Rosemary and Rue

The police filed out into the hall and I slipped past them, nodding to the operator as I said, “Third floor.” He returned the nod, pressing the button, and the doors slid closed. The elevator started to move, so smoothly that I could barely feel it. I tensed. I hate it when I can’t tell which way I’m actually going.

I hadn’t visited Evening’s building since 1987. From what I could see, it hadn’t changed a bit—the place stank of elegance and the sort of timelessness that only money can buy. Stasis is one of the benefits of being very, very rich. Nothing ever changes unless you let it.

The operator glanced at me nervously. I tried to smile at him like I meant it. Your first murder is always the hardest. Not that they ever get easy. We stopped on the third floor, and I stepped out, letting him retreat back to the ground floor.

There were police everywhere, bustling back and forth, murmuring in the barely audible whisper used only by cops and children. There are more similarities between the two than you might think, starting with whether or not you’d want them waiting for you in a dark alley with a gun. I’ve worked with the police, and I’ve even liked some of them, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them as a breed. Power brings out the worst in almost everyone.

Most of the doors in the hall were closed, but Evening’s was ajar, propped open just far enough to let the police slip in and out without revealing anything to anyone who might manage to get past security. I paused in front of the door, taking a deep breath. This was it: last chance to turn around and walk away.

Pushing the door the rest of the way open was almost impossible. After that, stepping inside was somehow anticlimactic. That didn’t make it easier.

There was an officer just inside. I whipped out my receipt before he could finish turning, chanting, “The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, and took them clean away.” The officer froze, expression taking on the same faintly baffled air as his colleague. A bolt of pain lanced through my forehead; I’d pushed too hard, and the headache was coming on. I did my best to ignore it, lowering the receipt and saying, “May I proceed?”

“Yes, proceed,” he said, still looking stunned as I brushed past him.

The apartment was decorated in pinks, ranging from a deep shade bordering on red to a pale, near-white cream. Her blood probably fit right in until it started drying to an ugly shade of brown. I couldn’t see the body, but I could see the blood, just a few drops of it staining the carpet near the door. It seemed like half the room was already tucked into neatly labeled plastic bags, and what hadn’t been bagged looked small and gaudy in the artificial light. Murder strips everyone’s illusions away, no matter how carefully they were created.

There were officers everywhere, milling like ants while they gathered evidence and studied blood splatters. I glanced at the bags as I moved across the room, checking to be sure they’d found no sign of Evening’s true nature. I didn’t need to worry. Evening was old, and she was careful, and they’d find nothing to show that she was anything more than a rich businesswoman named Evelyn Winters who somehow managed to get herself killed.