Cross Fire, page 3
Agnes stilled, and I saw fear flicker through her eyes. She hugged the boot with the picture to her chest and stepped closer to me.
“It’s just my friend,” I assured her.
“Holly!”
“Here!” I hollered back. “By the blue car with . . .” I leaned sideways to read the letters spray-painted across the doors. Oh, I didn’t use that word. “Past the bathtub!” I said instead.
I heard the creepy death giggle from the doll I’d stepped on earlier and knew he was on the right track. His expression was frosty with worry and anger when he finally arrived.
He looked me over to make sure I was in one piece and then holstered his gun as he snapped, “Are you tryin’ to give me a heart attack? I told you to stay in the car.” He spared a glance for Agnes and gave her a polite nod.
He would be even more furious if I told him about the troublemakers who had come through. Maybe it would be better to keep that detail to myself. “We have to help him.”
He crouched down alongside me and looked at the dog. He examined the wound and Riley let out a pained whimper. “Holly, this is a gunshot wound. A bad one. There’s nothin’ . . .”
“It’s Riley.”
It took a moment for the name to register. “The dog from the park? The one who saved you?”
I showed him the name tag. “We have to do something.”
He pursed his lips and looked at Riley. I knew that expression; he didn’t think there was anything we could do, but he didn’t want to tell me.
“Please,” I pleaded, and tears burned my eyes. “He’s suffering. Even if all we can do is take him to a vet so they can put an end to the pain. Please.”
“Holly . . .” He trailed off when he met my eyes, and whatever objection he was about to offer died in his throat. He sighed. “Okay. Get the rear car door, and I’ll carry him.”
We packed Riley into the backseat with his head in my lap, and I rubbed the fur between his ears as he whined. Marx climbed behind the wheel and glanced back at me.
His serious expression melted when I brushed at my damp cheeks and forced a smile. “You ready?”
I nodded, and we pulled out of the scrapyard. Marx called his captain to fill him in on the conversation with his informant as we drove to the nearest animal hospital.
“I realize it’s not much to go on, sir,” he said after a pause.
I heard his captain’s faint voice through the speaker say something about not wanting to waste one of his best detectives on a tip that provided so little information, and that he needed more to justify opening a case.
Marx exhaled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up and tossed his phone into the passenger seat in irritation.
We pulled into the animal hospital, and Marx stayed in the waiting room with me for the next two hours while they operated on Riley. When a tall, dark-haired woman finally came out to talk to us, I nearly plowed into her.
“Is he okay? Can I see him?”
She offered me a patient smile. “Riley survived the surgery. He lost a lot of blood and he’s severely dehydrated, but I expect him to make a full recovery.”
Relieved, I asked again, “Can I see him?”
“He’s still unconscious, but you can see him for a minute. I would like to keep him for observation for a couple of days just to make sure there aren’t any complications.”
She took Marx and me back to visit with him. I petted him and kissed his head, and then we left him in the vet’s very capable hands.
I insisted we stop at a store to pick up a new blanket and a few boxes of granola bars for Agnes. I told Marx he could wait in the car while I tracked her down, and he gave me a flat stare before getting out. Apparently he didn’t like that suggestion.
It didn’t take us long to find her; she was rummaging through the scrapyard for anything interesting. I thanked her for finding Riley and told her he was going to be okay. She hugged me when I handed her the blanket and food and then, much to Marx’s discomfort, hugged him too before we left.
3
Dear Jesus,
Today I’m thankful for a blue sky and sunshine, and I’m grateful beyond words that You love me just because.
I kept a daily journal of gratitude. I had learned early on that this world we were passing through was riddled with darkness, but there were flickers of light if we were just willing to see them. I made a conscious effort to see them. It kept the pain and suffering in this world from swallowing me whole.
PS: Thanks for whoever came up with chicken nuggets, I added after another bite of my lunch. I set down my pen and flipped my journal shut. I chewed slowly, enjoying my last chicken-flavored nugget.
I heard a car pull up, and dusted off my hands before climbing onto the metal chair in front of my kitchen sink to peer out the window.
The downside of living in a basement apartment was that the windows were more horizontal than vertical, and they hugged the ceiling, which meant I had to do chair aerobics to see outside.
I was expecting Marx, but it wasn’t his car that rolled to a stop along the curb. I was about to dismiss it and climb down when the occupant of the car—a tall, lean man in his thirties—slid out of the driver’s side and started down the path that would lead him to my front door.
There was a youthful spring to his stride as he came down the steps onto my patio. I stiffened when he knocked on the door. I didn’t open the door to strangers even in broad daylight, and I definitely didn’t know him.
I considered pretending I wasn’t home, but he had probably seen me watching him from the window like some sort of paranoid weirdo. I hopped down and approached the door warily.
“Who is it?” I asked.
A muffled tenor came through the door. “Nathan Whittaker, your new landlord.”
Mr. Stanley, my former landlord, had been murdered last autumn. I heard a rumor that someone had bought the building, but I hadn’t met them yet.
