Booked to Kill, page 5
The doorman opened the door with a nod of his head.
Olivia followed Jack, focusing on the way his crisp white dress shirt molded across his back as he swung his arms with each long stride. Unease tapped against her spine, and she all but held her breath until they made it to her door. Jack fiddled with the police lock before letting her pass through.
Flashes of the morning before appeared in her mind as her sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor. The bag beside the door. The neatly set table in the dining room. The orchid on the kitchen counter.
The dead body on the floor.
She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. This loft once held only cherished memories, an aura of love and hope permeating the walls. The space was tainted now. Maybe Jason was right, maybe selling was the right move.
“I just want to make a quick sweep through each room. Are you okay?” Jack asked.
She nodded and stepped farther inside. Jack crossed over to the sofa, his attention fixed squarely on whatever his mission was today. Turning her back to him, she treaded lightly to the one spot she didn’t want to see. The stairs. She passed the beautiful table, dishes still laid out, and took a deep breath. She had to get this over with—had to push past the jitters.
Steeling her resolve she pivoted to the place where the beautiful young woman had lain only twenty-four hours before. A hiss of terror pushed through her. No body laid sprawled on the floor, but white petals were scattered along the ground, the color glaring and pure against hard red bloodstains.
Chapter 6
“Jack!”
The screech of his name had Jack racing around the corner, terror at what he was about to find zipping through his veins.
Olivia stood beside the marble island with one hand over her mouth and the other extended in front of her—index finger pointed toward the floor. “Blood. Dried blood still on the floor. And the petals. Someone scattered ripped petals on the stain.”
He followed the long line of her finger to the base of the stairs. The stain was from the day before, the team in charge of examining the scene was not responsible for cleaning the mess. But the petals. Those were definitely new. “What the hell? Where did those come from?”
Olivia whipped around to face the kitchen, her frantic gaze taking in every inch of the space. “The orchid. Where’s the orchid? Did the police take it?”
“Wait. What?” He lifted his palms, mind racing to make sense of the sudden change of subject.
Swirling back to face him, she swept her arm toward the bewildering sight on the floor. “The petals. They look like torn-up orchid petals. I had a white orchid on the counter, and I don’t see it.”
If he remembered correctly, the potted flower from the kitchen wasn’t taken in for evidence. And he was 100 percent certain no police officer or crime-scene investigator had busted into the crime scene, torn apart a plant, and thrown the petals on the same spot where the body had lain—the wood stained red from the now-removed blood.
Pushing all questions to the back of his mind, he sprang into action, removing a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and shoving them on his hands. “Stay close, okay? Someone was in here, and I need to make sure they’ve left. Try not to touch anything,” he said, removing his sidearm. If someone was still inside the loft, he wouldn’t be caught unprepared.
She bobbed her head up and down and fell into step behind him. Hunching low, as if trying to make herself small, she stayed close to his heels.
The heat of her body skimmed his back as he made quick work of clearing the first floor—checking every nook and corner in each room. Nothing was out of place, the only items unaccounted for were things already taken in as evidence. Skirting the bloodstain as best he could, he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Plush cream-colored carpet covered the floor. Modern art with clean black lines and splashes of bold red hung on the walls. The crisp white bedspread lay in a heap in the middle of the bed.
An open door led to a small bathroom. He padded across the carpet. One more space to check to make sure he and Olivia were alone. No one hovered in the bathroom or hid in the shower. Whoever had been inside was long gone.
A narrow window that sat high on the wall caught his attention. He stood on the edge of the bathtub and ran his fingers along the unseen seam where the window should have met the white, wooden ledge. Instead, a sliver of air rushed against the pad of his finger. “The window’s open. Is there a way for someone to climb up to it and squeeze through?”
She closed her eyes, her nose scrunched in concentration. “The fire escape is on that side of the building. The landing is outside the kitchen window, but the ladder going to the next apartment would be close.”
He shoved his gun back in the holster at his side, then locked the window. “Let’s head back downstairs. I need to call this in.”
He trailed behind her as she made her way back to the dining room, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. He pulled out the chair that would position her back to the petals on the floor. “Can I get you some water or something?”
She nodded, rubbing her palm over the exposed skin above the collar of her shirt. “That’d be nice. I keep bottles of water in the refrigerator.” She was silent for a beat, her unblinking gaze staring straight ahead. “This can’t be happening. I don’t understand.”
Yanking off his gloves, he skirted around the island to the stainless steel appliance. He opened the door and grabbed two bottles before joining her at the table. After sliding one in front of her, he unscrewed the cap off the other bottle and took a long sip before placing a call to Max.
“What’s up?” Max asked after the first ring. “I only have a second. I’m about to talk to the lieutenant.” A hint of annoyance lifted Max’s gruff voice.
