Chapter Fifty-Six
Parker
Eliot’s on his side, relaxed in a way I never see when he’s awake. He looks so much younger without the weight of all that guilt on his shoulders.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I lunge for it, cupping it in both hands, kick off the blanket and rush into the hall. No one calls this early on a Sunday morning to give you good news.
The ID on screen reads APD Dispatch. I stand at the living room window in only my t-shirt and panties.
“Elmore.”
“Captain Elmore, this is Detective Cortero with the Austin Police Department. You put out a BOLO on one Charles Kessler in connection with the Arson Task Force?
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“That’s correct.”
“Couple of unis went out on a welfare check about an hour ago. One of Kessler’s neighbors reported an odor comin’ from his unit. The building manager let them in. He’s deceased, Captain. Looks like he interrupted a burglary. Thought you’d want to know before this hit the wire.”
“Detective, I need you to secure the scene. Get the uniforms out, and post yourself at Kessler’s door. Do not move until either I or Captain Nate Hardison arrive. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. But…it’s a burglary. Ain’t no one gonna mess with it.”
“If this was a robbery gone bad, Detective, I’ll eat my star.”
“Parker?” Eliot leans against the bedroom door, shirtless, wearing only his briefs. “What’s wrong?”
“Kessler’s dead.” As much as I want to, I can’t muster enough energy to soften the news. “APD thinks it was a burglary gone wrong, but…”
“You don’t believe them.” He takes a single step closer, but doesn’t reach for me. He’s not law enforcement, but he’s seen more than his share of death. “I’ll get dressed. Didn’t bring a change of clothes, so I’ve gotta go home before work.”
I hate that he has to leave. That I have to leave. “Maybe you…I…we could each clear out a drawer.”
One corner of his mouth twitches, and he slides an arm around my waist. I rest my hand over his heart. The steady beat and warm, healthy skin grounds me in a way nothing else can.
“I’d like that,” he says, trailing kisses along the curve of my jaw. “A drawer.”
“I can give you some closet space too. If you ask nicely.”
His mouth curves against my skin, and for a few seconds, there’s no Kessler, no arsonist, no reason for either of us to be anywhere but here. Until my phone buzzes again. This time, with a message from Nate.
On my way to Kessler’s. I’ll bring the coffee. See you in twenty.
“Shit. I’ve gotta get dressed.” I kiss him one more time, then dig in my closet for the only clean pair of Wranglers I have left.
He’s dressed in under five minutes, but stops short of the door. “If I’m lucky, I’ll knock out three or four more buildings today. Text me if you need anything.” The way he looks at me, I think he wants to say more.
I hold his gaze for a moment, letting myself imagine all the ordinary mornings that could—that will—come after this one.
“Eliot?” I reach for him, closing my fingers around his wrist. “Be careful. Please.”
His eyes warm, crinkling around the edges. “I will. Promise.”
Kessler’s apartment is on the second floor of a beige, four-story complex off Riverside. It’s the kind of place with a pool no one swims in and fitness center with two broken treadmills and only half a set of free weights.
Two APD patrol units idle in the lot, and the medical examiner’s van pulls in right behind me. Nate’s Impala is already here, but the hood is still pinging softly, so he hasn’t been here long.
He waits for me on the second-floor landing, holding a small, steaming to-go cup. The stench that prompted the welfare check is everywhere. It’s seeping into my clothes, my hair, and my pores. It’s one of those scents you never get used to.
I don’t know how medical examiners do it.
Nate offers me the cup, but I shake my head. “God, no.”
“Fine. Handle the crime scene uncaffeinated. See if I care.”
I grimace, take the small coffee, and bring it to my lips. It’s cooled down enough I can drain it in four swallows. If nothing else, it’ll settle my stomach, which has been twisting itself into knots since last night.
An APD officer at the door takes down our names and checks ID. If he lasts another hour without losing his last meal all over the dirty carpet, it’ll be a miracle. Cortero greets us as soon as we step over the threshold. “Captain Elmore. Captain Hardison.”
He’s young. Barely thirty if I had to guess. He keeps his hands in his pockets, standing so straight, it’s clear he’s trying not to touch a damn thing.
Two guys in full Tyvek suits with official IDs from the ME’s office enter right behind us. I don’t follow them yet. Smelling the body is one thing. Seeing it after it’s been decomposing in the Texas heat for God knows how many days? That can wait another few minutes while Nate and I read the room.
