your mom so proud.” In my midtwenties, which I figured he was, I’d been in the Air Force for eight years, served in a war zone, earned a BS in computer science and a commission as a second lieutenant, then been promoted to first lieutenant and captain. Ignoring him, I turned on the TV and saw it was set on the Cartoon Network. Something about that made me sad. I picked up the phone and dialed *69, noting the number that came up. I hung up; I’d call the number later, when I didn’t have an audience. Carefully avoiding the kid where he slouched against the doorjamb, I went through the kitchen: nothing but plastic utensils and dish towels in the drawers, spoiled milk and two more Cokes in the fridge, a hodgepodge of dishes and pots and pans, and a family of mice living under the sink. “Ugh!” I jumped back and pointed them out to Truman.
“Cool.” He sipped the Coke as he bent his gangly frame to watch the rodents scramble behind a box of dishwasher soap.
“Cool? Isn’t it part of your job to get rid of them?”
“How do I know they’re not Preble’s meadow jumping mice? They’re protected.” His sly smile said he’d put one over on me.
“How do you know they’re not carrying bubonic plague that’s going to infect all your renters and get you fired?” I shot back. I headed to the bedroom, leaving him trying to herd the mice into a dustpan he’d found in the gap between the fridge and the two-burner stove.
Bingo! A computer sat on the dresser in a corner of the bedroom. I headed straight to it and turned it on, my eyes taking in the room as it warmed up. A twin-sized bed with a rumpled blue bedspread I’d bet Elizabeth brought from home sat under a window that looked onto the parking lot. A pair of tennies peeked from under the bed, and a clothes hamper stood by the open closet. A pair of maternity jeans, a skirt with an elastic waist, and two blouses hung in the closet. A cracked ginger jar lamp and three books were stacked on the bedside table. The computer reclaimed my attention, and I pulled up Yahoo, wondering if the cops had gotten anything useful off the hard drive. It didn’t matter, because I had something they didn’t: Elizabeth’s e-mail address I’d gotten from Aurora Newcastle. With any luck Elizabeth had checked the box telling Yahoo to always remember her on this computer and I wouldn’t need to guess at passwords . . . yes! I forwarded all the e-mails in her INBOX and SENT folders to my e-mail address, listening to whap-whap noises from the kitchen asTruman apparently tried to dispatch the mice with a broom or mop.
Nothing else on the computer looked interesting—she had no documents or photos stored there—so I turned my attention to the rest of the room and ransacked it quickly but neatly. As I riffled the leaves of the books on the bedside table, something fluttered out of the fifth Harry Potter. I bent to retrieve it and found myself looking at an ultrasound of a fetus. The black-and-white blobs and squiggles meant nothing to me, but tiny text on the bottom of the frame identified the patient as Elizabeth Sprouse and the date as 12 May of this year. Undoubtedly baby Olivia. Ultrasounds were expensive, and I wondered how Elizabeth, living on what she could make from sewing and without insurance, had afforded the prenatal scan.
Pocketing the photo, I checked the clothes in the closet and drawers—nothing—and flipped the lid up on the hamper. The smell of old sweat and something sweetly rotten made me hold my breath. There were no clothes, not even a lonely sock, in the hamper, but something caught my eye. Brownish streaks discolored the sides of the white wicker and spotted the bottom. Blood.
I drew my breath in with a hiss. The police must’ve taken the hamper’s contents for analyzing. Bloody clothes maybe. Had Elizabeth died in this room? My eyes swept it again, but I saw no signs of violence, no stains. Maybe she’d been killed elsewhere in the apartment—with
“Cool.” He sipped the Coke as he bent his gangly frame to watch the rodents scramble behind a box of dishwasher soap.
“Cool? Isn’t it part of your job to get rid of them?”
“How do I know they’re not Preble’s meadow jumping mice? They’re protected.” His sly smile said he’d put one over on me.
“How do you know they’re not carrying bubonic plague that’s going to infect all your renters and get you fired?” I shot back. I headed to the bedroom, leaving him trying to herd the mice into a dustpan he’d found in the gap between the fridge and the two-burner stove.
Bingo! A computer sat on the dresser in a corner of the bedroom. I headed straight to it and turned it on, my eyes taking in the room as it warmed up. A twin-sized bed with a rumpled blue bedspread I’d bet Elizabeth brought from home sat under a window that looked onto the parking lot. A pair of tennies peeked from under the bed, and a clothes hamper stood by the open closet. A pair of maternity jeans, a skirt with an elastic waist, and two blouses hung in the closet. A cracked ginger jar lamp and three books were stacked on the bedside table. The computer reclaimed my attention, and I pulled up Yahoo, wondering if the cops had gotten anything useful off the hard drive. It didn’t matter, because I had something they didn’t: Elizabeth’s e-mail address I’d gotten from Aurora Newcastle. With any luck Elizabeth had checked the box telling Yahoo to always remember her on this computer and I wouldn’t need to guess at passwords . . . yes! I forwarded all the e-mails in her INBOX and SENT folders to my e-mail address, listening to whap-whap noises from the kitchen asTruman apparently tried to dispatch the mice with a broom or mop.
Nothing else on the computer looked interesting—she had no documents or photos stored there—so I turned my attention to the rest of the room and ransacked it quickly but neatly. As I riffled the leaves of the books on the bedside table, something fluttered out of the fifth Harry Potter. I bent to retrieve it and found myself looking at an ultrasound of a fetus. The black-and-white blobs and squiggles meant nothing to me, but tiny text on the bottom of the frame identified the patient as Elizabeth Sprouse and the date as 12 May of this year. Undoubtedly baby Olivia. Ultrasounds were expensive, and I wondered how Elizabeth, living on what she could make from sewing and without insurance, had afforded the prenatal scan.
Pocketing the photo, I checked the clothes in the closet and drawers—nothing—and flipped the lid up on the hamper. The smell of old sweat and something sweetly rotten made me hold my breath. There were no clothes, not even a lonely sock, in the hamper, but something caught my eye. Brownish streaks discolored the sides of the white wicker and spotted the bottom. Blood.
I drew my breath in with a hiss. The police must’ve taken the hamper’s contents for analyzing. Bloody clothes maybe. Had Elizabeth died in this room? My eyes swept it again, but I saw no signs of violence, no stains. Maybe she’d been killed elsewhere in the apartment—with
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