First Night

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?”

What she’d missed was him asking if she would still be here. Made sense in light of the desperation choking his reason and logic. “I won’t be going anywhere until we determine how to move forward with proving your innocence. That’s a guarantee.”

He held her gaze a moment longer. The heavy defeat that had weighed down his shoulders had given way to glittering fear in those dark eyes. Something shifted deep in her chest. She’d only met this guy and already she wanted desperately to help him. There was more here than met the eye, so to speak. Brandon Thomas wouldn’t have a chance with the police. If they couldn’t find anyone else to hang this one on, they would railroad Brandon or push the case aside.

That he trusted her enough to shower, leaving her to do as she pleased, surprised her and was likely indicative of his desperation. She understood it far better than she wanted to admit.

When the water was going in the bathroom, she carefully went over the apartment once more. Using a pen from her purse, she flipped through files and the desk Rolodex. A framed photograph of Brandon and his roommate showed that the two were about the same age. Both good-looking. Kick’s framed degree in journalism decorated the otherwise stark wall above the desk. If Brandon had a degree, he wasn’t sporting any indication of the accomplishment. The drawing desk appeared to be where he did his work. After snooping around she decided he was an architect of some sort.

In the deceased’s bedroom, she found several family snapshots in the top drawer of the nightstand. Golf clubs on the bed amid the rest of the items that had been taken from the closet. Kick was not only proud of his accomplishments, he had pricey taste in attire, as well. Designer labels were stamped on virtually all of his sizable wardrobe.

Brandon’s bedroom revealed quite the opposite. No family connections that she found. Not a single photo. His closet had apparently been as sparsely furnished as the rest of the apartment. He defined the phrase living simply.

It wasn’t until she went through the kitchen a second time that she found the shared bulletin board. On the back side of an upper cabinet door was a makeshift bulletin board with numerous handwritten telephone numbers, most belonging to women. Not Brandon’s writing. Something else Kick appeared to have plenty of—female attention. Or, at least, their numbers.

Only three names were male, also evidently in Kick’s handwriting. Merri made a note of the male names and numbers on one of the sheets she’d tucked into her purse. Though she doubted he would keep the name of the contact Brandon had seen posted in such a way.

The cupboards were bare, as she’d expected. Mismatched dishware and flatware. The dishwasher held nothing but a cup and one small plate; the rest of the soiled eating utensils were in the sink. Microwave and oven were empty. Nothing beneath the stovetop burners. The range in Kick’s puzzle definitely wasn’t the one in their apartment. Not that she’d expected it would be, but she’d given it a look just the same. She had to cover all bases.

A window above the sink stared directly at another window some twenty feet across a side alley. The neighboring apartment was dark. She wondered briefly if Brandon ever came face-to-face with his neighbor via this window. A woman would have a shade over that window. She shook her head and leaned down to check the lower-level cabinets.

The cabinet beneath the sink held a few cleaning supplies but nothing else of interest.

The final place she inspected was what at first appeared to be a pantry-type closet but was, in fact, a laundry closet complete with a stackable appliances set. A white button-down shirt had dried in the washer. She wondered why the techs hadn’t taken it. As difficult as it had been to see in the white laundry tub, if she’d noticed it, the techs should have. She lifted the stiff material to her face and sniffed. The pungent smell of bleach had permeated the fabric. She shook out the shirt and looked it over, couldn’t see any trace of stains.

Merri dropped the shirt back into the washer and leaned forward to see if she could spot anything on either side of the stacked appliances. Nothing but dust bunnies and an old newspaper.

Closing the door, she turned back to the kitchen at large. Her breath trapped in her lungs. Clean shaven, Brandon stood in the doorway. He wore a blue sweater over a white T-shirt, well-worn jeans and the only pair of sneakers she had seen in his room.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The realization that he’d likely spoken to her once or twice without her reacting was no doubt the reason for the question.

“Is that your shirt?” If she skirted the question smoothly enough he might leave it alone. “The one in the washer?”

He shook his head. “Kick’s.”

Maybe Kick just liked his whites extra white. That would certainly explain the bleach.

“You ready?” she encouraged, manufacturing a smile of assurance.

“Sure.” He glanced around the kitchen as if he’d just now considered that she had likely looked at everything, hoping to find clues.

Would he worry that she’d found some secret he’d kept? If he was innocent, he had no need to worry. She had already made a preliminary judgment: innocent. That assessment remained subject to change, but she read people fairly well. She picked up no vibes whatsoever that Brandon was the type to hurt another human in this manner. Still, he was guarded.

