went down the fire escape, and drove home. When she got home, she realized Violet was no longer in her car. Violet wasn't dead, obviously, and had managed to escape. Jumped on the patio of Apartment 15, and you know the rest."
Yes, I did. And to think, Stormy would have gotten away with it if it weren't for a faulty bathtub lever. There was still one question, though. "I get why no one would bat an eye when the maintenance man hauled around a big plastic bin. But, how did Stormy climb down the fire escape and no one noticed?"
Chase shrugged.
Geez. There was no way Stormy would get away with that on my property. If a resident so much as sneezed too loud, Silvia called to complain.
Guess there are benefits to having a community busybody.
"What was with the Twinkie wrappers?" I asked.
"Violet was eating them before Stormy showed up. She's a stress eater."
I could relate.
Must be a manager thing.
Not sure there were enough calories available to help me stress eat my way out of this debacle though.
"I can't believe she confessed to everything," I said.
"It was all Hampton," Chase said, like a proud papa bragging about his son. "Ten minutes in a room with him, and you'll confess to anything."
&
nbsp; I shook my head. Not sure I heard him right.
But Grandma Ruthie did used to say, "Can't judge a book by its cover."
Maybe behind the high pants and squirrelly hair was a master manipulator, intimidator, and…ugh. My head hurts.
Where was I?
Right.
"So Stormy is in custody, and Antonio is…"
"Dead."
Oh.
Antonio died, and he wasn't even the killer. I felt guilty for about ten seconds. Then I remembered he tried to kill me. Then I didn't feel so guilty anymore. Then the guilt returned. I never wanted anyone to die.
Speaking of death. I felt like I might. "Is the gunshot wound deep?"
"They were able to easily remove the bullet. You have two stitches."
Two? I get shot, and all I got is two measly stitches?
"Why do you look disappointed?" Chase asked. "Were you hoping for more?"
"No, I guess not." Two stitches, an ambulance ride, and a stay in the hospital was going to cost me enough. "Where is Lilly?"
"With Kevin and Mrs. Nguyen. She's fine."
Chase stood and placed the cup on a tray. For the first time, I noticed the curtains drawn around my bed and paid notice to the noise around me. "Am I in the emergency room?"
He nodded. "I'll tell the nurse you're up and making sense again so we can get you discharge papers," he said.
Discharged? "Getting shot is outpatient?"
"Around here it is."
"Have you ever been shot?" I asked.
"No, I haven't."
"At least today gave you good practice for the FBI." I tried to make light of the situation, because there was nothing light about Chase, from the frown on his face to his rigid stance. This wasn't the easygoing gondola Chase I was used to.
"We'll see," he said. "The watch commander hasn't relieved me. I'm on paid leave until the incident is reviewed. Not sure how this will affect everything."
"What are you talking about?"
"I killed a man today, Cambria. It has to be investigated. Standard procedure."
Oh. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You took a bullet for me today." Chase studied the ceiling. "I just don't understand why you put yourself in these situations. You obviously knew Stormy and Antonio were involved in Violet's murder. You had the sense to text dispatch but not the sense to keep yourself out of it."
