Chapter 7
Jamie: Got time to interview suspects with me today?
Kayla: Okay. Dani can mind the office.
Jamie: Talking to all the people who hate Ethan will only take… several years.
Kayla: Gotta start somewhere.
Jamie
“Crystal Heights?” Kayla mutters, looking around. “More like Crumbling Heights.”
I nod my agreement as I keep my hands close to my body to avoid germs.
The building’s elevator has a faded ‘Out of Order’ sign taped to it that looks like it’s been there for years, so Kayla and I have to climb the stairs to get to each level.
Not that I’d risk riding in the elevator anyway.
If the rest of the place is anything to go by, it would definitely plummet us to a gory death.
Yeah, the stairwell is safer, even though it stinks of urine, with the few working light fittings emitting an ominous hum.
Shards of glass from smashed beer bottles crunch under my feet, and the walls are covered with mysterious stains.
But I’m at least fifty percent sure the stairs aren’t going to collapse under us, which makes it a better choice than the elevator.
Outside, rain is drizzling from a dark gray sky. Inside this building, it’s also raining. The leaks are worse than in my uncle’s gym. I’m not surprised most of the apartments here are already empty.
Before Scarlet met Balthazar, we lived and worked in an old apartment building that had seen better days, but that was the Ritz compared to this dive.
“Level five,” I say as we reach the top of the stairs.
Kayla pushes open the door with her raincoat-clad shoulder, and we step out of the stairwell into a hallway that’s exactly like every other hallway in the building’s lower levels, only with more rainwater dripping into it from soggy patches in the ceiling.
“Smells rotten,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“We’re looking for 5F. Bartholomew Barron. Forty-two years old. He’s been posting rants about Ethan online. He’s done some time for petty crimes, but no run-ins with the law for over ten years. Works as a gardener.”
We attempt to dodge the raindrops as we move down the hallway, reading the peeling numbers on the doors. Most of the apartments are silent. But when I spot the door marked 5F, the faint rumble of a TV is seeping from it.
Kayla is walking just ahead of me, and I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “Let me take the lead on this one,” I say. “Until we know what we’re dealing with.”
Kayla isn’t just a tech genius, she’s also been through the same weapons training as I have, and she’s lethal with a gun. We’re both armed, but her smaller size gives her a disadvantage when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. A big man at close range could easily overpower her.
Not that I think Bartholomew will get violent. Just because he’s done time, that doesn’t mean he’s our guy. After all, Kayla and I met in juvie. We’ve both been in trouble with the law, so we don’t like to judge people based on their past. Still, we’re always careful.
“Go ahead.” She steps back, motioning for me to be the one to knock.
I rap on the door. After a minute, I hear footsteps and the click of a bolt sliding free. As the door opens, the sound of the TV gets louder. It sounds like a reality show.
A large man stands in the doorway, and I recognize Bartholomew from the photo on our suspect board. His face has seen its share of fights. His nose is crooked, and he has scars bisecting one eyebrow and running down his cheek. Deep lines frame his mouth.
The sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled up, revealing thick forearms covered with faded tattoos.
His jeans are torn at one knee, and he’s wearing woolen socks with no shoes.
Years of practice make it easy for me to calculate his likely speed and strength, and to guess how much of a threat he might be.
Though he’s solidly built, his shoulders are slumped, he’s favoring one leg, and there’s no menace in his expression.
I stay wary, but the tension eases from my muscles.
He frowns at me. “Yeah? What do you want?" His voice is gravelly. His gaze moves between Kayla and me, lingering on me longer, sizing me up.
Behind him, heavy curtains are drawn over the windows, and the light from his television screen seems to be the only thing illuminating his apartment.
I can’t see any furniture, only some bags of clothes.
His TV is sitting on top of a wooden crate, and I hope for his sake it’s a packing crate, and his furniture has already been moved out.
“Sorry to disturb you.” I force a smile. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. We’re investigating a death threat received by the owner of this building, Ethan Kane.”
Bartholomew blinks, taking this in, then his eyebrows lift. “Death threats, huh? You a cop?”
“Bodyguard.”
“Huh.” A slow grin splits Bartholomew’s tired face. “Hey, Betty!” he yells, making me jump. “Get out here!”