“Ms. Smith?” he asked when I didn’t respond.
I frowned at the name. Mr. Stanley had died before I discovered my real name—Holly Marie Cross—so whatever records the new landlord had about me were outdated.
“Um . . . what can I do for you?” I asked.
A pause. “Do you mind opening the door so we can talk face to face?”
I curled and uncurled my fingers at my sides anxiously. I had assured Marx that while Collin was in the area, I wouldn’t leave my apartment alone or unlock the door for anyone I didn’t know and trust. But I couldn’t very well ignore my landlord.
“Just a minute,” I called back. I grabbed my cell phone and sent my best friend Jace a quick text for clarification:
What’s our new landlord’s name? And what does he look like?
I knew I was probably just being paranoid, but after everything that had happened the past few months, I couldn’t help but be overly cautious.
Jace’s reply was instant, cementing the fact that her phone was glued to her fingertips:
Nathan Whittaker. Thirtyish? Black slimy hair, and he gives me the heebie-jeebies. Why?
That sounded like the man at my door. I didn’t reply to her question. If she was that curious, she could just look out her window and see him standing on my patio.
I summoned my nerves and unbolted the door, cracking it open. The man standing on my patio was maybe closer to forty given the fine lines around his eyes and the thin streaks of silver in his slicked-back hair.
“What did you wanna talk about? I dropped my rent money off,” I said. I was meticulous about dropping it off on time simply to avoid this kind of situation.
His eyebrows climbed up a fraction as his gaze swept over me, and my grip tightened instinctively on the door. “You’re Ms. Smith?”
He sounded surprised.
“Were you expecting a man?” My sharp tone drew his eyes back to my face where I preferred them.
He smiled, and I knew instantly what Jace meant when she said the man gave her the heebie-jeebies. It made him look like a predator on the prowl, and I resisted the urge to slam the door in his face and lock it.
“I’ve introduced myself to all of the other tenants, but you’ve been pretty hard to pin down,” he said.
I shrugged. “Been busy. In fact, I’m leaving in a few minutes, so . . .” Please go away, I wanted to say.
“I’m updating the tenant records, and I would like you to fill out this information card for me.”
He offered me a note card. I skimmed over the questions that covered the front and back, and frowned. It required a lot of details I either wasn’t comfortable sharing or didn’t know. “Mr. Stanley never made me fill one of these out.”
“You seem to be the exception.”
He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it for me to see. The top of the form read Tenant Lease Agreement, and it was blank except for a note scribbled across the top in a man’s handwriting: Holly Smith. Basement. BA placement.
BA must have meant Beth Anne. She had been the one to arrange the apartment for me.
Mr. Whittaker refolded the paper and looked at me in a way that made me want to fidget. “I’m curious why he made an exception for you.”
Mr. Stanley might have been a grouch, but he was never heartless. Beth Anne, the woman who spoke with him about the vacant basement, had worked with him on housing arrangements before, and she had vouched for me.
“I haven’t caused any trouble,” I said, “so I’m not sure why—”
“I require this information of all my tenants.” Mr. Whittaker tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “No one else has had a problem answering the questions.”
I studied the long list of questions. Some of them were simple enough—do I have pets, do I have a criminal history, do I have a reliable source of income, etc.—while others struck me as unusual. “I don’t understand why some of these questions are relevant to me being a tenant.”
“It’s just for record keeping.”
Right. “I’ll um . . . fill out what I can and get it back to you. Thanks for dropping it off.”
When I tried to close the door, he pressed a hand against it to keep it open, sending my heart rate skipping. “I’m sorry, but we also need to talk about your keys.”
His eyes flicked to my ring of keys on the kitchen counter beside me, and I grabbed them, gripping them protectively in my fist. “What about them?”
“This seems to be the only apartment I don’t have keys to. I’m not sure if the former landlord misplaced them or if he just neglected to make copies, but in either case, I’ll need to borrow yours so I can make copies for myself.”
I had been afraid this might happen.
“Mr. Stanley and I had an agreement,” I said.
“Oh?”
“He didn’t have to pay for the locks and I got to keep the only set of keys.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you hiding something in there you don’t want anyone else to see?”
He leaned forward to see inside, and I clenched the door tighter, holding my ground. I didn’t want to back away and give him the impression he was welcome to enter. “I’m not hiding anything. I just like my privacy.”
“I’m not Mr. Stanley, Ms. Smith, and I’m afraid that’s not gonna work for me. I require keys to every lock on my property, and your apartment is no exception. Of course, if the keys mean that much to you . . .” The scheming glint in his eyes made me uneasy. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement too.”
“What kind of agreement?”
“An extra two hundred a month ought to cover it.”
I gaped at him in disbelief. Income from my photography was slow during the winter months, and the small amount Georgetta sent me from my father’s book store in Kansas wasn’t enough to cover much more than what I paid now for rent and utilities.
“I can’t afford that.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way. Otherwise I suggest you start packing, because I’ll be putting your apartment on the market by the end of the week.”
