Page 28 of The Perfect Obsession
“Our guy drank from this,” Hannah told her.“I was able to dust it for prints and send the images to my research friend, who searched the fingerprint database.A name popped up.”
She pulled out her phone to show Wren what Jamil had sent her.
“Our mole man is Elton Quaid,” she said, displaying a mug shot of a man who was clearly the same one they’d been following all day.
“It looks like he’s been arrested,” Wren noted.
“He has,” Hannah told her as she flipped through the other photos she had in which Quaid didn’t look quite as squirrelly.“Three times, in fact.Once for assault.Twice for trespassing, both times at someone’s home.It looks like he got the leg injury that has him shuffle-walking while trying to leap a fence at the second house.The cops found him crumpled on the grass.Do you recognize the name?”
Wren shook her head.
“What about the face?”Kat asked.“Now that you can see him without the disguise, do you recognize him?”
“Not really,” Wren said.“Maybe he looks vaguely familiar.But that could just be from the last few days on the street rather than anywhere else.I wish I were more help.”
“That’s okay,” Kat told her.“We know his name now.And his address, his job.We can dig into his social media history.We know about his criminal record.We’ll figure out what this is about and find the best way to deal with it.”
Hannah nodded in agreement.
“Like Kat said—nowwe’rethe ones stalking him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Petr Lushkovitch was having second thoughts.
As he stood at the door of Nash Ceramic Works, he gripped the key tightly in his hand.Normally, he would never enter a tenant’s workspace.It felt like a violation, mainly because it was.
But this situation was different.Jennifer Nash, the artist who rented the studio and adjoining loft in the Arts District warehouse that Petr owned, was as much a friend as a tenant.
He was a widower whose son lived in Boston, so when he’d come down with the flu and could barely move, she showed up at his place every day with chicken soup, medication, and fresh boxes of tissues.When she first rented the studio space from him and couldn’t afford to pay the rent every month, he accepted artwork in lieu of rent.
Now that she was successful and somewhat famous, making rent was no longer an issue.In fact, she made a point to never be late.It had become a tradition for him to stop by her studio in person at 5:01 on the day it was due, so she could flamboyantly hand him a paper check.They’d usually use the time to catch up.Sometimes she’d show him a new piece she was working on.
But Jennifer hadn’t answered when he knocked earlier.He assumed she had forgotten and was out.When he called her to check in, she didn’t respond.Nor did she reply to his texts or emails.He wasn’t bothered about the check so much as worried.That’s why he decided to stop by again to check on her.
He knew something was up because he could see light coming from under the door.It was almost 10 P.M., and Jennifer had told him she never worked past five.
Her philosophy was to treat her art like a job: she worked from nine to five, with a half-hour lunch break.Then she was off the clock.She said keeping a strict routine prevented her work from bleeding into her personal life and vice versa.Petr didn’t have a creative bone in his body, so he wasn’t one to question her methods.
But here it was, 9:56 P.M., and she clearly wasn’t following her own rules.That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern.But the lack of any communication at all was.So Petr was on the verge of doing something he’d never done before as a landlord: enter a unit without permission from the tenant.
He knocked one last time as a precaution.When there was no response, he reluctantly slid the key into the lock and turned it.He opened the door slowly, still unsure if this was the right move.He didn’t want to violate Jennifer’s trust, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
“Miss Jennifer,” he called out as he stood in the doorway.“It’s Petr.I hadn’t heard from you today, so I got worried.Are you all right?”
There was no answer, so he stepped in a little farther.
“Miss Jennifer, are you here?”
He took another step into the studio.Now he had a clear view of the whole place.Then he saw her off to the right.She was perched on a stool, leaning against her pottery wheel.
That explained it.She must have fallen asleep while working.How exhausted was this young woman that she zonked out while working?
“Sorry,” he said, starting to back up.“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.I’ll go.”
He was about to scurry back outside when something made him stop.He’d called out to her pretty loudly, and she still hadn’t stirred.Shouldn’t she have been startled awake by his shout?He pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on.
That’s when he noticed that the way she was slumped over looked awkward and painful.Her drooping head was turned away from him, and her neck was bent at an awkward angle.
