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“Did he talk to anyone at work regarding this big story he was working?” Perhaps one of his co-workers wanted this big story badly enough to kill for it.
“No way.” Brandon finally reclined in his chair, as if he’d relaxed to some degree. “Kick said he couldn’t risk telling a soul or they would steal it. He couldn’t tell anyone exactly what was going on. Not even me.”
Merri could understand the dead man’s doggedness and uncertainty about sharing. She’d been digging around in a cold case for days before anyone found out. Been there, done that. Problem was, she could have gotten herself killed…just like this potential client’s roommate had quite possibly done.
She summoned her determination. The Colby Agency prided itself on solving the most puzzling cases. If Brandon was being straight with her, then he had plenty of reason to worry and very few pieces of what could only be called a bizarre puzzle. “All right, then.” Merri closed her notepad, shoved it and the pen into her purse. “We’ll just have to determine the nature of the story your roommate was working on and uncover the identity of this man with whom he exchanged heated words.”
The fear and frustration laid claim to Brandon’s face once more. “Kick kept his files hidden. What he was working on, the notes, the video, all of it could be anywhere. That man could have the story by now, for all I know. He may have killed my roommate for the information he needed.” He blinked. “But what if we can’t find him?”
“That’s a strong possibility.” Merri couldn’t speculate just yet exactly what steps they would take if the only other known suspect was beyond their reach. “But,” she went on, “whether we find him or not, our top priority will be proving your innocence. It’s possible that the forensic evidence will do that for us. It’s too early to know that yet. If the police had solid evidence linking you to the murder, you would have remained in custody. Cutting you loose means they aren’t sure just how you fit into the equation yet.”
There was one other thing he needed to be made aware of. “There is a possibility that if this man is concerned that you saw him, even from across the street, he may consider you a threat. If he, in fact, killed your roommate, he may decide it’s in his best interests to tie up any loose ends.”
“That’s what I tried to tell the police.” Brandon rocketed to his feet. “They questioned me for hours.” His jaw hardened visibly. “I think they wanted me to confess or something. But I didn’t do it.”
Merri felt for the guy. “Since you don’t have an alibi, we’ll need to find someone who can vouch for your character enough to convince the police that you wouldn’t commit such a heinous crime. Or,” she offered, “we’ll have to find evidence that proves, in addition to having had access to your roommate, someone, like the man you saw, had an equally strong motive for wanting to kill him. Before we can do that, we have to determine what your roommate was working on.”
Brandon looked at her as if he’d just experienced an epiphany. “If the evidence hasn’t been taken, I have the means to locate it.”
Hold on. “You have proof of what you’re saying? Then why didn’t you give this proof to the police?” That would have made his life immensely less complicated the last several hours. He wouldn’t have had to come here. She would already be having dinner at a fine restaurant.
Brandon bit the inside of his jaw as if he were considering a logical response. “I can’t remember the riddle…the clues.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I did tell the police but when I couldn’t produce the proof, they assumed I was lying.”
His face said that he desperately wished he hadn’t had to tell her that last part. For the first time in a very long time, Merri wished she could hear the inflection in his voice. The little nuances that gave meaning to one’s words. But she couldn’t. So she had no choice but to rely on her instincts. And her instincts were screaming at her that something was very wrong with this guy and/or his story.
Maybe not with him personally, but with the sequence of events or with his reasoning. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the problem, but the teacher side of her—the one that sized up kids in a heartbeat—was sounding that too familiar alarm.
“What do you mean, you don’t remember the riddle or clues?” The first stirrings of fear awakened in her belly. She was well aware that drug addiction created memory lapses. She surveyed her would-be client once more. To say he fit the profile would be an understatement. But she knew from experience that first impressions were not always fair. She needed more.
“I told you that Kick kept everything hidden so no one could steal his work?”
She nodded, though she wasn’t sure where he was headed with this or why he felt compelled to ask the question. Could he not remember what he’d said to her two minutes ago? Her right hand slid automatically back to her purse.
“He didn’t trust a safe or jump drive or any damn thing.” Brandon’s forehead lined with his determined concentration. “Once when he was drunk he gave me this ridiculous riddle and explained that he kept the important stuff hidden that way. The riddle had clues to the location. I couldn’t get it right for the police. They had cops checking all the wrong places.” His chest heaved with a big breath. “I ended up looking like a fool and as guilty as hell.”
