The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(44)

“Okay,” Stan said, “let’s go in.”

The captain dropped the cigarette with a lot of tobacco still remaining before the filter. Crushing it with the tip of his loafer, he opened the outer door into an anteroom with mailboxes. Past that lineup of little squares, there was a second entry that was all glass, and Stan unlocked it with a code that he punched into a keypad.

The lobby on the far side had institutional carpeting, dreary wallpaper, and an elevator with a cockeyed “Out of Order” sign taped to its panels. The smell was a cross between Crock-Pot, fresh coffee, and fabric softener; not exactly nasty, but just a lot in the nose. And meanwhile, underfoot, the floor creaked like maybe it could have used a couple more support joists rising up from the basement.

It could have been any one of a thousand such buildings throughout the city. The state. The country.

As they went forward, the captain who refused to be called chief didn’t say a thing, and José was content to follow—because he wasn’t in a hurry to hear the story. He already knew the subject, even though he didn’t have the name yet, and he could guess the circumstances, even though he didn’t have the fact pattern.

The staircase had short-stop steps that were deeper than usual, and José bet a lot of people tripped on them because they weren’t the standard height and depth. At the top of the landing, the captain went left. Two apartments down, he stopped in front of a door that was no different from any of the others in the hallway. Out of habit, José looked left and right, noting all the doors with numbers that began with 2 because they were on the second floor, and whether there was anyone peeking out of a doorway at them, and if there were any unusual stains on the runner.

The captain took a nitrile glove out of his pocket, snapped it on, and slid a single-soldier key into the dead bolt face. With his forefinger and thumb, he turned the brass knob and then pushed.

The apartment on the far side was dark and stuffy, lit by an overhead fixture in the center of the main living area. As Stan went to take a step forward, José grabbed his arm—

“Stop.”

The other man froze like a statue. “What?”

José pointed to disruptions in the carpet. “Scuffs and blood. This is a potential crime scene, captain.”

There was a moment where Stan closed his eyes, and then he seemed to deflate. “You’re right.”

“We can’t go in without booties. Is there a body?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”

“Stan, come here.” José pulled the man back out into the hall, the apartment door shutting itself with the key still in the lock. “Talk to me. Who the hell lives here?”

“Rio Hernandez-Guerrero, she’s one of our undercovers. She was involved in two incidents last night. I put her on administrative duty pending assessment as per protocol, and she was supposed to come into HQ this morning. She never showed up, never checked in. We reached out to our sources downtown, no one’s seen her. Her car’s out front. Her cell phone’s been inactive. And she hasn’t been here—”

“Someone went through this apartment already?”

“Officer Tan from Internal Affairs did a welfare check at one. There was no response to his knocking, so he entered, turned the light on, and did a walk-through. We gained access because Rio’s old patrol partner still had a key and gave it to us.” The captain nodded over to the door. “Tan came back and checked at four again. Nothing. No one.”

“Okay.” José checked his watch even though he had an idea of the time. “And just to confirm, no one’s heard from her since you spoke to her last night?”

“No one. She said she was going to go get treated at the St. Francis ER. I have a buddy inside the hospital and he said no patient was registered under her undercover name or her real one. And none of our informants or undercover officers on the street have seen her or heard anything about her.”

“Family?”

“None in Caldwell. She’s got some distant cousins out of town, and they haven’t heard from her either.”

“Husband, boyfriend, roommate?”

“None that we’re aware of.”

“And she was reporting to who?”

“Me, basically. So I feel really fucking responsible for her.”

José gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze. “Stay here in the hall, Stan.”

The captain nodded. “I got a glove if you want it?”

“Yeah, sure.” José had nitrile gloves of his own in his inside pocket, along with booties, but he took what the captain offered because sometimes people needed to feel like they were helping. “Thanks.”

Gloved up, and with his street shoes covered, José entered the apartment. There was a short hall that led to an open area with a couch and TV, and a galley kitchen. The closed doors in the space were closets and maybe a half bath. Across the way, a sliding glass door let in the ambient light from the security fixtures outside of the building.

A body had been dragged across the carpet, the heel marks a twin track that was dotted with red spots.

He followed the trail to the open door of a bedroom. Inside, the windows were covered with blinds that were partially open, and in the twilight from the external source of illumination, he could see signs of a struggle on the mattress, the sheets and blankets on the floor, a pillow off-kilter by the headboard. Streaks on the fitted sheet also suggested blood.