“Chrismer. I might say the same. You manage to ferret out a murder like a shark scents blood,” I replied without opening my eyes. Maybe if I didn’t see her I could just pretend that she didn’t exist.
“How sweet of you to say,” she crooned.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know,” she said, the dark and sultry edge to her voice making me crack my eyes open to look at her.
As always, she was a vision of polished perfection. Her tailored, blood red skirt suit hugged her curves and emphasized the narrowness of her tiny waist in a way nothing I owned ever would. Her blonde tresses were swept up in a complicated knot that looked like it had taken at least three people to accomplish, and her makeup was flawless. I gave a brief thought to my sloppy appearance, but ultimately decided that I just didn’t have the energy to care.
“So, where’s your Special Agent?”
Bristling at her tone, I opened my mouth to retort when the man in question emerged from the apartment, his hair mussed from his habit of running his hands through it whenever he was stressed. Judging from the especially tousled look of his hair at that moment, I guessed he was on the verge of punching someone.
“Ah, Ms. Chrismer. A delight as always,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.
“Agent Holbrook. Would you like to comment on the recently deceased Ms. Shoup?” she asked, producing a handheld recorder as if by magic.
How does she find out this stuff?
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. You know that.”
Trudging on as if he hadn’t replied, she continued to wave her recorder at him as though it was a magic wand that would somehow loosen his lips. “Is it true she is linked to Agent Johnson, who is currently missing, and accused of kidnapping and attempted murder?”
Holbrook’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he clenched his hands into fists.
“Don’t push it, Jessica,” he warned, something dangerous flashing in his eyes.
The EMTs saved me from having to wipe Chrismer’s smug grin off her face with my fist when they wheeled out a gurney, Shoup’s body secured inside a black bag looking like some kind of gruesome burrito.
A slight, balding man wearing a pair of Coke bottle glasses hurried down the hallway, the overhead lights gleaming on his shiny pate, highlighting the beads of sweat that were beginning to track down his temples. His eyes grew wide behind the thick lenses of his glasses as the EMTs approached, pushing along their grisly package. He sprang back, plastering himself against the wall to put as much distance as possible between himself and Shoup’s body. It wasn’t until the EMTs had disappeared into the elevator that he peeled himself away from the wall and continued to bustle towards us. As if his scampering waddle wasn’t laughable enough on its own, the fact that he had to pull up his pants every third step had me biting my tongue to keep from laughing.
Drawing up beside us he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his oversized pants to mop up the sheen of sweat, puffing out breaths that smelled of menthol lozenges.
“You’re the super?” Holbrook asked.
“Yes,” he replied in a nasal wheeze. “Oh, what a tragedy this is! She was such a nice girl, always paid her rent on time, never made a fuss. She never had a mean thing to say when we passed in the lobby.”
That’s because you’re human, I thought sourly. Holbrook’s sharp glance told me that my expression had telegraphed my bitter thoughts.
“I’m Special Agent Holbrook with the FBI. Would you be able to answer some questions, Mr.…” Holbrook said, flashing his badge.
“Walters, Jeff Walters,” the superintendent stammered.
“Do you have somewhere private where we can talk, Mr. Walters?”
“Ah y-yes. I live in the building, my apartment is downstairs. Oh, this is just so terrible!”
***
Stepping into Walters’s apartment was like being transported back in time to the 1970s. Tangerine orange shag carpet was just the first of a multitude of eye-searing throwbacks from the disco era that filled the small apartment that smelled of burnt coffee and moth balls.
“Can I fetch you some coffee? Water?” Walters asked, disappearing into the kitchen before either of us could answer.
“No, thank you,” Holbrook called out, looking over the cluttered living room.
It wasn’t cluttered in the way that Shoup’s apartment had been, full of trash and cheap furniture. Instead, it was filled with the things collected over a lonely life—old issues of National Geographic were stacked randomly about the room, a low set of shelves under the window groaned under the weight of an overabundance of VHS tapes, the hand written labels peeling and curling, and in the corner beside a TV that looked older than I was, sat a wooden side table with a collection of model classic cars.
Walters waddled back into the room with a steaming cup of coffee that gave off the distinct odor of whiskey, and waved us towards the sofa.