I should point out that the two security guards were friends of mine. Their names were Smith and Jones and they were dressed in the identical dark blue suits, crisp white shirts, and dark blue ties of their profession; I could never tell them apart without reading their name tags. They had made it clear when Nina and I moved in a few years ago that they had checked me out—acting under building management’s orders, of course; it was SOP for all new tenants—and they knew who I was and what I did. They had also made it clear that they were ready, willing, and able to assist me should ever the need arise.
“The job can get so boring,” they told me.
So, on occasion, I’d seek their help in exchange for items I’d find lying around the building, like a case of Irish whiskey and Minnesota Twins tickets that I would turn in to the lost and found because security personnel weren’t allowed to accept gratuities from the tenants.
Smith picked up a clipboard and thrust it at Shipman.
“Sign in, please,” he said.
“Are you kidding me?”
“We have rules.”
“Someone should have called to tell you that I was coming.”
“Ms. Truhler called. Sign in, please.”
Shipman yanked the clipboard out of Smith’s hand and started filling in the sheet that was attached to it. That’s when she had an idea.
“Did McKenzie have any visitors between five and, say, eight P.M. last night?” she asked.
Smith and Jones glanced at each other.
“We have rules concerning the privacy of our tenants,” Jones said.
“C’mon guys,” Shipman said. “Do I have to call Nina?” She used my wife’s first name as if they were friends. They’re not. “Do I need to get a subpoena? Someone shot the man. Help me find out who.”
Smith and Jones glanced at each other some more.
“A woman arrived yesterday, I want to say about six P.M,” Smith said.
“We didn’t log her in because she didn’t stay,” Jones added. “Instead, she gave us an envelope that she said she wanted delivered to McKenzie. She said to deliver it forthwith.”
“Forthwith?” Shipman asked.
“Word she used,” Smith said.
“What did you do?”
“Called McKenzie and said there was a message waiting for him,” Jones said.
“And?”
“And he came down and picked it up,” Smith said.
“What did it say?”
“We don’t read other people’s mail,” Jones said.
“McKenzie—what did he do?”
“He opened the envelope and read the message,” Smith said.
“What did he say?”
“‘Huh.’”
“What did he say?”
“‘Huh.’”
“Are you deaf all of a sudden? What did McKenzie say?”
“That’s what he said.”
“‘Huh’?”
“Exactly.”
“Wait, what?”
“He opened the envelope, removed the sheet of paper inside, unfolded it, read the message, and said, ‘Huh.’ How many times do I have to say it, Detective?”
Shipman didn’t like how Smith made her title sound like an insult, yet let it slide.
“What happened next?”
“McKenzie refolded the message, put it back into the envelope, put the envelope in his pocket, wished us both a good evening, and returned to his condo. Ten minutes later, he left.”
“He left?” Shipman repeated.
“We saw him on our monitors locking his condo and taking the elevator to the parking garage,” Jones said. “A few minutes later he drove out of the lot.”
In his old Jeep Cherokee without GPS, Shipman thought. Where the hell were you, McKenzie, she wondered, during the two hours between leaving here and arriving at RT’s Basement in time to get shot? She shook the question from her head. First things first.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said.
The way Smith and Jones glanced at each other yet again somehow reminded Shipman of Shakespeare’s Richard III—I am not in the giving vein today.
“You have security cameras,” Shipman said. “Could you pull up the footage of the woman who came into the building last night? It could help us identify the person who shot McKenzie.”
“We’ll need to contact our supervisors, but I doubt that there will be a problem,” Smith said. “It’ll take a few minutes, though.”
“In the meantime, could you take me up to McKenzie’s condominium?”
“Come this way,” Jones said.
Jones led Shipman to the elevator, to the seventh floor, and to my door. Along the way, she contacted the Forensics Services Unit, which had taken possession of my bloodstained clothes from Bobby. Most of its members were working either the Haven assault case or the shooting at the fast-food joint, however Brian, the tech who found the spent cartridge at RT’s Basement, the one who wanted love from Shipman, had been left behind to answer the phones.
“Brian, I need you to do something for me,” Shipman said.
“What do I get out of it?”
“My undying gratitude.”
“How ’bout lunch?”
“How ’bout I don’t break your face the next time I see you?”
“Goodness gracious, how long have you been this cranky?”
“Since I was fourteen and discovered men. What I need is for you to pull McKenzie’s clothes and check his pockets for a note.”
“We haven’t gone through his clothes yet. We didn’t think McKenzie’s shooting was a higher priority than what FSU already had on its plate.”
“Tell me about it,” Shipman said.
“We haven’t had a chance to look at the video on the flash drive or examine the cell phone, either.”
“Don’t tell Commander Dunston that.”
“Bobby doesn’t scare us none,” the tech said.
“Then you’re a member of a very small minority. The note, Brian.”
“All right, hang on.” Brian returned a few minutes later. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I have a receipt signed by Commander Dunston saying that McKenzie’s cell phone and wallet had been logged into evidence. All that’s left is some cash and keys.”
“There’s no note in an envelope?”
“No, there’s not.”
“Huh.”
If it was possible to pace in a wheelchair, then Chopper was pacing. He had nearly a dozen computer stations in his
