“And you're friends with Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes. We actually drank wine together yesterday while discussing the murder.”
“Okay,” he said, shoving papers into the file folder and closing it. “I know your ankle is hurt, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming next door with me to take a look at the apartment.”
A chill ran down my spine as I considered entering the space once again. “Why do you need me to do that?”
“I wanted you to take a look around with me, to see if you noticed anything strange or out of place.”
At first, my reaction was no, but then I thought about it. I would be taking steps to find the killer and the sooner he or she was apprehended, the safer I'd feel.
“I'd be happy to,” I said, standing as he also rose and handed me the crutches.
“How's the foot?” he asked.
“It's not too bad,” I replied. “I think I'll be up and around in a few days.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
As we exited my apartment into the hallway, he opened the door for me, then shut it behind us. After fishing out a set of keys from his pocket, he unlocked Charles' apartment and a blast of stale air tinged with a slight coppery smell smacked us in the face. It didn't seem to faze him as he stepped inside, and I decided to follow his lead. If I wanted to be taken seriously as a potential FBI agent, I better start acting like one.
They called people who worked with the agency G-Men. If I were able to secure a special agent position, would that make me a G-Woman?
First things first. The apartment.
I paused once inside and studied every nook I could see. A wooden kitchen table sat to my right with a few papers neatly stacked on top of it. But instead of four chairs surrounding it, there were only three. I glanced around, searching for the missing seat, but couldn't find it. Perhaps it had been destroyed during Claudia's rampage Mrs. Wilson had mentioned.
The mustard yellow couch, looking worn and heavily used, faced the television. The carpet, a busy gold and brown pattern, had also seen better days and required a vacuum. Overall, the living space was somewhat tidy but in need of a cleaning—what I would expect from a man living alone.
“See anything out of place?”
I shook my head and crutched into the kitchen, promising myself I'd pay more attention to detail wherever I went in the future.
A couple of dirty dishes sat in the sink, including the pan with the burnt soup, and a few more were on the counter, drying.
“This smelled horrible when I first walked in,” I said. “I was glad it hadn't caught fire.”
“If you hadn't come in when you did, it may have. Then there'd be a lot more people hurt, or even dead. You potentially saved lives by entering.”
I nodded, not feeling so awful anymore about coming in uninvited.
“Anything in here?” he asked.
Shaking my head, I realized I rarely left the entry when dropping off or picking up Ringo. I moved to the back bedroom and bit my tongue when I saw the bloodstain on the carpet. The image of Charles lying there played before my eyes clearly, as if he was still there.
Moving my gaze, I glanced at the unmade bed and bare nightstand. With the dusty outline, it looked like something belonged there but had been moved.
“What was there?” I asked, pointing to the spot.
Mr. Coffee opened the folder and pulled out the report. “Apparently, Mr. Bernard had a box there filled with marijuana cigarettes and bags of the substance.”
“For his nightmares,” I mumbled.
“I'm sorry?”
“I found out he had nightmares,” I said.
“Who told you that?”
I turned to Mr. Coffee. “His friend, Wayne. He came by yesterday and said Charles owed him money and he wanted to collect.”
He quickly shuffled through the papers, running his finger down each one, his lips moving as he went. “I don't see anything in here about anyone named Wayne.”
“I didn't know about him until after the police left.”
Glancing around the bedroom once again, sadness washed over me. It had been a horrible way to die and I wanted to bring Charles' killer to justice.
“Does Wayne have a last name?” Mr. Coffee asked.
“I’m sure he does, but I don't know it,” I replied with a shrug. “I do have his phone number.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I'll need to get that from you.”
It was then that I realized I had information the authorities didn't, and it gave me an advantage. I glanced over at the G-Man and gave him my sweetest smile. “I'd like to help you in this investigation.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. I can arrange for us to meet Wayne.”
“It may be dangerous, Ms. Byrne. I couldn't put you in harm's way.”
“Don't you worry about me,” I dismissed. “And honestly, I'm not giving you a choice. I want to find Charles' killer. It's important to me. You promise to let me tag along and I'll introduce you to everyone I know who could be involved. I promise you, Wayne will run for the hills if he sees you coming.”
“And why is that?”
“Let's just say he deals in some illegal activities.”
Mr. Coffee raised an eyebrow. “And you, Ms. Byrne? Are there any illegal activities I should be aware of?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “I'm just a stewardess.”
“Who seems to want to be an FBI agent.”
“It's crossed my mind,” I said.
“May I call you Patty?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Patty, if I'm going to consider you assisting me in this investigation, I think we should become better acquainted. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?”
Chapter 9
As I carefully applied my black eyeliner, I still struggled to remember Mr. Coffee's real name. Some FBI agent I'd be, running around, never able to recall the names of those I spoke to except for the stupid nicknames I gave them.
I interviewed Mr. Weasel Face and Mr. Vodka, sir. I think they're guilty.
