Page 12 of Shattered Dreams

Pop pokes his head into one and starts opening filing cabinets. I walk down the hallway, the floor covered in ugly brown industrial carpeting, and choose another. The filing cabinets in this office are empty, and I sit in the desk chair, the fake leather crackling under my ass. Dust covers the old blotter and the drawers are empty except for some stray paperclips.

“Got anything?” Pop yells, stepping out of one office and going into another. There are three and a restroom, but I don’t see the door that would lead to the fire escape I used.

“No, but I don’t think the cops cleared out these offices. Everything is covered in dirt. Whoever used this warehouse took their shit and ran.”

“That’s what I’m getting, too.”

Baby starts barking and Pop and I follow the sound to the tiny bathroom. The toilet lid is up, and the inside of the bowl is stained a rusty orange. The sink faucet drips, and I turn it on, the water streaming out in a brown sputtering gush.

“There’s nothing in here, girl.”

My words don’t quiet her. She starts pawing at a cabinet built into the wall, and I open the door, expecting to find extra rolls of toilet paper, paper towels, hand soap, or even toilet bowl cleaner.

I do find all those things, and something else.

Pop jiggles a pen out of his jacket pocket and holds a watch up to the beam of the flashlight.

Crusted blood speckles the face of a gold Patek Philippe.

“What do you suppose this is doing up here?” he asks, tilting his head and studying it.

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”

“Fancy watch to leave laying around.”

“Must have been in a hurry to get rid of it.”

“Or he forgot about it.”

“He?” I ask.

“Men’s watch.”

“Women wear men’s watches.”

“True enough.”

In fact, when Viv and I were dating, she frequently stole my watches, saying the bold look was in. Zarah couldn’t wear one of my watches. It would slip down her slender wrist and right off her tiny hand.

Christ, how can a man miss a woman so much?

“Now what?” Pop asks, wrapping it in his handkerchief and pushing it into one of his jacket’s deep pockets.

“Give it to the police?”

“I guess we should. The way Ingrid died, we’re in over our heads.”

“No joke.”

We don’t do shit like this. Torture. Homicide. I’d rather run down a druggie in the street who just robbed a little old lady than get messed up in something like this. I can tell Zane what we found and wash our hands of it. Dirty or not, this is what the cops are for.

Baby finally calms down some, but she paces in circles.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, and Pop is quick to agree.

Outside, we poke around and look for boot prints or anything else that could maybe give us a clue as to who was out here,but we’ve had so much snow, chances of finding anything are slim to none. I walk to the end of the dock, the wooden boards creaking under my feet. The water is a gunmetal grey in the cold. I still wonder why they (whoever “they” are) didn’t weight down Ingrid’s body and let her sink. Why let the police find her? Is Pop right and they wanted to send a message? To whom? Zane, maybe. But what were they trying to say?

None of it makes sense.

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