He reappeared, his face a shade paler. “It’s Kovic. At least I
Twenty-Five
Matt grabbed me before I got past him. “You don’t want to see that.”
“I have to!”
I pulled away and moved into the bedroom. The smell was more pronounced here. Like sulfur or burned hair combined with the slightly metallic stench of fresh blood. Kovic lay on the floor beside the bed, facedown, head turned, eyes open. For a moment, my feet felt frozen to the floor.
“There was no sign of blood or a struggle in the foyer or living room,” I murmured. “The killer must have met Kovic at the front door, and then led him at gunpoint to this bedroom...”
The room was a shambles. Every drawer was pulled out, its contents spilled onto the floor. Even the mattress had been molested, the pillowcases stripped away, sheets and blankets tossed around.
“Obviously the shooter was looking for something. I wonder if he found it.”
Matt stepped up behind me. “Doesn’t matter. Not for this poor bastard.” He leaned over the body. “Looks like he was shot twice in the back. Those bullet holes are too small to be exit wounds.”
I remembered Quinn’s stories about working crime scenes and stopped Matt from touching the body to confirm what the exit wounds looked like in the corpse’s front. Instead, I bent low, trying to figure out something else. Staring at the dead man’s face, I noticed that Kovic’s wide-open eyes were moist. There was saliva on his chin. It hadn’t dried yet. The spittle was still wet.
“Kovic wasn’t shot very long ago,” I whispered. “I think we just missed the killer.”
Matt tensed. “Now I wish I had that Beretta.”
Stepping out of the room, Matt moved back into the apartment’s hallway. I joined him, noticing that the bathroom door was open, but a second door beside it was closed.
“Feel that?” I whispered.
He nodded. “There’s a draft.”
I pushed the closed door open. Immediately a gust of frigid air filled the hall. Inside we found a second bedroom, half the size of the one with Kovic’s corpse. This room had been ransacked, too, and the window facing the fire escape was wide open, curtains blowing wildly on the freezing night wind.
“Oh, God,” I said. “When we were coming in, I heard shuffling in another room—I thought it was Kovic, but it was obviously the killer. He must have heard us and fled through the window!”
Matt looked outside and down the dark fire escape. “I don’t see anyone.”
With my gloved hands, I picked up a silver-framed picture that had been knocked to the floor. It was a photograph of a beaming Vicki Glockner at her high school graduation. Her dad was standing at her side, his arm around her shoulders, his face so happy, so filled with pride.
“This was Alf’s room,” I whispered, my voice suddenly gone.
Matt frowned, watching me. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, swiping wet eyes, and put the photo back on the dresser. “Whatever the killer wanted, I don’t think he got. He obviously tossed Karl’s bedroom, then Alf’s room, and then he must have heard us coming in and run...”
Matt took my arm. “Let’s grab that cat and get the hell out of here.”
“No.” I pulled away. “We have to call the police.”
“Why? So they can pin this murder on us? Think, Clare. We’re trespassing. Again.”
We argued back and forth for a minute until we finally reached an agreement. Matt would take Alf’s kitten back to my apartment above the Blend (and risk the high holy wrath of Breanne finally noticing that her escort had temporarily abandoned her). And I would call 911 and stick around for the police to show up.
But first we had to find the kitten, which seemed to have vanished.
“Here kitty,” I cooed. “Kitty-kitty...”
As I began making kissy-kissy sounds, I heard something familiar—
The sound came from the kitchen, where I found the little fur ball batting around a single silver sleigh bell. The ornament had come loose from a red-and-green pet pillow with an image of Santa Claus in his sleigh embroidered across the front and jingle bells sewn into its fringes.
An open—and empty—can of BumbleBee tuna served as the kitten’s dish. A smelly shoebox sat in an opposite corner, beside a trash can filled with illegally mixed garbage—more tuna cans and a lot of other detritus that should have been separated for recycling. The shoebox was lined with soiled newspapers and cat poo. I didn’t see a water bowl.
The kitty’s antics had intensified since I entered the room. With my gloved hand I took the empty can and trickled a little faucet water into it. The kitten was lapping it up when Matt entered, Java’s carrier in hand.
“The NYPD forensics team will find kitten hair,” I told Matt as he set the carrier down. “But they have to assume Karl got rid of it, so we have to make it look like that...”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you have to take that shoebox with you.”
Matt took a look and shuddered. “No way.”
I glared. “Way.”
“Look, we found the door unlocked,” Matt said. “Just tell the cops it was ajar and they’ll think the pet got out.”
“Got out where? We’re on the fifth floor of an apartment building. Kittens can’t reach elevator buttons!”
Matt folded his arms. “But taking that disgusting thing is interfering with a crime scene. People go to prison for that.”
I faced him, hands on hips. “Stealing the kitten is interfering, too. And it’s not like we’re tampering with evidence. I’m sure the killer didn’t go anywhere near that cat poop.”
“Of course not,” Matt said flatly. “We’re the only ones stupid enough to do that.”
“Mr. Outback is squeamish?”
“Yes. When Mr. Outback is dressed in pricey Armani and has to return to a cocktail party smelling of feline feces, he’s as squeamish as Shirley Temple.”
I scooped up the adorable kitten and cuddled it. The cute little thing immediately began to purr. “Awww...” Its soft fur was as white and silky as latte microfoam. “I think I’ll call her Frothy.”
She didn’t mind being tucked into Java’s carrier, as if she knew I was here to take care of her. But the box was so large and Frothy so small that I slipped the loose jingle bell and Santa Claus pillow inside, too. At least the tiny thing would have something familiar to cling to on her scary trip downtown.
Matt lifted the carrier. “I’m out of here.”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“The key!”
Matt put the carrier down. I handed him the key to my duplex. He met my eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Of course! How else are you going to get in?”
“Right.”
“Listen,” I said, touching the exquisite Armani fabric covering the man’s forearm. “I’ve got a spare at Mike’s. So please don’t stress about getting the key back to me right away. You can hold on to it.”
“Oh?” My ex-husband paused and studied my face with an odd intensity. “You’re sure about this...”
“Yes, of course.” I knew Matt would be party-hopping all night with his new wife, and I’d taken him away from her long enough. But he was looking at me so strangely. “Did I miss something?”
He didn’t reply, simply arched his eyebrow with a kind of satisfaction. Then he took out his keychain, slid the key on, and picked up the carrier again.
“Wait!”
