“My phone is blowing up,” Spence said. “Is this for real? Or am I being punked?”
“Don’t make me regret recommending you. You can turn down any case you don’t want, but the ones you take need to be professionally handled. And hire someone to answer the phone. Even if they have to work from your crappy house until you can afford a real office.”
There was a long pause before he spoke. “I know someone who could use the work. Thanks. I won’t forget this.”
“It was nothing. Good luck.” I hung up and tossed my phone onto the table.
Kelsey would’ve set him up in one of our buildings and offered him a partnership contract. I wrinkled my nose at the thought of having a contract with Spence. He was smart, sexy, and so far, unable to be intimidated. To be honest, I liked him. Which was exactly why I didn’t want any contracts binding our lives together. It was best to keep my distance.
I needed sleep, but my thoughts started shifting back to Pauly. He didn’t like violence, so why did he get a gun? Where did he get a gun? Who was he afraid of?
Most of my neighbors either ignored Pauly or complained to the landlord about him. Not that I blamed them. No one hopes for a homeless man to set up camp in their lobby. But there was one neighbor, Roseline Pageotte in apartment 3C, who, like me, occasionally left Pauly food or let him use her shower. Roseline might be able to shed some light on whatever had spooked him.
I should’ve told Uncle Hank about Roseline, but because she was an illegal, there was no way she would’ve confided to a man in blue. Besides, she worked the eleven-to-eleven nightshift at the truck stop. She wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. I looked up at the clock and saw I had two hours. Plenty of time for a nap.
Chapter Nine
CHARLIE
Sunday, 10:30 a.m.
Startled from a deep sleep by my alarm going off, I shot out of bed, grabbing my gun. I staggered a bit, absorbing my surroundings as my brain cells started sparking to life. Once I processed where I was, at home in my shabby apartment, I tossed the gun on the bed and stumbled into the bathroom.
After taking my second shower of the day, I dressed in linen slacks, a lilac silk blouse, and comfortable cream flats and stood frowning at my reflection in the mirror. I looked ridiculous. But I had one of Aunt Suzanne’s social events on the calendar today and there was no sense in changing outfits later.
In the kitchen I ignored the sink full of coffee cups and made a sandwich with the last of the sliced turkey and bread, both only a day or two away from morphing into something found on a compost pile. I was out of mayo and mustard so the first bite stuck to the roof of my mouth. I continued chewing, forcing myself to swallow the lack-luster food.
I looked around the apartment thinking of all the crappy meals my cousin and I had eaten in this kitchen. This was our second apartment after moving to Miami. The first had been an attic-converted apartment above a bar. It had been impossible to fall asleep before three in the morning, and despite all the air fresheners, the apartment had always reeked of stale beer.
We moved to this apartment two years later. And after all these years, I still didn’t care that there was only one bedroom or that the bathroom was the size of a coat closet. I didn’t care that the neighborhood was sketchy. Nor did I care that some of my neighbors were assholes. This apartment was the place where, for the first time in my life, I felt like I didn’t have to hide. I’d turned eighteen the day before we moved here. For the first time, I was able to sign the lease agreement, my name legally listed next to Kelsey’s. After years of waiting for my parents to drag me back home, I finally felt free. Safe.
The night we moved in, we stayed up talking until the early morning hours. I told Kelsey I wanted to join the police academy, and after several hours of pestering, she agreed to take the training with me when I turned nineteen and qualified. Two years later, we could afford a nicer place to live, but I didn’t want to leave. Kelsey moved into a nicer neighborhood, renting a two bedroom in case I changed my mind. I never did, though. This apartment was my home. With its ugly worn carpet, walls that hadn’t been painted in two decades, and light fixtures that flickered when you flipped the switch, I felt safe here.
I finished eating the dry sandwich, and since I was still standing in the kitchen, eating over the sink, I brushed my hands together to knock off the crumbs. Back in the dining room, I gathered my purse and my keys and walked toward the door. Before I could open it, someone rapped their knuckles on the other side.
I opened it, startling Sergeant Quille. “Sir?” I asked, stepping back to open the door wider.
Sergeant Quille was a forty-something cop who lived the job. While he usually followed the rules to a T, this wasn’t the first time he’d shown up at my apartment door. I had a feeling he was here to guilt me into coming back to work.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked as he looked down to see my purse and keys in hand.
“It’s fine. I was heading upstairs to talk to one of my neighbors before running a few errands.”
He stepped back, waving a hand for me to walk out.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the door before locking my deadbolt. I decided
