New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(12)

“Fate?”

“Or luck, or what the f**k. But I headed up to the third floor.”

And she saw it. Felt it.

The old building trapped the hot like a steel box, then mixed it with the smell of the veggie hash—don’t spare the garlic—someone was stirring up for dinner on the second floor. She could hear the various choices of evening entertainments vibrating against walls and doors. Trash rock, media reports, canned laughter from some sitcom, soaring opera banged and echoed dull through the stairway. Over it she heard creaks, voices, and somebody carping about the price of soy coffee.

She could relate.

She filed it all away, automatically taking note of the size and shape of the hallway, the exits, the window at the far end of the landing, the cracks in the ancient plaster.

It was important to pay attention, take in the details, know where you were. She appreciated Fergus for trusting her to do so, trusting her to handle the knock on doors on her own, even if it was just another routine.

Routines made up the whole, formed the structure for everything else. Boredom was a factor, sure, in the routine of knocking, identifying, questioning, moving on, and doing it all again and again. But whenever boredom tried to sneak in, she reminded herself she was a cop, she was doing the job.

For the first time in her life, she was someone.

Officer Eve Dallas, NYPSD.

She stood for something now. For someone. She climbed the stairs in the stuffy, noisy building for Trevor and Paula Garson.

Two hours before Trevor had been alive, Paula healthy. Now he was dead and she was struggling not to be.

And one of those knocks might, just might, result in information on the ass**le who’d taken a life, broken all the lives connected to it.

So she knocked, identified herself, questioned, moved on.

At the second apartment, the woman who answered wore pajamas and exhausted eyes.

“Summer cold,” she told Eve. “I’ve been trying to sleep it off.”

“You’ve been home all day?”

“Yeah. What’s this about?”

“Two people were mugged in this vicinity approximately two hours ago. Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

“You know, maybe. Head cold’s got me, so I can’t taste anything, brain’s fuzzy, and my ears are plugged up. But I thought I heard somebody screaming. Figured I imagined it, or it was from one of the neighbor’s screens, but I looked out the window. I did see somebody running, but I didn’t think anything of it, just went back to bed. God, was somebody hurt? This is a good neighborhood.”

“Yes, ma’am, someone was hurt. Could you describe the individual you saw running?”

“Maybe. I didn’t really get a good look. That window.” She gestured. “I’d come out to get a drink—lots of fluids—and thought maybe I’d try the couch awhile. I heard something, and walked over to look.”

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“No, sure. Better keep your distance. I’m probably contagious. Honestly, Officer, I was pretty out of it. All the meds, but I did see somebody running. That way.”

At the window, she pointed west. “It was a man. Long hair, um, brown, I think. He was running away, but he did look over his shoulder. I think. He had a scruffy little beard.”

“Height, weight, skin color?”

“Oh. White, I think. Not black. I guess he looked sort of skinny. Shorts! He was wearing shorts. Knobby knees. And he was carrying a couple of bags, shopping bags. I remember because I thought, ‘Wow, he’s in a hurry to get home with his loot.’ Jeez, it was someone else’s loot.”

“Was it someone you’ve seen before?”

“I don’t really think so. I’m usually at work during the day. I only moved in a couple months ago, and don’t really know anybody yet.”

Eve took the woman’s name, her contact information, thanked her for her cooperation. She stepped out, intending to tag Fergus, inform him of the lead and her status.

She saw someone at the door of 303.

He had two shopping bags—local market, she noted—and set them down to uncode his door.

She noted the door had serious security, unlike the standard she’d observed in the rest of the building.

She filed away his approximate height, weight, what he wore as she approached. “Excuse me, sir.”

He’d just opened the door, reached down for the bags. He straightened slowly, turned. She saw a beat of blank before his face transformed into polite curiosity.

“Officer. What can I do for you?”

“Are you the resident?”

“Yes, I am.” Now he beamed a smile. “Isaac McQueen.”

“Are you just getting home for the day, Mr. McQueen?”

“Actually, I ran out a short time ago to do some shopping.”

“Were you at home approximately two hours ago?”

“Yes, I was. Is there a problem?”

Something off, she thought, but didn’t know what or why. She kept her eyes level on his as she walked toward him.

“There was a mugging.”

Distress covered his face, but it seemed to her he slipped it on like a mask. “Is that what was going on? I saw the police around when I walked down to the market.”

“Yes, sir. Did you see or hear anything else?”