Page 37 of Killer Clone

“What was that, hun?”

“Did you know Otto well?”

“Otto? No, not really. He was a lovely young man, though. He used to help me with the shopping sometimes.”

“Did he? That’s good of him.”

“Oh, yes. He’d see me struggling up the stairs, and he’d come down and carry the bags. Even put everything away for me. That’s why I couldn’t believe about the movie playing so loud. I guess…it wasn’t a program after all. So sad what’s happened to him. Just terrible.” She started shivering.

“It really is.” Anja patted her hand again. Hagen hadn’t been kidding. Even from this short conversation, it was clear to Stellathat Anja was a skilled interviewer. “So did you and Otto talk much? Did he ever have any friends over?” She placed a nearby afghan over the woman’s shoulders.

“Friends? No, I don’t think so. He was a quiet young man. I know he used to go to church. Saint Aloysius’s, I think. He mentioned once that he volunteered at the soup kitchen there, up in Idlebrook Can’t think of the name. The priest runs a little homeless shelter next to the church and feeds the poor. He was a good boy. I’m sorry he’s gone.” Lydia sighed. “Such a terrible thing. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

Anja rose. She’d already had business cards prepared, and she left one on the table next to a teacup in a saucer. “Thank you very much, Lydia. You’ve been a big help. If you remember anything or if there’s anything you need, you just give me a call, okay?”

Lydia smiled up at her. “I sure will, dear. You can see yourself out, can’t you?”

They could.

They learned nothing more from Otto Walker’s other neighbors. The residents either weren’t home or didn’t know him. One slammed the door in her face when Stella identified herself as FBI. Another resident, standing in the cold in shorts and a stained undershirt, wanted all the details about Walker’s death—how he died and who’d done it—but contributed nothing useful.

His curiosity roused Stella’s suspicions, though, and she could see herself coming back to this apartment complex one day.

By the time they’d knocked on the last door, the forensic techs had sealed off Otto’s apartment and were climbing into their box truck.

Stella waved them down as they prepared to leave. “Make sure you get the computer straight to Agent Mackenzie Drake, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” The tech wound up the window and drove out of the lot.

If they were lucky, the computer would be sitting on Mac’s desk first thing in the morning. If they were unlucky, Mac would have to make calls, nag, and threaten to go down to the lab and snatch it.

They climbed into the remaining SUV. Stella took the wheel. “You were good in there, Anja. Had that old dear eating out of your hands. You’ve got a way with people.”

Anja smiled. “You just gotta figure out what they want and give it to them. Before they ask. Ideally, before they even know they want it.”

“What do you think Lydia O’Donnell wanted?”

Anja was silent for a moment. “When I told her to go back inside, I saw she lived alone. Now, what do old people who live alone always want? Company. Someone to sit with them for a while, hold their hand. Listen to them.” She folded her arms and lifted her chin. “Give them that, even for five minutes, and they’ll tell you everything.”

Stella didn’t reply. There was a degree of self-satisfaction in Anja’s response that bothered her.

“So how long have you and Hagen been together?”

That question came out of nowhere. Stella almost hit the brakes. She maintained her speed as they turned onto Briley Parkway. “Not long. Couple of months or so.”

“Got it.” Anja nodded knowingly. “Must be a record for him. Good for you.”

“Yeah. Good for me.”

They drove on in silence. The journey back to headquarters would take less than fifteen minutes, but each minute was starting to feel like an hour.

Anja broke the silence. “So you guys got plans for the night?”

Stella remembered they were supposed to meet Mac and her new boyfriend at a restaurant. But the sight of Otto Walker upside down on a sofa had pushed the thought of food completely out of her mind.

Her dad used to come back from work full of jokes and smiles. He’d wolf down a giant plate of home-cooked food, help himself to extra mashed potatoes, then wash it all down with a couple of cold beers as though he’d spent the day tiling a roof. Stella had no idea how he did it.

“Supposed to be going out for dinner.” The smell of wet carpet and blood drifted back to Stella. “Though I can’t say I’m really in the mood.”

---