“Tayler, if you’d like to get dressed.” I look down at her feet. “And put on some shoes. We’ll wait.” Strange. It’s the second time in the last eight hours I’ve asked a woman to get dressed.
Finch makes a grunting noise, but I don’t even look his way. I’m so pissed at him that I won’t bother acknowledging him now. I’ll deal with him later.
Chapter One
Gage
Hours earlier.
“Nearest available unit. 10-83 1320 Coconino Road. Apartment 2-1-3.”
I’m in west Ames, so knowing I’m likely the closest, I press my radio button and respond as I hit the gas on my cruiser. “10-4 dispatch. 1320 Concocino Road. Rolling up.”
Finally I’ve got something to do. I’ve driven around for the last three hours hoping for something to happen. No, I’m not hoping for something terrible to happen, just something—anything. I’ll even take this 10-83 ––a welfare check. Something we do a lot of in this town. It happens when parents call us to check on their college kids because they won’t answer their phones or reply to text messages. I guess these kids are too busy. Either that or they’re afraid to talk to their folks. I’d figure the latter to be the case more often than not.
This welfare check is going to be something similar, because 1320 Coconino Road is an apartment complex designed for student living. I looked at that place when I first moved to Ames four years ago. It was brand new then, and while it had a ton of cool amenities, like several pools, a 24-7 fitness center, a dog park, and a social club, I couldn’t picture myself living among a bunch of college students partying all the time. And would they want a cop living above them? Doubtful.
No, at that time, I’d just left the army, and all I wanted was a quiet place to call home. It’s why I bought my small house instead of renting. That and I was ready to put down some roots somewhere. I moved all over the place for four years as a military police officer, or MP, and I didn’t want to do that any longer. Now that I’ve been in this job for four years, I still feel that way most of the time. However, lately I’ve started to get a bit antsy, like I’m ready for the next phase of my life. I want whatever’s supposed to come next.
Pulling into the parking lot of the Social Apartment complex, I park. Grabbing my notebook and pen, I jot down the time—2:37 a.m.—then slide it into my breast pocket. A strange time for a welfare check. Whoever called it in may have tried to reach this resident for a while and just gave up. It happens.
Outside my squad car, I scan the perimeter. It’s the middle of the night, so the lights they’ve got on the parking lot are enough to allow me to see a good distance. Walking past one building, I note the address number. Looking for the one with 1320 on the sign, I see it ahead.
Opening the main door, I step into a spacious area with couches and tables. It’s still pretty nice considering the people who live here. College students can be hard on a place, another reason for me to buy my own. I found a fixer-upper that was dirt cheap. Over the last few years, I’ve almost redone the whole place. All I have left to do is finish the basement and rebuild the garage. The garage isn’t in terrible shape, but I’d like to use it as a workshop, and there’s just not enough room in my current one-car structure.
Taking the steps two-at-a-time, I’m up on the second floor in no time, searching for apartment 213.
Strange. I know this apartment. I’ve been here before.
Raising my hand, I knock lightly at first. Waiting a few seconds, I knock again. “Police,” I say in my normal voice. “Welfare check.” When I get no response, I press the button next to the door and hear the chime. Still nothing. Whoever lives here is either asleep or gone, but I’m going to have to enter the place to be sure. Hearing a squeak behind me, I quickly turn and scan the hallway, expecting to see someone leaving their apartment. It’s the middle of the night, but there’s no such thing for some of these college kids.
I ring the bell again and wait. When I hear nothing from inside, I reach for the knob and turn and am shocked to feel it give. Who leaves their door unlocked these days? Nobody should, that’s for sure. No matter how safe your neighborhood is, lock your damn door.
When it unlatches, I slowly push the door open and repeat, “Police.” I take one step over the threshold, then another into a short hallway. To my right is a small kitchen. I peer inside and see dirty dishes in the sink and what looks like a pan on the stove that’s burned dry. I move closer and see not only burnt, hardened pasta inside, but the burner is still on. “Not good,” I mutter to myself. Lucky the place didn’t burn down. Reaching out, I turn off the stove.
Back in the short hallway, I repeat, “Police. Welfare check.” Walking slowly, I enter a smallish living space. There’s a sofa, chair, television stand, and a small dining table with two chairs. The furniture looks nice. Top of the line. I know because I just replaced my living room furniture, and that shit’s expensive. Yeah, the stuff in this place is way too nice for a student apartment.
When I note the room is clear, I approach a mostly closed door. Looks to be a bedroom. Reaching up, I knock. “Police.” Again, no response.
Since the door isn’t shut all the way, I
