Page 29 of Nothing Left

"Thank you," Wyatt said. Juliette knew that he was taking this new lead very seriously.

Evette was now looking worried. "Should we take more care? I mean, if there was a murderer in the building? We've been thinking it's so safe here. I guess we’ve become careless.”

“Yeah, I know a lot of people in this apartment building don’t bother locking their doors half the time,” Janice said. "We all think it's like a vacation town and really safe, and honestly, it's not like any of us have anything worth stealing."

"Exactly." Evette shook her head, confused. "We're just a bunch of students and lower-paid workers. I mean, that's what makes this whole thing so puzzling."

"It is extremely puzzling, and we're still investigating and trying to piece together what happened," Juliette reassured her. "But please do keep your door locked because we're not sure as yet who committed this crime. And if you remember anything or notice anything suspicious, please contact us." She handed over a card.

"I'll do that." She could see the two women now looked subdued and fearful, and she felt sorry to have been the bearer of such bad news in their lighthearted world.

However, this had been a very productive interview, and they now had two strong leads. The neighbors, who were angry at students who made noise, and the creepy guy who might live upstairs or on this floor and who seemed to be relatively new to the building. That definitely got Juliette's suspicions rising.

"Let's go and interview the other neighbors first?" she asked Wyatt as they left. "And then, let's see if we can pinpoint this creepy guy who seems to have been lurking and watching the students."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Only a minute after leaving the apartment to the left, Juliette was tapping on the door of the apartment to the right of the murder scene. She hoped these angry neighbors would be home. The husband, in particular, sounded like someone who could have snapped and committed murder.

She waited, feeling ready for anything as footsteps approached. Then, with a bang, the door was flung open, and there stood a woman in her thirties with a pretty, heart-shaped face that was marred by an annoyed expression. In the background, Juliette picked up the aroma of baking bread.

"Police? Again?" she declared in a way that reassured Juliette the police had done their job this side, even though the notes from the interview had not yet found their way into the case file they'd been handed earlier.

"We're FBI," she said, showing her ID. "And you are?"

"I'm Paola Murano," the woman said. She spoke in accented English.

"Do you live here with anyone?"

"Yes. I live here with my husband, Costa Murano," she retorted grumpily as if annoyed by the second interruption. "He's in his bedroom on a phone call." She glanced back into the apartment at the closed door at the end of the corridor.

"We're investigating the murder that happened next door," Juliette said calmly, hoping to defuse her irritation. "I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the night of the murder."

"That night? Why are we being asked again? The police have already been around to talk to us. You know, I am very sorry that someone ended up getting killed. But it was coming. They were so, so drunk. It's too much, really. The noise those damned students make is unbearable. My husband and I have complained to the landlord numerous times, but nothing ever gets done."

"I’m sorry that you’re being questioned a second time. We’ll try to keep it brief,” Juliette placated her.

Did you hear anything suspicious on the night of the murder?" Wyatt asked. "Did your husband try to intervene at all?"

She stared at him coldly. "You'll have to ask him that. I went to bed with my earplugs in. I use them anyway for Costa's snoring."

Interesting, Juliette thought. A wife with earplugs definitely raised the possibility of the husband having been able to act alone and unheard.

At that moment, the bedroom door opened, and a short, solid man with dark hair, receding from his face and cut very short, stomped out. He was wearing a dress shirt and tattered shorts, which made Juliette think he might have been in an online meeting.

"Good afternoon," he said, more politely than his wife had done.

"FBI," Wyatt said. "Sir, we need to ask you some questions about the murders. Could we do so in private?"

"I guess we can, in the bedroom." He glanced back to where he'd just been, and they all walked down the corridor. Giving an angry snort, his wife turned away and went back to her bread baking.

The bedroom was very tidy, with a neatly made bed, on which lay a large ginger cat. The cat looked at them quizzically when they all walked in. On the desk in the corner was a laptop, which was open, with work notes beside it. Something to do with shipping, Juliette saw, glancing at them.

There was no place to sit. It felt wrong to sit down on the bed, which might, in any case, have disturbed the cat, and there was only one desk chair. So again, they all stood.

"What do you want to know?" Costa asked, and then added defensively, "It’s terrible about the murder, and I guess you might believe we had something to do with it because of all the noise complaints. In fact, I was wondering if I should call the police when that party continued so noisily. I wish I had because it might have prevented what happened.” He sighed. “I was shocked the next morning when I saw the police outside. I thought there must have been a fight or an injury. It was only later, when the police came here, that we realized someone had actually died.”

"Tell me what your movements were?" Juliette asked.

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