Anger momentarily overshadowed my anxiety, and I snapped, “But I haven’t done anything to warrant eviction, and I can’t pay you that kind of money. Business is slow during the winter.”
His lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. “If money’s an issue, I’m sure we can make other arrangements.”
I didn’t immediately understand his meaning until his gaze flickered over me appreciatively. I stiffened. Was he suggesting what I thought he was suggesting?
I was about to slam the door in his face when a familiar Southern voice pulled my attention past him.
“Get your hand off her door.”
The anxiety my landlord had stirred up drained away at the sight of Marx. Mr. Whittaker snatched his hand off my door, as if the metal had suddenly scalded him, and turned around.
Marx must have detected the tension between us, because he scrutinized my landlord as he descended the steps to join him on my patio. “And who might you be?”
My landlord lifted his chin proudly. “Nathan Whittaker. I run this place.”
Marx’s tone was distinctly unimpressed. “Good for you.”
“He’s my new landlord, and he wants me to fill out an information card for his tenant records.” I offered the card to Marx.
Mr. Whittaker started to object. “That’s not for . . .”
Marx scanned the questions, and I watched his expression cloud with suspicion. He flipped the card over and then pinned my landlord with a look that probably made every one of his suspects squirm in the interrogation room.
“Tell me, Mr. Whittaker, what exactly does her relationship status have to do with her bein’ a tenant?”
“That’s a normal question.”
“Marital status, maybe, but whether or not she’s in a relationship is none of your business. And why are you concerned with the names of her kin and what they do for a livin’?”
“In case of an emergency.”
Marx pointed to the bottom of the card. “No, that’s the emergency contact down here. Information about her next of kin is none of your business. Neither is it your concern how long she’s lived in this city.”
Mr. Whittaker tried to snatch the card back, but Marx pulled it out of his reach.
“We’ll fill this out for you and you can be on your way.” Marx fished his pen out of his pocket and filled out my updated name as well as three additional lines on the card. Next of kin: Richard Marx. Employment: Detective at the NYPD. And a phone number where he could be reached.
He handed the card to my landlord, and Mr. Whittaker swallowed hard as he read the information. “You’re a detective?”
“Mmm hmm.”
Mr. Whittaker’s eyes shifted between us before he asked with uncertainty, “Are you . . . her dad?”
“Is that a problem for you?” Marx replied.
Mr. Whittaker blinked. “No. It’s just . . . there isn’t much resemblance. I mean . . .” He studied my naturally red hair and honey-brown eyes and then looked back at Marx.
“She takes after her mother.”
I most certainly did take after my mother, except for my ears and nose. Those had come from my dad.
“Stanley didn’t have a record of a next of kin,” Mr. Whittaker said.
“Because next of kin was none of his business either,” Marx pointed out, and Mr. Whittaker flushed.
“There was nothing about a dad who was . . . is a cop. Not even in the emergency contacts.”
“Stanley didn’t keep very good records. I’m sure you’ll remedy that.”
“Of course, but . . .” Mr. Whittaker hesitated. He glanced at the locks on my door and seemed to wrestle with whether or not he wanted to make an issue of them now that Marx was here. His gaze shifted to me. “We can talk about the keys another time.”
“If you have a problem with Holly havin’ the only set of keys, we can discuss it now. I’d rather you not bother her later,” Marx said coolly. Yep, he had definitely sensed the tension. “I had these locks installed for her protection after your predecessor invited himself into her apartment and then let a serial killer in.”
Mr. Whittaker blanched. “A serial killer?”
“Mmm hmm. Killed Mr. Stanley for the keys. How unfortunate for him that he had them. And I should point out that the last two men who entered her apartment without her express permission are dead.”
Mr. Whittaker must have interpreted that as a threat, because he paled and took a step back. “I see. Well, thank you . . . for thee, um, information on the card and, uh . . .”—he looked at me—“Never mind thee, um . . .”
“Arrangement?” I offered when he struggled for the word. I couldn’t keep the disgust from my voice.
He paled even more and cast a worried look at Marx before returning his attention to me. “Right. That. That was just a misunderstanding.”
I folded my arms and narrowed my eyes at him. “Good, because my answer will always be never. Just in case you think about misunderstanding again.”
He shot another worried glance at Marx. Apparently he was scarier than me. “If you need anything, Ms. Sm—” He glanced at the information card and corrected himself. “Cross, please don’t . . . hesitate to ask.”
He nodded to Marx and then scampered up the steps and retreated into the main apartment building.
I puffed out a breath and rested my head against the door. “I could’ve handled that.” I slanted a look up at Marx. “I had a plan.”
He arched an interested eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. I was planning on making a plan after I slammed the door in his face. I just hadn’t quite worked out all the details yet.”
The corners of his lips twitched with amusement. “In my defense, it’s in my nature to be protective, like it’s in your nature to stumble into trouble. You’re lucky I haven’t wrapped you in bubble wrap.”
I grinned. “I would just pop it.”
The humor faded as he asked, “What did he mean when he said never mind the arrangement?”