“Someone broke into Olivia Hickman’s loft again. Left ripped flower petals, possibly from an orchid Olivia had on the counter, over the spot where the victim was found.”
“Shit. We need to look at the building’s security feed. Did you secure the place?”
“The place is cleared. Looks like someone got in through a window in the upstairs bathroom. I need someone to get here to check for prints.” He glanced at Olivia from the corner of his eye, relieved to see a little color back in her cheeks.
“I’ll send someone right away.”
Jack uttered a goodbye, then set his phone on the table, screen facing up so he wouldn’t miss any incoming calls or messages. “I need to stay here a little while longer. I can take your statement, then you’re free to leave.”
“Will you need to take over my loft again? I have a renter tomorrow night. I really don’t want to cancel the booking.”
He hid his annoyance over another swallow of water. “What has to happen next shouldn’t take too long, but I’ll let you know once I have the details. But you really should have some extra security measures put in place. New locks. Cameras. Alarm system if possible.” All standard in a place like this, but for some reason not for Olivia. Was the bottom line that important to her?
“I’m getting new locks in as soon as I have clearance and have someone on standby to come and clean before the new renters arrive.” With one hand cradled around the base of her untouched water, she used her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Why would someone take my plant? Use it to do something so despicable?”
He shrugged, confused by her distress over something so unimportant. “People do things for all sorts of reasons. I’m sure you can find another orchid somewhere in the city.”
She narrowed her gaze, her stare now hard with a hint of fatigue. “Someone sent that plant to my husband’s funeral. Seeing it every day was too much—brought to mind too many horrible memories. But I couldn’t let it die.” Her voice cracked, and she hung her head. “Having it here was like knowing a little piece of Dave was always home where he belonged.”
Her confession tightened his chest. He’d been too judgmental, assuming the worst when he had no right to jump to any conclusions about this woman he barely knew. What seemed like a molehill to one person was someone else’s steepest mountain. And what was a simple potted plant to him represented so much more to Olivia.
“The orchid may be gone, the petals ruined, but your husband’s memory will always live on. I can’t put that flower back together for you, but I can find out who destroyed it. And when I do, I’ll make sure they pay.”
* * *
Streaks of late afternoon sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling window, drowning Olivia’s workspace in light. The day’s events played on repeat in her mind, dragging her down. Jack had gotten a hold of the security footage from behind her building, which showed someone dressed in black climbing the fire escape, then forcing themselves through the narrow, bathroom window in the middle of the night.
A shudder ripped through her. Knowing someone had broken into her apartment—and loft—was one thing. Watching it happen on video was another.
After someone came in and dusted for prints, and Jack had collected the shredded orchid leaves for evidence, she’d finally been told that she’d have access to her loft tomorrow. Which meant she had twenty-four hours to figure out how to pay for and install a new security system. She’d taken enough charity from Jason, and her dad never had an extra dollar in his pocket, which meant piling the debt on her credit card.
But what choice did she have? No one would choose to stay at the site of a recent murder if she couldn’t prove she’d taken every precaution necessary to ensure her renters’ safety. She just needed to make some extra cash to get her through. A new painting to hang in the gallery was just the ticket. But first she had to push past the block that was stifling her creativity and keeping her in such a dark space.
Over the past year, she’d learned the best way to work through whatever was blocking her creative escape was to unleash whatever emotions were brewing inside her. So she stood in front of a large, blank canvas. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the rays on her face, and let all the fear and anger and turmoil boil to the surface.
She gripped her paintbrush in her hand, her fingers tingling. Normally, she’d have an idea of what image she wanted to convey—what picture she wanted to breathe life into. But not today. Today was about using her paints and her talent to purge herself of emotions the only way she knew how.
Swiping the feather-like tip across a swab of paint on the palette beside her, she faced the blank canvas and slashed her brush over the white space. Left. Right. Up. Down. She let the horrors of the past two days slap against her, beating her with their ugliness. Press down upon her with their evil.
Without cleaning her brush, she dunked it into a different color. Splashing the bright red color onto the lines she’d already made. The colors bled together, becoming bolder until it screamed out her pain.
Tears burned in her eyes. Pressure pushed against her sinus cavity. A scream of frustration at an unfair life filled with unwanted twists she never saw coming built inside her until she couldn’t contain it any longer.
In a fit of fury, she plunged her brush in another color and another and another. Throwing them on the canvas, blurring the thick lines and contorting the mangle of colors. Her tears fell faster, her breathing came quicker. All the emotion pouring from her lodged in her throat until she gasped for air.
Spent, she dropped her arm to her side, rapid pants raising her chest. She blinked and stared at what she’d created. A ripple of appreciation and awe waded through the tidal wave of feelings still holding her hostage. The deep reds dripped into the creamy whites and thick lines of black until recognition had her pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.