Merri had an idea. She had used it with her students all the time. Maybe she was crazy, but she had nothing more exciting to do tonight. Her appetite had vanished in the wake of the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Truth be told, she wasn’t afraid of this guy, despite the blood on his clothes.
“Do you recall how long ago it was that Kick told you this riddle?”
Another of those halfhearted male shrugs. “Couple months ago, maybe. Not all that long ago.”
“Where were you when the two of you had this conversation?”
“The apartment. Drinking cold ones. Watching a game.” Another shrug. “That’s what we did most of the time since he was always broke. His need to sink all his earnings into the tools of his trade was an ever-present sore spot between us. I didn’t like paying his share of the rent along with mine.”
Merri made up her mind. “Let’s take a look at your apartment.”
Yeah, she probably was crazy.
But this was her case.
And she might be deaf, but she wasn’t blind. If this guy made one wrong move, he would be begging for the police to pick him up again. She was well-trained and knew how to protect herself.
If her plan didn’t work, she would call Simon for backup. She headed for the elevators, her client followed. When she turned back to him, he stabbed the call button for the elevator and said, “Thank you.”
As the doors glided open behind him, Merri searched his eyes. “For what?”
“For taking a chance on a guy like me. That doesn’t happen real often.”
Chapter Two (#u1f549018-7929-510a-85a0-5a00fb7ab40d)
7:58 p.m.
The apartment was in an old building off the South Loop that lacked the care and restoration of some in the neighborhood. There was no elevator, so that meant climbing the stairs to the third floor. Ancient graffiti covered the stairwell walls. The tile floors were worn. The doors looked secure, but the place smelled of neglect. If Brandon had said anything to Merri on the way up the stairs, she missed it. Since he didn’t look back at her in question, she assumed he hadn’t.
She’d noticed him shiver once or twice. He had to be freezing, especially his feet in those flip-flops.
Brandon paused at the door marked 11 and looked at her for advice on proceeding. Two strips of official yellow crime scene tape had been placed across the center of the door, along with a proclamation declaring the premises off limits to anyone but official police personnel.
If, as he’d said, Brandon had been questioned for hours, chances were the forensics techs had come and gone already. The scene wouldn’t likely be released until the detective in charge determined that there was nothing else to be gained by maintaining the off-limits edict. All that meant, in her opinion, was that they shouldn’t touch anything that might be evidence.
Been there, done that, too. Merri wasn’t exactly concerned about bending that particular rule. She knew her way around a crime scene. Holding out her hand, Brandon placed the key there. She unlocked and opened the door, then ducked beneath the warning tape. If Simon had been here he would have called someone, a Colby connection with Chicago PD, to get permission. But Simon wasn’t here. As long as Merri was careful and didn’t prompt any serious repercussions for the agency, all would be okay.
She could do this.
After closing the door behind Brandon, she locked it to be sure no one else was tempted to try the same approach.
“Don’t touch anything unless it’s absolutely essential. And watch your step.” She glanced pointedly at the bloodstained carpet and official signs of where the body had been discovered.
He nodded, his attention lingering on the place where he’d found his roommate early that morning.
With a long, slow perusal around the room, Merri decided the apartment was the typical bachelor pad. Not neat by any stretch of the imagination, particularly after the tossing the forensics techs had done in their search for evidence. The signs that prints had been lifted dusted most surfaces—not that there were that many pieces of furniture. A futon for a sofa, a television and a long, narrow coffee table were the only furnishings aside from a desk with its mountains of computer equipment and a drawing desk with much the same. The roommate clearly had had a serious compulsion when it came to technology. Merri hadn’t once seen a setup like this outside a major tech center.
“Wow.”
Brandon said, “Yeah I know. Kick didn’t take any shortcuts when it came to having the latest and greatest in hardware and software. It was just his share of the rent and basic essentials for survival that he had trouble coughing up.”
Merri considered the statement. “Is that why the two of you had what your neighbors termed a volatile relationship?”
“Mostly.” Brandon glanced around his disheveled living space. “Kick didn’t see this environment as permanent. He was a dreamer. Had big plans.”
Whereas Brandon was a realist. That part she got. “Let’s talk about the proof you mentioned.” The fact that he couldn’t remember exactly where that proof was didn’t offer much security in the way of proving his innocence. Seemed to her that the police, given enough digging, would find some trace on the two or three hard drives of what the victim had been up to. The Feds certainly knew how to discover the unfindable when it came to digital footprints. The Colby Agency too had analysts for just that sort of investigation.
