I watch her, curious to see what she does next, and am surprised when she just goes for it.
She slips her cell phone out of her pocket and stares down at it. From where I am I can’t tell what she’s doing with the phone, but my guess is she’s trying to be inconspicuous. Texting, playing a game, whatever—she keeps her head bent as she works her way up the sidewalk and then, all at once, turns and enters the apartment building.
I step out of the Civic and cross the street. I don’t have the luxury of a cell phone to act like I’m distracted. Besides my ID, passport, money, and the pimp’s knife, all I have is the crumpled photograph the frail prostitute gave me. I slip it from my pocket and act like I’m looking at it as I walk down the sidewalk. I pause before the apartment building’s entrance, looking up and down the block with a confused expression. I allow a quick beat to glance toward where the cops are parked. They’re still there, and they’re watching me, but my gut says it’s just because I’m one of the few out on the street right now and standing right in front of the building. I look back down at the photograph, mumbling to myself, and then turn toward the entrance. Slipping the photograph back into my pocket, I pull open the glass door and enter.
The foyer is deserted. There is no elevator in the building, only a set of stairs. Judging by the closed doors along the first floor, I figure the girl took the stairs.
I start up the stairs, quietly, trying to hear the girl’s footsteps, but a loud TV in one of the first-floor apartments makes it difficult.
As I reach the end of the stairs and turn a corner, a fat man nearly barrels into me. He’s mumbling about a broken door and how much it will cost and the police are goddamned corrupt. He barely even notices me, lost in his thoughts. I’m the one who needs to step out of his way, and then he’s past me, headed downstairs.
I hurry up to the second floor. Peer down the hallway. All the doors are closed. None are broken.
I head up to the third floor.
Bingo.
The third door down from the left is open, kicked in.
I pause outside the apartment.
Somebody’s inside. The girl? Most likely, but I can’t be too sure. Only one way to find out.
I step inside the apartment.
The girl isn’t here. At least, that’s what it looks like at first. But then I hear movement coming from the next room—maybe the bedroom?—and a second later the girl appears, her cell phone in hand.
She doesn’t notice me at first, too focused on taking pictures, but then she turns and looks up and gasps.
I say, “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
The girl stands there for an instant, frozen in shock. Then she frowns.
“This isn’t your apartment.”
“Did you break down my door?”
The girl shakes her head as if to clear it.
“This isn’t your apartment.”
She pauses, studying my face. Recognition lights her eyes.
“You were outside the motel.”
I say, “Who are you?”
The girl throws it right back at me.
“Who are you?”
She holds up the phone, snaps a picture.
I say, “I can’t let you keep that picture. Or the one you took back outside the motel.”
“Too bad. They’re already in the cloud.”
I can’t tell if the girl’s bluffing or not. The phone doesn’t look advanced enough to be hooked up with some web cloud where all her pictures are stored, but maybe it is. And if that’s the case, then that will make this a bit harder.
We’re at a stalemate, both of us staring at one another, so I do the first thing that comes to mind.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the pimp’s knife.
Eject the blade.
The girl’s eyes widen.
“I’ll call the police.”
Her voice now a tremulous whisper.
“Call them. There’s a car right outside. You saw it before you came in here. It was the same one that was back at the motel.”
The girl just stares at the knife.
I ask, “Why were you at the motel? Why are you here now?”
The girl says nothing.
“Hey, look at me.”
The girl blinks. Shifts her eyes up to meet mine.
“Are those pictures really sent to a cloud?”
The girl’s nod is almost imperceptible.
“Then we have a problem. I’m going to need you to delete them. Right now.”
The girl starts to shake her head.
“I can’t delete them from my phone once they’re sent, and they’re sent automatically.”
“Then how can you delete them?”
No answer.
I take a step forward.
“How. Can you. Delete them.”
The girl takes a deep breath.
“Back at my house. On my desktop.”
I nod, looking around the piece of shit apartment.
“Then you and I are going to have to go there.”
The girl says, “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Not if you delete those pictures. That’s all I want.”
For an instant she looks relieved. Then she squints at me again.
“Why were you at the motel?”
“It doesn’t matter. Why were you there?”
The girl licks her lips, considering. She stares at the knife for a long moment before shifting her eyes to look back at me.
“That’s where the call went.”
“What call?”
“The call that—”
She pauses, really looking at me again.
“Oh my God. You’re her.”
Now it’s my turn to say nothing.
Excitement tinges her voice.
“You were at the scene. You were the one who found the bodies.”
Something’s not right. The girl shouldn’t know that. What is she doing here, anyway? She’s not police. She made that clear when she threatened to call them. So who is she?
The girl says, “Can I ask you some questions? What was it like finding them? It will be great for the story.”
“Are you a journalist?”
The girl shrugs, grinning.
“You could call me that.”
“Then you want a quote? Let’s get out of here and go to your place and delete those photos from the cloud and I’ll give you a quote.”
Her eyes widen with surprise.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
I’m not telling the whole
