He waited in the tar-black alleyway, the only sign of his presence the faint ember glow of his cigarette that flared with every drag. He watched the squad car pull away from the front of the building and speed down the busy street with its lights flashing and sirens blaring. This was his chance.
He knew that most cops hated having a crime scene searched by someone other than themselves. Mostly because it pushed them up against the wall. They weren't about to let some hothead off the streets pick over their work and find something they might've missed, especially when that hothead was a suspect in the crime, so Rick waited until he could be sure Delilah's apartment was empty.
He wasn't in the mood for taking any chances, so instead of taking the elevator up to the ninth floor like a sensible man, he climbed up the fire escape outside the building. Each and every step was a struggle to keep his balance. The rickety, old thing felt like it could fall away if even a pigeon decided to land on it, but he made his way up and pried open the window to the apartment of the late Delilah Morgan.
It still smelled like her, like flowers in rain.
He started searching through the entire place. He checked the cupboards in the kitchen and the pantry beside it, but there was nothing but some pricey cookware and an ample supply of food, ready to be cooked. A single piece of mail was still laying on the counter. Rick snatched it, opening it up to find a bill from a nearby department store. Everything else in the living and dining room was neat and tidy. He didn't even see a blood stain on the floor. The boys in blue had already cleaned the place up.
"It's a girl's place, all right," he said to himself.
He meandered back to the bedroom, where the bed was made up. A woman's coat was strewn across it. He checked the pockets--nothing but lint. The connecting lavatory may as well have been untouched. There was nothing else out of place--nothing that didn't belong.
But something caught his eye when Rick decided to check the closet. There was a folded caught leaning against the back wall. A sheet was still on it, partially draped over the flimsy metal frame. It didn't make sense. As spick-and-span as the rest of the place was, why did this cot look as if it'd been thrown into the closet at the last second?
There was something else beneath it. Rick reached down, grunting as he grabbed the small object that had been half-hidden under the fallen sheet. It was a hairbrush. Rick took a closer look and plucked a single strand of hair out of the bristles. It was long, curled, and golden. His eyes moved from the hair back to the hidden cot.
"Well, I'll be a son of a gun. She was staying here."
He heard a loud knock down the hall, coming from just outside the apartment. Then came the jingle of the doorknob as someone grappled it on the other side. Rick stashed the hairbrush in his coat pocket and ran back to the living room window. He threw it open and jumped onto the fire escape, ducking out of sight just as the door opened.
He peeked over the frame, expecting to see the cops back for another look, but there was only a kid. Some punk, no older than twenty by the looks of him, crept into the apartment. He looked around the room like a frightened animal and scampered off toward the bedroom. Rick pulled the revolver from the holster on his lower back and carefully crawled back inside, tiptoeing down the hallway to catch the kid by surprise.
The boy was searching frantically through the closet, a single drop of sweat streaming down his brow. With his pointed nose and ragged mustache that flared out like a set of whiskers, the boy looked a lot like a rat. Rick pulled the hammer of his revolver back, and the click was loud and clear. The rat gasped and leaped to his feet, ready to scamper away, but Rick was blocking the door. He had nowhere else to run, so with a series of sharp, shallow breaths, he backed himself into the corner, his hands pressed hard against the wall as if he was trying to make himself as flat as possible.
"Looks like I got your attention," said Rick.
"Please, mister, don't shoot me! Just let me go, all right? I'll walk right outta here, and I won't say nothing to nobody."
Rick looked him over. He was wearing a nice jacket and a decent pair of shoes, even if they were getting a little ragged around the heels. His pants were neatly pleated, and his shirt was tucked into the waistband. He sure didn't fit the pattern of most burglars he'd run across, especially in this part of town.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Max," he said, quickly adding, "sir."
"What are you doing here, Max?"
"I'm, uh, looking for something."
The kid was fidgeting. Rick was half-expecting him to piss his pants at any moment. The tension in the air was thick and humid like a hot summer night.
"You're gonna have to be more specific, Max. What are you looking for?"
"A-a brush! A hairbrush!"
"Why?"
Max's eyes were like two perfect spheres, round and bulging, and they rolled around the room from the tips of his shoes to the crinkled ceiling, but always settling back on the gun in Rick's hand.
"A girl," he sputtered, as if his mouth was full of marbles and fragile keepsakes he didn't want to spill. "There's a girl at the train station. She gave me a key and said that if I came here to get it, she'd be grateful. Y-ya know, grateful."
"Yeah, I know. This girl--was she a blonde?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Trust me, kid. You can't have her. She can only have you, and she had you from the start. You know what this place is? It's a crime scene. I bet she left out the part about shooting a girl here."
The kid tried to respond, but no coherent words left his trembling lips. His body was shaking, like he was caught in an earthquake that nobody else could feel.
"You from around here, kid?"
"N-no, sir."
"Just get into town?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Which train station did you say you came from?"
"Uh, Park Avenue, sir. I think it was Park Avenue."
Rick lowered his gun, and almost instantly, the kid started trembling just a little less
"Well, I've got the girl's hairbrush, and I think I'll give it to her myself. Welcome to the city, Max. It's a hell of a place to be."
Rick turned and walked away, back to the open window. It was a lovely night to take the stairs, he thought. As he climbed out, he caught a glimpse at the boy in the bedroom, still trapped in the corner and now sobbing on his knees. He almost felt sorry for the kid.