The entertainment center is on its side, one drawer cracked down the middle and crushed, the other right side up but empty. Every cabinet in the kitchen is open. Small, sugary clusters of cereal litter the floor, and the ants discovered it at some point.
The TV’s still on the wall, an ultra-thin sixty-inch model that doesn’t have a scratch on it. The biggest tell, though, is sitting on the counter next to the overturned cereal box—Kessler’s wallet. I pull on a pair of gloves and open it. Two twenties and a ten. Four credit cards.
Nate crouches by the front door, running two fingers along the frame without touching the strike plate.
“Cortero?” he asks. “Did the uniforms check for forced entry?”
The detective flips through his notebook. “The door was locked when the manager got here. He let them in with his master key.”
Nate snaps a photo of the inside and outside of the lock, plus the strike plate. “There isn’t a single mark here. This door wasn’t forced open. No one kicked it down. The strike plate is pristine. Someone picked the lock.”
Cortero’s jaw ticks. “Burglars don’t normally bring lockpicks.”
"No. They don’t. They also don’t tend to leave cash, credit cards, and a brand new television behind.
” I use two fingers to angle the TV away from the wall, take a picture of the model number, and look up the specs.
“This television weighs thirty-two pounds. I could carry this down the stairs without breaking a sweat. This was never about Kessler’s shit. ”
“The responding officer flagged some bruising on Kessler’s neck. But with the decomp, we can’t be sure what caused it. That’s for the ME to decide.”
“We’re gonna need time in here,” I say. “Unrestricted.”
“The crime scene techs have already processed everything,” Cortero says.
“They took prints and photos,” I say, shifting toward Nate at the same time he takes two steps closer to me. “They didn’t check for hidey holes. He might have hidden something here before he went missin’.”
Cortero doesn’t argue. He’s smart enough to know when he’s been beat.
As soon as the ME techs wheel Kessler out of the apartment in a body bag, we start in the bedroom. The odor is even worse in here. A sickly-sweet, rotten stench I’ll have to bleach out of my hair by the time we’re done here.
“Whoever tossed this place knew what they were doing,” Nate says, then clears his throat.
I don’t trust myself to talk without hurling. Clothes pulled off the hangers, mattress half off the box spring, the nightstand drawer left on the bed, empty.
Nate goes through the closet, while I take what’s on the floor. We search everything. Backs of drawers. Undersides of furniture. Anywhere someone in a hurry wouldn’t think to look.
My left hand cramps around the edge of the dresser when I try to pull it away from the wall. My last two fingers only curl halfway before I force them to behave. “Nate? Come help me with this.”
It kills me to ask. But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t raise a brow. Simply joins me so, side by side, we can slide it away from the wall together.
It’s the last piece of furniture in the room. Three drawers. Laminate over particle board. Probably took Kessler less than an hour to put together with a single Allen wrench and three extra screws.
The first drawer’s clean. Empty. Intact. The second is too. Crouching, careful not to let my knees touch carpet, I ease the bottom drawer from the tracks and turn it over.
A small, black square the size of my thumbnail is taped to the back right corner.
“That didn’t come in the manufacturer’s original packaging,” Nate says.
I pull my dad’s multitool from my pocket, extend the blade, and gently pry the memory card free, tape and all.
We stare at the card for almost a minute before Nate pulls an evidence bag from the small pouch at his waist, labels it with a Sharpie, and waits for me to tuck the card inside. We seal it, then add our signatures and the date.
“You figure he hid it on Wednesday after we talked to him? Or did he come back here to pick it up on this way to the station?” Nate asks.
“We might never know. But we will figure out what’s on it.”
Neither of us think we’ll find a damn thing more, but we still spend four hours clearin’ the apartment.
Nothing major to report, but a few things to rule out.
A few stray hairs that don’t match Kessler’s graying brown.
A smear of dirt by the door that’ll have to be run against every person who’s been in this unit in the past few days.
A single drop of blood on the living room carpet—though Nate bets me twenty bucks it’s ketchup. For all I know, he could be right.
By the time we emerge into the afternoon heat, the ME van is long gone, but the smell of poor Charlie is burned into my memory forever.
“Meet you at the station?” Nate asks.
My keys are already in my hand. “Last one there has to tell AJ why his conference room smells like decomp.”
“Low blow, Parker. Low blow.” As he slides his key into the manual lock, I’m already throwing my car into reverse.
“Sorry, Pookie,” I call. “But you can take credit for the memory card. And lunch—should either of us ever be hungry again after this morning—is on me.”
Eliot