Chapter 3
3
“T hey found a body!” the apartment 10B tenant kept proclaiming as a small group of residents gathered around him. “That’s why they’re not letting us back in.”
“What do you mean they found a body, George?” asked David in a taking-charge tone. I rolled my eyes, irritated at him. He’d been talking to another elderly neighbor but had obviously kept his ears open and was now coming to inquire about this unexpected development.
Let me tell you, the only reason I know the face of the tenant at apartment 10B, other than the fact that he’s a fucking blabbermouth and impossible to ignore, is that he’s my next-door neighbor. I live in 10A. David is in 2D, yet he knew the dude is called George. He may have even known his last name and where he’d moved from before coming to the building.
“I was making my way downstairs to get my car since the firefighter captain had told us there was no fire in the building,” started George in his perfectly modulated tone. He loved an audience. I recalled him telling me that he was a voice actor who mainly did audiobooks. “I took the stairs because there’s still a lot of activity around the elevators, but I couldn’t make it past the basement door. I heard something about a body they found at the underground parking area.”
“Again, what do you mean a body?” insisted David. I knew his journalistic instincts were piqued. He’d grill George until he got a satisfying and clear answer out of him. A quotable answer.
“I don’t know. The firefighters saw me then and forced me to get out. Apparently, we aren’t allowed back inside yet.” George sighed. “But I think I saw a dropped shoe. And blood,” he added dramatically.
One of the neighbors gasped. Another one said he felt faint. David promptly grabbed the potentially fainting person by the elbow and guided him to sit on one of the chairs from the sidewalk coffee shop at the corner of the Eastern Columbia. David then promised to return with water for everyone. I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time.
Only once David was out of my sight and not distracting me did I realize a man was staring at me from the other side of the street. I can’t explain why, but he made my hair stand on end.
Cars from the LA Police Department started arriving then. Some were patrol units with uniformed officers inside but others were unmarked black SUVs with agents garbed in the most odious business wear. It almost looked as if we were in a low-budget episode of Bosch or some other Michael Connelly TV adaptation. I even checked for cameras. But they were not there—not yet. And when I checked again, the creepy dude standing on the other side of the sidewalk was nowhere to be seen.
“Brought water,” said David, distributing the plastic bottles among the neighbors. He made sure the person who had actually not fainted got one first.
“Toma,” he told me in Spanish, handing me a bottle. That was a new precedent: David talking to me in plain daylight for the first time since the breakup.
“Thanks,” I replied, stunned, but he’d already moved on to other people in need of hydration and comfort.
The police cordoned off the entrance to the building with yellow tape, and it occurred to me that George may have been telling the truth after all and not just trying to be the center of attention.
“What happened?” I asked one of the uniformed officers. When I didn’t get a reply, I added, “Someone said there was a body...”
“You a neighbor?” The officer, a woman in her thirties, pen and notebook in hand, asked me.
“Yes, I live in 10A,” I answered.
“Name?” Her eyes were on her notes.
“My name, you mean?” I couldn’t see how that could be of any relevance.
“No, the name of the guy suspiciously handing water to elderly residents,” the officer answered with a chuckle.
Even though I consider myself witty, I don’t do well with humor directed at me sometimes. Especially if I’m feeling nervous because I’m dealing with law enforcement or some other authority figure. I blame it on my parents.
Everyone had advised them to do it while I was still a young child, but by the time they decided to move to LA from Spain, I was already seventeen. My year of high school in the States was a nightmare. I tried keeping a long-distance relationship with my boyfriend in Barcelona. Spoiler alert: he started going out with my best friend and didn’t even bother breaking up with me. Fortunately, my friend fessed up. College was better, but I was still dealing with culture shock—and heartbreak. Marta, my much younger sister, was five when we moved, and you’d never say she wasn’t born here. But I have a thick accent and sometimes I just don’t get the humor.
“Elena Freire,” I answered the cop’s request.
Of course, should I have chosen to brandish my full legal name, the one that included my mother’s last name, things could have been more pleasant. But I didn’t want to play that particular card. I spelled my name and last name for the officer and waited for her next question.
“Where were you last night?”
“Home,” I said.
“Alone?” Her eyes were still buried in her writing.
“Uh-huh.”
“When did you leave?”
“This morning when the fire alarm started blasting.” I took a sip of water from the bottle David had given me. How could he know that I too would be thirsty?
“Did you see anything or anyone unusual?” the officer continued without making eye contact.
“I mean, there were a lot more people taking the stairs than usual because of the alarm.” My dry brand of humor didn’t land. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Okay. You’ll have to wait for a bit longer, but we’re planning on letting you folks in within the next hour,” the officer said, her manner softening, and she moved on to the next neighbor.
David was still in the middle of things, handing out the remaining waters and being asked, I assumed, what were similar questions to mine by another uniformed officer.
I hoped he didn’t decide to offer any unnecessary details.