The hint of suspicion that lingered in his eyes didn’t bother her that much. She figured it was as much to do with her lack of a response when he’d entered the room as anything.

“Don’t forget your coat.” She walked past him and made her way to the front door. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away that would work well for her purposes. She was acquainted with lots and lots of restaurants all over town since she rarely dined at home. The place she had in mind stayed open until eleven, so there was plenty of time. At that point she would decide the best course of action for delving into this case.

After ducking under the tape once more, she waited while Brandon locked the door. His pale blue coat looked lightweight but she knew from the brand, one skiers preferred, that it would keep him warm despite the chilly Chicago weather.

He stood back, allowing her to descend the stairs first. A few steps down, she glanced back to see if he had said anything. That he watched her so closely warned her that he was suspicious to some degree. She would have to share the truth with him—soon.

It was only fair.

She had already made an assessment about his challenges. Approaching the subject would be touchy and would have to wait. Her own challenge, however, would not wait. Yet she put off the inevitable. Selfishly clung to any reprieve. Her previous superior had called her on that strategy many times.

The stairwell abruptly shook as if an earthquake had rocked the entire building or block. Brandon had stopped his downward momentum and now whirled back toward his apartment. With her attention over her shoulder, Merri lost her balance and barely caught the railing before plunging forward.

When the building had stopped shaking, she turned back to check on Brandon and to better assess the situation. The door of his apartment had blown open, and now hung precariously on its hinges. Even as she stared at the unexpected sight, debris drifted downward to settle on the scarred tile floor.

Fear brushed against Merri’s skin.

Not an earthquake or any other natural disaster.

An explosion.

They had just exited the apartment. Fifteen, twenty seconds ago! Her sense of smell was keen. She’d noticed no gas…nothing.

Instinct railed at her.

Get out of the building!

Now!

Chapter Three

“Brandon!”

He couldn’t look away from the landing outside his door.

“That was an explosion!”

Something had blown up in his apartment! He blinked, stared at the door barely hanging on its hinges.

What the hell had just happened?

“Brandon!”

He turned to the woman waiting a few steps below him. The questions reeling through his mind would be the same as hers. Should they call the police? What the hell would they say? Your crime scene just blew up. But this wasn’t just a crime scene, this was his home.

“We have to get out of here,” Merri urged.

His feet were taking him down the stairs before his brain analyzed her warning. They were in danger. Imminent danger. If they hadn’t walked out that door when they had…damn! It was a miracle they weren’t dead.

Like Kick.

When Brandon hit the step where she waited, she grabbed his hand and rushed downward. They moved past the second floor and onto the first in record time. He moved toward the front entrance.

She held him back, her face a study in worry. “Is there a rear exit? There could be trouble waiting for us out there.”

“A side exit. To the alley.”

“We’ll try that way.”

Once more she urged him forward. He took the lead, showing the way. She stayed close behind him, weaving through the narrow corridor that ended at the only other exit on the ground floor.

Brandon hit the release on the door, bursting out into the alley between his building and the next. The cold air slapped him in the face, making him immensely thankful for the coat and sneakers. He’d half frozen this morning. The cops hadn’t cared, probably could care less that there had been an explosion in his apartment, except that there might have been more evidence to collect. This was insane!

Why would anyone do that?

The tug on his hand slowed his rush toward the street. He turned back to the woman who’d stopped shy of his destination.

“We should call the police.”

He tried to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. She was right. He patted his pockets for his cell phone. Tried to remember if the police had given the phone back to him. No, he decided, they hadn’t, hadn’t given him back his wallet, either.

Didn’t matter. She had her phone in her hand before he could explain the absence of his own.

Headlights fanned across the dim alley. The vehicle had come from the narrow cross street at the back of the alley. Only the city’s garbage collection truck or a delivery truck usually drove through the area. The lights bobbed as the vehicle cut around Dumpsters and trashcans, coming closer. Too close.

What the hell?

She was pulling on his hand again, moving toward the street at the front of the alley.

Hadn’t she said they shouldn’t go out toward the front?

But the vehicle was bearing down on them now.

After them.

Damn! What the hell?

He surged forward, letting her drag him toward the street.

Tires squealed.

Brandon ran faster in an effort to keep up with the woman one step in front of him.

“Stop!”

The male voice was close behind them. Too close.

Merri Walters kept running for the street that seemed so far away. Brandon slowed but didn’t stop as ordered. She kept moving…shouldn’t he?

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Brandon dared to glance back. The blinding headlights on either side of the man made Brandon squint. But there was no mistaking the black ski mask he wore, his fire-ready stance…or the gun in his hand.