She’d drawn her orchid. The once-beloved flower that she’d carried in her bridal bouquet, then had given her hope when a mourner had sent one to stand beside her husband’s coffin. Now the petals in her mind were stained in blood, the meaning behind the flower tarnished by a single act of... What? Vengeance? Anger?
She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery that she hadn’t stopped to consider why the person who’d committed murder the night before would chance coming back into her apartment. Never wondered why someone would use something she’d loved to create something sinister where death would always linger.
But isn’t that what she’d just done? Taken the dark and twisted parts inside her and used them to create beauty?
Guilt crushed her windpipe, and she grabbed the palette of paints and threw it at the canvas. Never would she use such a horrible tragedy for her own gain.
A sharp gasp whirled her around, her heart galloping in her chest.
Christine stood in the doorway. Her wide-eyed stare on the canvas. “Why’d you do that?”
Relief sagged her shoulders and she set her brush on the long table that lined the wall. Snagging a rag from the pocket of the old jeans she’d thrown on, she wiped the paint from her hands. “It’s nothing,” she said, flicking her wrist toward the painting. “Just a way to get some of my emotions out so I can focus.”
Christine stepped inside with her deep, red lips parted. “You know,” she said, her head slightly tilted to the side. “You didn’t ruin it. The splash of colors running together and trailing down the petals are mesmerizing.”
Olivia watched the thick drips slide down like tears and shuddered. Not wanting to see the beautiful chaos she’d created, she put her back to the canvas. “What are you doing here?”
Her question snapped Christine out of the weird trance-like stare. “Just checking in. I wanted to tell you about my chat with the detectives earlier and see if you’ve found anything out about what happened to Courtney.” She jingled a set of keys at her side.
A sudden thought barreled into her. Christine had a key to her apartment, which meant she could have come in at any time to grab whatever she’d wanted. Or unknowingly allowed someone else in who’d taken the key to the loft. She would never believe her best friend would ever kill someone, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know someone who would.
Even if she didn’t realize it.
Chapter 7
“How did you get in here?” The shock at seeing Christine standing in her doorway melted away, replaced by curiosity. She’d just changed the locks to her apartment yesterday, so the spare her friend kept in case of emergencies would be no good now.
Christine lifted the ring of keys in her hand and gave them a little shake. The metal clanking against each other like chimes. “Jason stopped by the bakery first thing this morning. He told me about what happened and wanted to make sure we could both help keep an eye on things.”
Keep an eye on her, is what he meant. Her brother had looked after her this past year, his constant concern over her well-being one of the issues that had driven a wedge between him and his wife, but giving away a key to her apartment was going too far. No matter how good his intentions.
Instead of making her friend feel bad, she smiled. “I hadn’t realized he had made copies.” She’d have a talk with him later about overstepping.
Christine tipped her chin toward the painting. “Will you take it to the gallery?”
Facing the canvas, she shrugged. “I need the money, and told Edward I’d have some new pieces today, but something feels icky about selling this.” She studied the fluid lines that came together to create what her subconscious had dictated. The vivid colors combined into a flurry of unspoken emotions, energy practically leaping from the canvas.
“Don’t be silly.” Christine stepped into the room and stood beside her. “You’re an artist. You take what you’re feeling and morph it into something that makes others feel. This.... this evokes sadness and grief and beauty. It shows hope in a place of darkness.”
Sighing, Olivia set her brush on the paint-splattered table. “This is different. Someone was murdered. How can I use her tragic end for my personal gain?”
“You’re doing no such thing. You’re using your talent to help cope with the messed-up shit life has thrown on your doorstep. Again.”
The need for money clashed with the guilt swirling inside her like the mixture of paints she’d thrown on the canvas. But the need for quick cash won out. Before she could change her mind, she plucked her phone from the pocket of her denim overalls she preferred to work in and snapped a photo of the orchid that had poured from her soul.
“Want to walk over to the gallery with me? I’ll show Edward a picture of the painting and see if he wants to hang it up.”
Christine squeezed her hand, the sound of her sniffing back tears fisting her heart. “Sure.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, knowing the last couple days had been tough on Christine as well.
She shook her head. “Not really. We can talk about it later.”
The constant fear hovering over her refused to leave, even with her best friend at her side. After locking up behind them and reaching the hallway, she broached the subject that had plagued her all day. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this. I saw the detectives in charge of the investigation. I know they came and spoke with you this morning.”
A flash of sorrow lit Christine’s eyes, widening behind her glasses. “It’s not your fault. I figured they’d want to speak with me. It was just so much tougher than I imagined. I’ve never had to speak with the police before.”
A memory of grim-faced officers showing up to discuss Dave’s accident slammed against her. So far, her experience with being approached by officers hadn’t led to anything positive, but she couldn’t dwell on that now. “What did they say?”
