Page 21 of Don't Say a Word
Suddenly, the door opened and I was assaulted with the sweet, foul stench of marijuana smoke. A man stood there, his red eyes flashing with irritation.
“What?”
“Mr. Williams?” I guessed.
He snorted. “Nope.”
Not-Mr. Williams wore sagging shorts, his beer belly hanging over the waistband. No shirt on his hairy chest. Unshaven face, and not the good kind of five o’clock shadow. He had large doughy biceps, as if he’d once regularly worked out but had slacked off.
“ThisisAngie Williams’s apartment,” I stated.
“Kid’s at school. Or walking home. Text her fucking phone, I’m not her secretary.”
I decided not to tell this guy who I doubted was her father that she had cut school today.
“Is her mom home?”
“Working.”
“When does Angie usually come home?”
“You deaf?Call her. Jeez.” He shut the door and I stood there a moment, not quite sure what I had expected or where I should look next.
A few seconds later I walked away.
I went back to my Jeep and considered waiting for Angie to come home, though I didn’t know when that would be. I rarely minded surveillance gigs—stake outs were a good time to clear my mind—but I’d told Alina I would come by this afternoon. The Martinez apartment was only three blocks away.
If I wasn’t able to track down Angie tonight, then I’d tap my part-time assistant Theo Washington to sit on her place tomorrow.
The apartment complex where Alina lived, though just across Nineteenth Avenue and down two blocks from Angie’s, was far better maintained. There were a dozen four-apartment buildings situated on the deep lot. Each building was a cube, two apartments upstairs, two down. The lower units had patios, and the upper units had balconies. A lot of trees, trimmed bushes lining pathways, and a partly covered kids play area. It was just after four in the afternoon and several moms were talking at a picnic table while watching their young children play. No graffiti or trash anywhere. Security cameras on the corners of each building.
Having residents and management who kept the property clean made a huge difference in the crime rate.
Alina Martinez lived in a downstairs unit. I knocked and she answered immediately.
She looked even more exhausted than she had this morning.
“Thank you for letting me come by,” I said.
Alina smiled thinly and opened the door for me to enter.
The open sliding glass door let in a soft breeze through the too-warm home. Cluttered but tidy, with a spacious living-dining area and a functional kitchen in the front. A short hallway, likely leading to the bedrooms. Framed photographs covered almost every inch of wall space—mostly older black-and-white pictures of family that reminded me of my grandparents’ long hallway Pop called “Ancestor Alley.” Many pictures of Elijah everywhere. A prominent wedding portrait of a young Alina, no older than twenty, and her equally young husband, stood out in the living room.
When Alina saw me staring, she said, “My husband, Marcus. He was a very good man. Worked so hard. We had a good life, Marcus and me. A better life after Elijah. Now, they’re both gone.”
I felt for the woman, but emotions always made me feel uncomfortable, and I never had the right words to help. Tess was so much better at this than me; I preferreddoingsomething. In the weeks after Iris’s husband died, Tess sat with her for hours and let her talk and cry. I cleaned her house and cooked, then took her teenagers to the movies so they’d be distracted for a few hours.
“You were a lovely couple,” I said because it was the first thing that came to mind and it was true. “Would you mind if I looked through Elijah’s things? I’ll put everything back the way I found it.”
She led me down the hall. Elijah’s room was also neat, and not as cluttered as the living area. His walls were decorated with music posters of bands I hadn’t heard of, and an Arizona Cardinals pennant. A neatly made double bed. A short bookshelf overflowing with books, papers, binders. Laptop computer centered on his desk.
Alina was hovering, and I asked, “Would you mind if I went through his room alone?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Please. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Alina,” I said.
She smiled nervously, then left, closing the door behind her.
