Page 31 of Only the Devil
“And that means someone drove with a dead body for a significant distance.” Daisy snaps her fingers. “And that means a car passing by the intersection of either end of the office building between the time we found the body and a few hours ago held her body.” She sounds excited, like she’s found a missing clue.
But I deflate. I should’ve done a stake out. Observed everyone who entered and exited the building. Or called Noah so we could have someone on each side of the building.
“I’ll see what we can get from the traffic cams,” Quinn says. “But all we’ll be getting is a stream of license plates. It’s not like we could ever know what’s in the trunk or backseat. But, let me see what we can do. Are you going to report what you found to the police? If you do, it’ll be easier to get access.”
“We can’t,” Daisy answers, chewing the corner of her lip. “Not yet. I’ll lose my in at Sterling Financial.”
Quinn says, “Don’t you think reporting a murder?—”
“No.” Daisy rushes to the side table where she’s got a laptop charging. “I’ve got to be on the inside. Don’t worry about the traffic cams. I’m on it.”
“What about the lobby?” I ask Quinn and Daisy. “Can you possibly hack into the lobby surveillance footage?”
“If it’s not closed circuit,” Daisy answers. “If it’s closed… I wonder if building security is run by the building or by Sterling Financial.” Her fingers fly over the keys and I get the distinct feeling she’s talking to herself.
“Okay. Well, if you need resources, we’re connected,” Quinn says. “Jake, will you update Hudson?”
To my knowledge, she’s in the same house he’s in right now, but I suppose it’s best if I call in the sitrep. This gig is evolving into more than a basic protection detail. Which speaks well of Rhodes’ gut instinct—and not too well of mine.
Chapter 11
Daisy
I’m up late Saturday night, into the early morning, researching license plate numbers and registration tags. The laptop screen burns my eyes, but I keep scrolling through ARGUS results. Nothing. No interesting connections, not even hints of a lead. It’s when the early morning light filters through the blinds that exhaustion finally wins, and my memory drifts back to my visit to Uncle Alvin’s apartment, the weekend of his funeral.
In my semi-lucid state, the details are crisp, so vibrant and real it’s as if I’ve returned.
Stubborn muted algae stains the corners of the dry pool, the concrete radiating heat even in the shade. The air tastes like dust and smells of mildew.
Uncle Alvin always sat looking over the cracked pool shell and concrete courtyard, over the tile roof of the two-story apartment building, to the palm tree fronds, for hours each day. The weekend of his funeral, the folding chair sat empty, one leg slightly bent, the concave dip in the stretched woven fabric evoking the past.
“How’s school, little miss?”
That’s the question he’d ask on school days, when the weight of my backpack pulled on my shoulders, as I’d been too small and thin for the heavy weight of books back then.
Reed was never up in the morning when I headed off to the bus stop, but he never missed an afternoon when I got home. Didn’t matter if I didn’t come home for hours, he didn’t go inside until I got home.
That day, I did my best not to dwell in the past as I had two days to go through everything before the property management company would toss his belongings.
Alvin Reed wouldn’t have wanted me to cry anyway. Tears are for when something really bad happens, and you don’t know really bad, little miss.
Given I didn’t fight in Vietnam, by his barometer, I’ll never know really bad.
The worn brass doorknob burned hot under my palm. Stale air hit my face—the cloying smell of closed spaces and Pine-Sol. Light flowed over black and white vinyl squares as I stepped inside. Closed metal blinds blocked the view of the empty pool. The vinyl floor felt familiar under my sneakers—the same give and stick I remembered from racing around in socks.
My fingers found the avocado fridge handle automatically, and the rubber seal released with a soft sucking sound. I’d been surprised to find it clean. Well, clean-ish. There were no moldy science experiments occurring, at least. Did I thank my mom?
Through the other doorway, from the kitchen, I could see his mattress, stripped of sheets, sitting on a box spring. Mom asked if I wanted his clothes and I said no, and I second-guessed that decision for days, for no good reason. Sentimentality is not me. Plus, I move too frequently to become a hoarder in my thirties and holding on to an old man’s clothes is the definition of hoarding.
My fingers traced the solid wood grain on the old desk, worn smooth by decades of Uncle Alvin’s forearms. I curved my hands below the center drawer and tugged, testing the weight of the solid desk. The desk edge cut into my palms, but the drawer didn’t budge. If it wouldn’t have cost a fortune, I would’ve shipped it to Chicago. Of course, maybe I shouldn’t have been such a cheapskate. Maybe Uncle Alvin would’ve wanted me to keep that desk, as it was the place I did my homework for years, avoiding the loud TV and my crying baby sister.
Papers cluttered the desk and a charging cable snaked from the wall, stretching across to the far edge. Where was the laptop? He’d been so proud of that Chrome junk when he purchased it some ten years ago.
I shake my head now, refocusing on my laptop screen. The license plate database stares back at me, but all I can think about is that missing laptop. Did someone take it? The same someone who might have taken Jocelyn’s life? How many clues have I overlooked?
That day, I tugged on the drawer, wiggling the stiff joint. The drawer fought me, wood swollen with age, but with a grinding noise, it gave. Crinkled papers filled the drawer, almost to the point of overstuffing the narrow space. Papers crackled like autumn leaves as I sifted through them, edges soft with handling.
Bold red letters drew my eye.