But this wasn't a night for pity.
He knew that most cops hated having a crime scene searched by someone other than themselves. Mostly because it pushed them up against the wall. They weren't about to let some hothead off the streets pick over their work and find something they might've missed, especially when that hothead was a suspect in the crime, so Rick waited until he could be sure Delilah's apartment was empty.
He wasn't in the mood for taking any chances, so instead of taking the elevator up to the ninth floor like a sensible man, he climbed up the fire escape outside the building. Each and every step was a struggle to keep his balance. The rickety, old thing felt like it could fall away if even a pigeon decided to land on it, but he made his way up and pried open the window to the apartment of the late Delilah Morgan.
It still smelled like her, like flowers in rain.
He started searching through the entire place. He checked the cupboards in the kitchen and the pantry beside it, but there was nothing but some pricey cookware and an ample supply of food, ready to be cooked. A single piece of mail was still laying on the counter. Rick snatched it, opening it up to find a bill from a nearby department store. Everything else in the living and dining room was neat and tidy. He didn't even see a blood stain on the floor. The boys in blue had already cleaned the place up.
"It's a girl's place, all right," he said to himself.
He meandered back to the bedroom, where the bed was made up. A woman's coat was strewn across it. He checked the pockets--nothing but lint. The connecting lavatory may as well have been untouched. There was nothing else out of place--nothing that didn't belong.
But something caught his eye when Rick decided to check the closet. There was a folded caught leaning against the back wall. A sheet was still on it, partially draped over the flimsy metal frame. It didn't make sense. As spick-and-span as the rest of the place was, why did this cot look as if it'd been thrown into the closet at the last second?
There was something else beneath it. Rick reached down, grunting as he grabbed the small object that had been half-hidden under the fallen sheet. It was a hairbrush. Rick took a closer look and plucked a single strand of hair out of the bristles. It was long, curled, and golden. His eyes moved from the hair back to the hidden cot.
"Well, I'll be a son of a gun. She was staying here."
He heard a loud knock down the hall, coming from just outside the apartment. Then came the jingle of the doorknob as someone grappled it on the other side. Rick stashed the hairbrush in his coat pocket and ran back to the living room window. He threw it open and jumped onto the fire escape, ducking out of sight just as the door opened.
He peeked over the frame, expecting to see the cops back for another look, but there was only a kid. Some punk, no older than twenty by the looks of him, crept into the apartment. He looked around the room like a frightened animal and scampered off toward the bedroom. Rick pulled the revolver from the holster on his lower back and carefully crawled back inside, tiptoeing down the hallway to catch the kid by surprise.
The boy was searching frantically through the closet, a single drop of sweat streaming down his brow. With his pointed nose and ragged mustache that flared out like a set of whiskers, the boy looked a lot like a rat. Rick pulled the hammer of his revolver back, and the click was loud and clear. The rat gasped and leaped to his feet, ready to scamper away, but Rick was blocking the door. He had nowhere else to run, so with a series of sharp, shallow breaths, he backed himself into the corner, his hands pressed hard against the wall as if he was trying to make himself as flat as possible.
"Looks like I got your attention," said Rick.
"Please, mister, don't shoot me! Just let me go, all right? I'll walk right outta here, and I won't say nothing to nobody."
Rick looked him over. He was wearing a nice jacket and a decent pair of shoes, even if they were getting a little ragged around the heels. His pants were neatly pleated, and his shirt was tucked into the waistband. He sure didn't fit the pattern of most burglars he'd run across, especially in this part of town.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Max," he said, quickly adding, "sir."
"What are you doing here, Max?"
"I'm, uh, looking for something."
The kid was fidgeting. Rick was half-expecting him to piss his pants at any moment. The tension in the air was thick and humid like a hot summer night.
"You're gonna have to be more specific, Max. What are you looking for?"
"A-a brush! A hairbrush!"
"Why?"
Max's eyes were like two perfect spheres, round and bulging, and they rolled around the room from the tips of his shoes to the crinkled ceiling, but always settling back on the gun in Rick's hand.
"A girl," he sputtered, as if his mouth was full of marbles and fragile keepsakes he didn't want to spill. "There's a girl at the train station. She gave me a key and said that if I came here to get it, she'd be grateful. Y-ya know, grateful."
"Yeah, I know. This girl--was she a blonde?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Trust me, kid. You can't have her. She can only have you, and she had you from the start. You know what this place is? It's a crime scene. I bet she left out the part about shooting a girl here."
The kid tried to respond, but no coherent words left his trembling lips. His body was shaking, like he was caught in an earthquake that nobody else could feel.
"You from around here, kid?"
"N-no, sir."
"Just get into town?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Which train station did you say you came from?"
"Uh, Park Avenue, sir. I think it was Park Avenue."
Rick lowered his gun, and almost instantly, the kid started trembling just a little less
"Well, I've got the girl's hairbrush, and I think I'll give it to her myself. Welcome to the city, Max. It's a hell of a place to be."
Rick turned and walked away, back to the open window. It was a lovely night to take the stairs, he thought. As he climbed out, he caught a glimpse at the boy in the bedroom, still trapped in the corner and now sobbing on his knees. He almost felt sorry for the kid.
But this wasn't a night for pity.
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