First Night. Debra Webb
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attention fully on the man’s face this time.
“I need help.”
His frantic expression and the fear in his eyes told her he was in trouble. “What’s wrong?” She should have just told him they were closed, but she couldn’t bring herself to ignore a person in need and this gentleman was definitely in serious need.
The question of how he got past security briefly crossed her mind. But it was the night before Christmas Eve, and it was only minutes before six. Security was likely on rounds. All entrances were secured at six o’clock. A lapse in vigilance could be expected under the circumstances.
The man in front of her shook his head. “I am…my roommate was murdered and…” His head started that fierce wagging again that prevented her from a descent view of his lips.
It was then that Merri noticed the blood-splattered on his T-shirt and the fact that he wasn’t wearing a coat. It was freezing outside. Snowing! He had to be nuts! Or drug-crazed.
Merri’s instincts shot into survival mode. Her right hand slid into her purse, her fingers going automatically around the canister of pepper spray. “Let’s start with what happened.” She gestured to his blood-splattered T-shirt with her free hand.
He looked down at himself, shuddered and then shook his head a third time. “My roommate was…back at my…”
This simply wasn’t going to work. Merri waved a hand in front of his face to get his full attention. “Look at me when you speak, please.”
A frown furrowed his brow. Dark brown tendrils of hair fell around his face. His hair was a little long and unkempt, as if he hadn’t combed it today. And his eyes—they were so dark brown they were almost black. She blinked, surprised that she’d gotten that hung up that quickly with his eyes.
“What?” he asked, the demand etched in frustration across his brow.
“Why is there blood on your shirt and where’s your coat?” She wasn’t going to mention her inability to hear until absolutely necessary. This man had apparently come to the Colby Agency looking for help. She was the only one here, that left determining a course of action up to her. She consciously steadied her breathing in order to slow her heart and to keep the panic in check. She was a professional. A full-fledged investigator. She could handle this. Whatever this was.
As requested, he directed his full attention to her face and said, “My roommate was murdered early this morning. I evidently slept through whatever happened. When I woke up and discovered his…him, I called 911. The police hauled me in. I didn’t get a chance to get my coat.” He shrugged as if he didn’t know what else she wanted him to say.
He was wearing lounge pants, she realized. And flip-flops. Damn. His feet had to be freezing. It was a long walk from the nearest precinct to here. And since she didn’t see a pocket for his wallet, he’d likely been without the funds for a cab. “So,” she surmised, “you’ve just come from the police?”
He nodded. “They didn’t arrest me, but they said I was a person of interest or—” he looked at the floor, shook his head again “—is crazy. I didn’t do anything. I wouldn’t kill anyone. Not even my roommate who was a complete jerk most of the time, but he was my best friend.” Those dark eyebrows drew together. “He’s dead.”
Though she’d missed part of his words, she got the point. She considered taking him to her office, but that probably wasn’t such a good idea since she was here alone. She should call Ian or Simon. Simon Ruhl was another of Victoria’s seconds-in-command. He’d been really nice to Merri from the beginning. He believed in her and she appreciated that more than words could say.
Okay. Do this right, Merri.
First step, get the client at ease.
“I’m Merri Walters,” she said, “What’s your name?”
“Brandon Thomas.”
“Well—” she gestured to a chair with her free hand “—Brandon, have a seat.” Her fingers released the canister and she dragged a notepad and pen from her purse. She crossed to the receptionist’s desk and leaned a hip against it, then prepared to take notes. “Let’s start back at the beginning and you tell me exactly what happened. Every detail.”
She had to remind him a time or two to look at her when he spoke. Most folks believed she was measuring whether they were telling the truth when she did this. Since he didn’t ask why, she supposed he assumed the same. According to his statement, he’d awakened at six and discovered his roommate dead in the living room. After determining that he could not help his friend, he’d called the police. But they weren’t buying his story, particularly since some of the neighbors had reported that he and his roommate, Kick Randolph, had an intensely volatile relationship. The roommate apparently owed Brandon a considerable sum of money. All in all, there was plenty of motive and no other suspects. The police had every reason to treat him as a person of interest.
Brandon threaded his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Look, I don’t know who killed him, but—” he looked straight into Merri’s eyes “—Kick was into something. He was scared the last couple of days. The police won’t believe me, but I’m telling you it had something to do with this CIA-type guy he’d covertly met with on several occasions.”
“Can you be more specific about the man?” A CIA-type guy was a pretty broad description. Probably an analogy he made from the movies he’d seen. “Do you know the man’s name or where he works?”
Brandon gave another of those adamant shakes of his head. “I only saw him once, and that was at night from across the street. Dark hair.” He shrugged. “Medium height and build.”
“What gave you the impression he worked for the CIA?” Merri understood the stereotype he meant, but she needed his interpretation.
“You know. Trench coat. Fedora. Starched trousers. The whole federal agent style. Like you see in the movies.”
That was what she’d thought. She inclined her head and considered what he’d told her. “You said the man had dark hair. Did he have dark hair or did he wear a dark hat?” From a distance it would be difficult to distinguish one from the other, particularly at night.
Brandon blinked as if he didn’t understand the question. “I…I think it was his hair. Maybe he wasn’t wearing a hat.”
“But you’re sure you saw him at night…from across the street?” They needed to get the facts straight. No guessing.
“Definitely at night.” Brandon nodded. “I was going into the building. We live in one of the old duplexes off the South Loop. The front stoop is fairly close to the street. He and Kick were having an argument outside his car. I heard their raised voices, but I can’t remember precisely what they were talking about.”
“What did his car look like?” A tag number would be good.
“Dark. Blue or black. Four doors…I think. Not American, I don’t believe.”
If this was any indication of the kind of information he gave the police, it was no wonder they considered him a suspect. He contradicted himself almost as often as he concluded with any certainty.
“You didn’t see the license plate? Illinois tag or another state?”
He moved his head side to side. “The car was parallel parked. All I saw was Kick arguing with him next to the passenger side of the car.”
“You weren’t close enough to make an estimation of the man’s age?”
“No.”
“To some degree, your roommate confided in you as to his dealings with this man. You said the meetings were covert.”
Brandon nodded. “Kick said the meetings were very secretive.”
“Was he working for this man? Running errands? Can you give me an idea on the