“What?” Holbrook asked, glancing at me over his shoulder as he pressed the button for the elevator.
“My Great Aunt Ina. She was a weird one. She had one lazy eye, but I could never remember which one. You couldn’t tell if she was looking at you or something across the room. Damn unnerving,” I rambled.
“Right...” Holbrook drawled, while Hill looked at me askance.
“Never mind,” I said, rolling my eyes and shooing them into the elevator ahead of me.
The cloying scent of air freshener filled the third floor hallway in a noxious cloud, smacking me in the face as soon as I stepped off the elevator, coating my tongue with an oily residue.
“Christ, did someone set off a truck load of Lysol?” Holbrook asked, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell.
“Something like that,” I replied distractedly, my steps slowing as we approached Shoup’s door. Beneath the overpowering stink of factory produced flowers was the all too familiar new penny scent of blood.
The sounds of life were all around us—the bang and clatter of someone making dinner in the apartment to the left, the canned laughter of a TV in the one to the right, and somewhere down the hall a baby was crying. Shoup’s apartment however, was silent as the grave.
“We’ve got a problem,” I warned when Holbrook stopped in front of the door.
“What’s up?”
“I smell blood. Lots of it.”
His hand went automatically to the weapon at his hip, unsnapping his holster, while he motioned me to move behind him with the other hand. Silent communication passed between the agents, and with a nod from Holbrook, Hill moved into place on the other side of the doorway.
Keeping one hand on his gun, Holbrook raised the other to knock on the door. His expression turned sour as he eyed the thick bandages swaddling his hand. Nodding at Hill, he waited for the other agent to knock.
“Ms. Shoup, this is Special Agent Holbrook with the FBI. Open the door!”
Silence persisted beyond the door for several heartbeats, almost long enough for me to believe that the apartment was empty. I was about to tell them to forget about it when a muffled thump sounded on the other side of the door. In front of me, Holbrook went stiff, his body all but vibrating with tension.
“Ms. Shoup? Ms. Shoup, open the door,” he said in a loud and clear voice, while Hill pounded on the door so hard that it rattled in the doorframe.
Another burst of frantic movement inside the apartment was the only answer we received. Scenting the air I mentally catalogued the odors I could detect beneath the chemical stink of air freshener. The scent of blood was strong, pervasive enough to let me know that whoever it had once belonged to was not likely to be up and walking about now. Beyond that was the smell of garbage, and the ammonia of a dirty litter box.
“It’s her cat,” I said, letting the tension slip from my shoulders.
Ignoring me, he gave Hill another silent command, and once the other agent had raised his gun to target the doorway, he took a couple steps back and delivered a powerful kick to the lock. For a second it didn’t look like the door would give, and then the doorframe buckled, raining splinters and chipped paint down on the carpet. Pushing the door open, he peered into the apartment, his gun drawn and held at the ready.
“Stay here,” he told me as he stepped through the doorway.
Yeah, right, I thought, moving to follow him in, only to be stopped by Hill extending an arm across the doorway.
I would have demanded what the hell he was doing if not for the dead stare he leveled at me. Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned a shoulder against the ruined doorframe and peered into the apartment. Shoup’s apartment was even smaller than the one I’d shared with my roommate in college. The door opened onto a sparsely furnished living room, the sagging couch and plywood coffee table looking to be thrift store finds. A single chair and TV stand looked like they’d at least been bought at IKEA, worldwide supplier of affordable furniture for college students and bachelors alike.