He looks down the hallway, and sure enough, another door opens, and a woman pokes her head out. She looks about fifty or so, and her hair has been dyed a deep, vibrant purple.
“Yeah?” The woman eyes us suspiciously.
“Ethan Kane’s getting death threats,” Bartholomew says, his tone full of relish.
Betty’s face lights up. “You don’t say?” She steps out of her doorway, and I can see her better.
She’s wearing long, orange dress, and has at least twenty string bracelets tied around each wrist. “Think someone will do it? Will they actually knock him off?” She asks the question hopefully, her gaze jumping between us.
Bartholomew leans his shoulder against the door jamb. “If they do, that rich fucker deserves it.”
“Language!” Betty shakes her finger at him.
Apparently, murder is delightful, but cursing is a step too far.
“I take it you’re not a fan,” Kayla pipes up from behind me.
Bartholomew scoffs. “Why would we be? He’s throwing us out of here.”
“Billionaires,” Betty says with scorn. “They make more money in a single day than we earn over our entire lives. You wanna know how much I earn? Twenty-six measly bucks an hour. Bet Kane makes more than that every second, even when he’s asleep.”
Bartholomew nods. “And we’re out on our asses, just so Kane can rake in even more money that he doesn’t need.”
“It’s not even close to being fair,” I say, and I’m not just agreeing with them just so they’ll be more likely to open up to me. They really do have a point.
“I can move in with my sister for a while.” Betty’s face scrunches with distaste.
“Not that I want to. But it’s the others I’m worried about.
Mrs. O’Leary on the second floor doesn’t have any place to go.
Nor do a couple of others.” Her lips pull down, and her eyes are sad.
“They’ll be on the street. And you, Barty.
You haven’t found a place either, have you?
It’s just awful. I hate to think what’ll happen to y’all. ”
My chest tightens. I know how horrible it is to be homeless. How could Ethan let that happen?
“Did you send death threats to Mr. Kane?” Kayla asks Bartholomew.
“Not me.” Bartholomew shrugs, apparently not offended by the question. “I hate the guy, but not enough to do something illegal. I mean, why would I risk it? Wouldn’t be worth it.”
Kayla cocks her head. “Any idea who might have done it?”
“Could be anyone. But what’s the point of sending him threats? That fucker doesn’t care what people think of him.”
Betty clicks her tongue in disapproval at his language, and Bartholomew glances at her, then shrugs. “I’m just saying, he’s not going to lose sleep over a death threat. I bet he gets them every day.”
“Twice a day, probably,” Betty agrees, turning to look into her apartment. “I’m going back to Real Housewives. Someone’s getting their hair pulled.” She disappears back inside.
I glance at Kayla. Bartholomew could be lying, but it seems unlikely.
Kayla gives me a nod. She doesn’t think he’s our guy either.
“Thanks for your time,” I say.
“Hope you catch whoever did it.” Bartholomew steps back. “So you can give them a pat on the back from me.”
As the door swings shut, he’s already turning back to his TV.
We go back down the stairs, picking our way through the trash. This place is a disgrace. Ethan has all the money in the world, and he lets these people live in squalor. I wonder how much rent they were paying him to live here. And now, they won’t even have these rundown homes.
Resentment bubbles up in me. Ethan was born lucky. He’s rich and gorgeous, and his private gym is more luxurious than any I’ve seen, so I have no doubt his penthouse apartment is just as stunning. How dare he treat other people’s homes as though they don’t matter?
When we emerge from the bottom of the stairs, we shelter under an awning, gazing out at the rain. Black clouds cover the sky.
“Well,” says Kayla. “Nobody likes our client. It’s hard to narrow down suspects when everyone wants him dead.”
“It’s easy to see why they hate him.” I curl my lip at a pile of trash. “Should we even be working for someone who thinks it’s okay to let people live in a place like this?”
“You already made a deal and signed a contract.”
I let out a groan. “But what if I’m tempted to kill him myself?”
“You can’t kill our clients,” she says with a laugh. “It’s not good for business.”
“Not even one teensy billionaire client who totally deserves it?” I wheedle. “Not even if I promise never to kill anyone else in my whole entire life?”
“Scarlet wouldn’t like it.”
I heave a sigh. “Spoilsport.” Then I kick a tin can, sending it rolling into the pouring rain.