“No one will find anything related to the big story on his computer,” Brandon observed when her gaze settled on his face once more.
“How can you be so sure?” No matter that his roommate obviously had bragged about maintaining a high level of security, new ways to find digital traces were discovered every day. Few could proclaim exception to that ever-changing investigative technology. But many tried. “If he worked on his equipment in any capacity, a digital trail was left behind. Even if he meticulously wiped his hard drive. There are those who know how to resurrect the smallest detail.”
“No one was more aware of that vulnerability,” Brandon explained. “Kick did his secret work someplace else.” Brandon walked over to the desk with its mountain of hardware and monitors. The dramatic waving of his arms told her he’d said something about all the stuff there but he hadn’t been looking at her so she had no idea what came out of his mouth.
When he turned to her in question, she asked, “What do you mean?” That prompt usually worked at garnering a repeat of a statement.
Brandon plopped down in the swivel chair next to the desk. “He did everything right here as long as it wasn’t related to the story. That he did someplace else. The police won’t find what they’re looking for here.”
And that was what he’d tried to explain when questioned. Merri risked turning her back on him—which meant she wouldn’t know if he said anything—and wandered through the rest of the two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. The two bedrooms were furnished in an equally Spartan manner. A bed, nightstand and dresser stood in each. No curtains, just the blinds that had likely been there a few decades. The closets had been ransacked for evidence. Mounds of clothes and other stuff had been piled on the bed.
The kitchen was tiny, with only the essentials. Two days’ worth of eating utensils cluttered the sink.
When she returned to the living room, Brandon still sat in the chair at the computer desk. The telephone nearby served as the base, with two satellite handsets, one in each bedroom. The red light that indicated the answering machine was set to record incoming calls wasn’t blinking. No messages. If there had been anything relevant on the phone, the police would have taken it.
Her new client hadn’t attempted to follow her around the apartment and simply stared at her in question when she returned. That assured her that he hadn’t asked or said anything she had missed.
“How long have you lived here?” Surely a man who put down roots for an extended period would have decorated to some degree. The quilt with all the little flowers that covered the bed in Brandon’s room didn’t count. A mother or grandmother had likely given that to him in an effort to ensure he didn’t freeze. Either one would likely be mortified by his leaving home this close to Christmas wearing nothing but flip-flops. Not to mention the blood-splattered T-shirt.
“Three years.” Brandon braced his forearms on his spread knees. “Kick moved in about six months after me. He responded to an ad for a roommate I placed in the classifieds. We became close friends over the past two and a half years.”
The idea of just how much time the two had spent here gave new meaning to living sparsely. “Okay.” Deciding not to shrug off her coat, Merri took a seat on the futon-style sofa facing her client. “Let’s talk about the time when Kick told you about how he hid his big story.”
Brandon straightened from his relaxed position immediately. He sat up straight and blinked. Merri gave him sufficient time to think about her prompt. Still, he hesitated, allowing the minutes to drag by. The confusion in his gaze and the lined expression of concentration on his face told her he was struggling with a response. The suggestion hadn’t been that complicated.
She’d watched the kids in her class do this plenty of times. But Brandon Thomas was no kid. That he took so long to finally attempt an answer had dread trickling through her. If he had planned to lie, he’d have come up with something to say a lot faster. The truth should have come nearly as quickly as a manufactured statement.
Delayed reaction. That could point to a number of problems. She needed more insight into this guy.
“Was it nighttime or daytime?” she prompted.
He blinked. “Night.”
Good. “You said he was drinking? Were you drinking?” That could very well be the underlying problem with his slow responses to her questions.
He started to nod, but then shook his head. “I don’t really drink. Not…” His shoulders rose and fell in one of those shrugs that typically indicated indifference, but she had a feeling the action was more about hesitation for him. He was filling the time until he decided what to say next. “Not really.”
She rephrased the question. “So you weren’t drinking that night?”
“Maybe a beer or two.” He searched her eyes a moment then dropped his head.
“Brandon.”
He lifted his gaze back to hers.
“A beer or two is all?” She’d learned numerous techniques for getting around the warning that he must look at her when he spoke. She’d said that a couple of times already. Restating the warning would only raise his suspicions.
“I mostly nurse a drink. Just…to fit in. You know, socially.”
That she understood. She did it too often to admit. Most folks, especially Merri, resented admitting his or her challenges. “Then you clearly recall that he specifically mentioned keeping this story—the one the man you can’t identify was interested in preventing him from pursuing—hidden where no one could possibly find it.”
