Page 14 of So Smitten

Hansen Street was somehow worse. It reminded Faith of Skid Row in Los Angeles, but Skid Row as it had been in the eighties and early nineties before reforms and city projects had worked to (somewhat) clean up the area.

No such projects appeared to have taken place here. The buildings were covered in graffiti, and the street itself was littered with trash. Most of the windows were broken, and the cars that actually ran were old beat-up sedans with mountains of junk visible through the windows.

The locals—as Garvey predicted—were not happy to see law enforcement. They cast stony faces at the officers and made only a token attempt to hide their drugs and their weapons when Garvey put her lights on and led the three agents from the vehicle.

A few of them did have dogs—Rottweilers, Dobermanns, and Pit Bulls. They all growled and barked as the agents passed. Turk bristled but kept his cool otherwise. Recently, the three of them had a case in Arizona where a crazed former vet tech had used chemical pheromones to manipulate a pack of dogs into murdering people. Turk had nearly fallen victim to that chemical and, prior to that, had been cornered by a pack of actual guard dogs while investigating a junkyard.

“Easy boy,” Faith said, reaching down to ruffle his fur. “We’re okay.”

Michael glanced furtively around at the stone-faced locals and said, “Christ, should we have brought backup?”

“Nah,” Garvey—the only one among them who was calm—replied. “They’re all bark and no bite.”

“I thought you said that some of them sicced their dogs on officers before.”

“Yes, but we’re here investigating the murder of one of their own, you two are feds, and you brought a dog. As long as we don’t try to punk anyone, they’ll leave us alone.”

“I will endeavor not to punk anyone,” Michael replied.

Garvey led them into one of the less rundown buildings and into the leasing office. The manager and the security guard present glared at the four of them. “We need the apartment again,” she said without introducing the agents. “Feds want to take a look at it.”

“What the hell are feds doing here?” the guard asked, glowering at them.

“They’re investigating H-Bomb’s murder,” Garvey replied, “and we need the keys.”

“You took all the shit away already,” the manager said, “why do you need to go back?”

“Because I said so,” Garvey replied shortly, “and you don’t want me to follow up on everyone you’re renting to who doesn’t have a social security number or a credit score.”

The manager met Garvey’s eyes, her lip curling in contempt. She reached into a drawer and shoved a set of keys at Garvey, who caught them and smiled frostily. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

She led the agents out the sliding glass door and into the complex. On their way out, the guard said, “You better keep that dog off my grass.”

Faith didn’t bother to respond.

The residents gave the agents the same stare those on the street had. Faith decided they would get little help from witnesses, if there were any. This was the kind of neighborhood where people turned up the tv and looked the other way when things happened.

The complex was really just a single building with a rectangular central courtyard. Faith counted thirty units, not including the office and the maintenance room. Considering the size of the building, Faith decided the apartments must be very small.

Garvey led them to a first-floor apartment and opened the door. She led them inside, and Faith was shocked to see the apartment almost bare. There was the ubiquitous sea of trash and dust, but the furniture and appliances were gone. Even the cabinets had been emptied.

Turk started sniffing around to see what he could make of the place. Judging by the emptiness of the place, that was probably their best chance at finding anything useful.

“Christ, how much stuff did you take?” Michael asked.

“Anything illegal or illegally gotten,” Garvey replied, “that we knew of, anyway. The rest the neighbors probably took.”

That explained why the manager didn’t want them in the apartment. “So why are we here? If there’s no evidence left, why not just take us to the station.”

“I wanted you to get a sense of the neighborhood,” Garvey replied, “and I thought it might be helpful to see the apartment while looking at the photos of the evidence. You get a better understanding of things that way.”

Faith had to admit she had a point.

“Speaking of,” Garvey continued, “Here are the photos. I made copies for each of you.”

She handed a small stack of photos to each agent. Faith looked at the first one, and her eyes widened. There was furniture in this picture, but it was all overturned. Blood spatter could be seen all over the room, as though their victim had pirouetted as he was bleeding out.

Harvey Harris had been found on the couch, the only piece of furniture not overturned. He sat slumped forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his chin planted on his chest. Blood seeped from wounds on his abdomen and shoulders.

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