First Night. Debra Webb
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shiver once or twice. He had to be freezing, especially his feet in those flip-flops.
Brandon paused at the door marked 11 and looked at her for advice on proceeding. Two strips of official yellow crime scene tape had been placed across the center of the door, along with a proclamation declaring the premises off limits to anyone but official police personnel.
If, as he’d said, Brandon had been questioned for hours, chances were the forensics techs had come and gone already. The scene wouldn’t likely be released until the detective in charge determined that there was nothing else to be gained by maintaining the off-limits edict. All that meant, in her opinion, was that they shouldn’t touch anything that might be evidence.
Been there, done that, too. Merri wasn’t exactly concerned about bending that particular rule. She knew her way around a crime scene. Holding out her hand, Brandon placed the key there. She unlocked and opened the door, then ducked beneath the warning tape. If Simon had been here he would have called someone, a Colby connection with Chicago PD, to get permission. But Simon wasn’t here. As long as Merri was careful and didn’t prompt any serious repercussions for the agency, all would be okay.
She could do this.
After closing the door behind Brandon, she locked it to be sure no one else was tempted to try the same approach.
“Don’t touch anything unless it’s absolutely essential. And watch your step.” She glanced pointedly at the bloodstained carpet and official signs of where the body had been discovered.
He nodded, his attention lingering on the place where he’d found his roommate early that morning.
With a long, slow perusal around the room, Merri decided the apartment was the typical bachelor pad. Not neat by any stretch of the imagination, particularly after the tossing the forensics techs had done in their search for evidence. The signs that prints had been lifted dusted most surfaces—not that there were that many pieces of furniture. A futon for a sofa, a television and a long, narrow coffee table were the only furnishings aside from a desk with its mountains of computer equipment and a drawing desk with much the same. The roommate clearly had had a serious compulsion when it came to technology. Merri hadn’t once seen a setup like this outside a major tech center.
“Wow.”
Brandon said, “Yeah I know. Kick didn’t take any shortcuts when it came to having the latest and greatest in hardware and software. It was just his share of the rent and basic essentials for survival that he had trouble coughing up.”
Merri considered the statement. “Is that why the two of you had what your neighbors termed a volatile relationship?”
“Mostly.” Brandon glanced around his disheveled living space. “Kick didn’t see this environment as permanent. He was a dreamer. Had big plans.”
Whereas Brandon was a realist. That part she got. “Let’s talk about the proof you mentioned.” The fact that he couldn’t remember exactly where that proof was didn’t offer much security in the way of proving his innocence. Seemed to her that the police, given enough digging, would find some trace on the two or three hard drives of what the victim had been up to. The Feds certainly knew how to discover the unfindable when it came to digital footprints. The Colby Agency too had analysts for just that sort of investigation.
“No one will find anything related to the big story on his computer,” Brandon observed when her gaze settled on his face once more.
“How can you be so sure?” No matter that his roommate obviously had bragged about maintaining a high level of security, new ways to find digital traces were discovered every day. Few could proclaim exception to that ever-changing investigative technology. But many tried. “If he worked on his equipment in any capacity, a digital trail was left behind. Even if he meticulously wiped his hard drive. There are those who know how to resurrect the smallest detail.”
“No one was more aware of that vulnerability,” Brandon explained. “Kick did his secret work someplace else.” Brandon walked over to the desk with its mountain of hardware and monitors. The dramatic waving of his arms told her he’d said something about all the stuff there but he hadn’t been looking at her so she had no idea what came out of his mouth.
When he turned to her in question, she asked, “What do you mean?” That prompt usually worked at garnering a repeat of a statement.
Brandon plopped down in the swivel chair next to the desk. “He did everything right here as long as it wasn’t related to the story. That he did someplace else. The police won’t find what they’re looking for here.”
And that was what he’d tried to explain when questioned. Merri risked turning her back on him—which meant she wouldn’t know if he said anything—and wandered through the rest of the two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. The two bedrooms were furnished in an equally Spartan manner. A bed, nightstand and dresser stood in each. No curtains, just the blinds that had likely been there a few decades. The closets had been ransacked for evidence. Mounds of clothes and other stuff had been piled on the bed.
The kitchen was tiny, with only the essentials. Two days’ worth of eating utensils cluttered the sink.
When she returned to the living room, Brandon still sat in the chair at the computer desk. The telephone nearby served as the base, with two satellite handsets, one in each bedroom. The red light that indicated the answering machine was set to record incoming calls wasn’t blinking. No messages. If there had been anything relevant on the phone, the police would have taken it.
Her new client hadn’t attempted to follow her around the apartment and simply stared at her in question when she returned. That assured her that he hadn’t asked or said anything she had missed.
“How long have you lived here?” Surely a man who put down roots for an extended period would have decorated to some degree. The quilt with all the little flowers that covered the bed in Brandon’s room didn’t count. A mother or grandmother had likely given that to him in an effort to ensure he didn’t freeze. Either one would likely be mortified by his leaving home this close to Christmas wearing nothing but flip-flops. Not to mention the blood-splattered T-shirt.
“Three years.” Brandon braced his forearms on his spread knees. “Kick moved in about six months after me. He responded to an ad for a roommate I placed in the classifieds. We became close friends over the past two and a half years.”
The idea of just how much time the two had spent here gave new meaning to living sparsely. “Okay.” Deciding not to shrug off her coat, Merri took a seat on the futon-style sofa facing her client. “Let’s talk about the time when Kick told you about how he hid his big story.”
Brandon straightened from his relaxed position immediately. He sat up straight and blinked. Merri gave him sufficient time to think about her prompt. Still, he hesitated, allowing the minutes to drag by. The confusion in his gaze and the lined expression of concentration on his face told her he was struggling with a response. The suggestion hadn’t been that complicated.
She’d watched the kids in her class do this plenty of times. But Brandon Thomas was no kid. That he took so long to finally attempt an answer had dread trickling through her. If he had planned to lie, he’d have come up with something to say a lot faster. The truth should have come nearly as quickly as a manufactured statement.
Delayed reaction. That could point to a number of problems. She needed more insight into this guy.
“Was it nighttime or daytime?” she prompted.
He blinked. “Night.”
Good. “You said he was drinking? Were you drinking?” That could very well be the underlying problem with his slow responses to her questions.
He started to nod, but then shook his head. “I don’t really drink. Not…” His shoulders rose and fell in one of those shrugs that typically indicated indifference, but she had a feeling the action was more about hesitation for him. He was filling the time until he decided what to say next. “Not really.”