“Yes.”
“What portion of the riddle do you remember?”
“On the range.” He concentrated long and hard. Several seconds. “Nothing can change. My space and no place. Invisible.”
“You’re sure that’s exactly what he said and how he said it?” Merri pulled her notepad and pen from her purse and wrote down the words. Range could mean stove or cook top. His space could mean where he lives or works. No place? Nothing came to mind…except that she could see why the police had no idea what the hell any of it meant. She guessed Brandon’s statement regarding the so-called puzzle was being run through the Bureau’s ciphers to determine if it was some sort of code.
Then again, perhaps she was reading far too much into this case. Kick Randolph wasn’t a high-level reporter. He was just a junior wannabe. Did the police really have any reason to extend any extra effort to solve his homicide? As much as she despised the idea, the wealthier or more high-profile the victim, the more time spent on the investigation. Considering the deceased was basically a nobody, chances were this case would end up one of two places—closed, with charges pressed against Brandon, or shoved into a cold case file.
“Maybe. I might not be remembering it correctly.”
Those big dark eyes were filled with frustration and defeat. “Brandon, are you on any medication?” A guy who hadn’t been drinking and wasn’t on any sort of medication shouldn’t act so frustrated if he simply couldn’t recall the statements made by someone else. Distraction, a busy schedule, any number of excuses could explain his inability to recall the details of that night. Why not say as much rather than becoming more frustrated?
Extreme frustration. Another indicator of an underlying problem.
“No.” He looked put out that she’d asked.
“Let’s try something else.” Another tactic she’d used with her students. “We’ll try writing down the dialogue. Sometimes when you look at the written words you remember something you otherwise wouldn’t.”
He twisted in the chair and picked up a spiral notebook from the desk along with a pen.
“Write what you remember about that evening. Anything at all. Take your time,” she assured him when uncertainty claimed his face.
As he focused on the page, she observed his ability to put his thoughts down in written form, not the writing itself, but the brain-to-fingers interaction. Slow, methodical and intensely thought-out.
Calling Simon Ruhl crossed her mind again. Not yet. She wasn’t completely sure there was reason to call at this point. What would she say? I’m sitting in the apartment of a man splattered in blood. His roommate is dead. The police consider him a suspect but I don’t think he did it.
She would definitely wait about that call.
Minutes ticked by. Three…five…then ten. Finally his fingers flattened the pen against the paper and his attention returned to her. “Done.”
Now for the real test. The classic symptoms were undeniable. But Brandon Thomas had to be around thirty years old. No question. Her assessment was not in keeping with his age. He was at least half a decade beyond the usual age guidelines. “Would you read what you’ve written to me, please?”
He blinked. Stared at her as if she’d asked him to light himself on fire, then he extended the notebook in her direction. “You read it.”
“I need you to read it,” she pressed. “Stand up and read it.” She hated to add the “stand up” part but if he stood, she would be able to read his lips most of the time from her position below him.
The hesitation lasted at least half a minute. She had almost decided he wasn’t going to comply. Finally he stood. As he stumbled through the passage he’d written, he glanced up at her periodically. It wasn’t imperative that she catch every word, only that she could see the pacing and flow of how he formed the sentences.
Slow. Halting. As if he had a difficult time reading his own words aloud.
When he’d finished, she held out her hand for the notebook. He placed it in her outstretched palm, his expression full of guilt. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t read smoothly. She glanced over what he’d written. His handwriting was bold and neat. But one thing was glaringly apparent. He’d misspelled five words. Two of those words were not only simple but used several times throughout the passage. In each instance, the two words were misspelled differently.
Merri pulled the pages, as well as the three clean ones after the last one, from the notebook, folded and placed them in her purse. She understood Brandon’s situation now. As she pushed to her feet, she glanced around the compact living room once more. She would ask him about it…eventually, but not now.
“Why don’t you shower and change,” she suggested, “and we’ll go have coffee some place neutral and try to figure out what Kick was telling you with these seemingly disconnected phrases.”
Brandon tugged at the T-shirt he wore, then stood. “You’ll…”
He turned away from her as he spoke. But the slumped shoulders told her exactly what he was worried about. “Don’t worry. I’ll do all I can to help you figure this out, Brandon.”
He turned back to her then. “You’re sure you’re not going to slip out while I’m in the shower?”
