Holiday Grind (14 page)

Read Holiday Grind Online

Authors: Cleo Coyle

Tags: #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction

BOOK: Holiday Grind
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Now I felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry, Esther,” I said, taking my time scooping up change, makeup, and a pen off the ground. Across the street, I heard the two men snicker.
Esther smirked. “They think we had a girl fight.”
The elderly couple finally reached us. The woman inquired about our safety.
“Just slipped in the snow!” I chirped. “Have a nice day!”
Esther watched the couple pass. “Good thing nobody noticed us, right, boss?”
“I think I’ve had enough irony for one night.”
I opened Esther’s bag to dump her stuff back inside and was surprised at how heavy it was. So I took a closer look.
“My God, Esther! You have half a brick at the bottom of your purse.”
“It’s protection,” she said.
“Protection? From what?”
“Those fashion mags with their anorexic models are a crock, you know? It’s Rubenesque girls like me who bring out the worst in the guys with
real
testosterone. The home-boys in Air Jordans I can handle; even construction workers aren’t so bad. But when some of these Middle Eastern dudes and south-of-the-border guys spot curves like mine, they go bonkers. Their tongues loll and their eyes bulge like the wolf in that old Tex Avery cartoon.” Esther sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes, to dissuade them, I have to resort to the brick. That’s how I roll.”
“Okay,” I replied, refilling the purse.
Esther scanned the street. “The coast looks clear, boss.”
“Good,” I said, rising. “Then let’s get rolling.”
TEN
AS we slipped into the private alley, I stared at the infamous gray Dumpster. It stood in the shadows, lid open, contents emptied.
“This is where I found Alf,” I said softly.
“Oh.” Esther blinked at the trash container. “Weird.”
“What?”
“I guess I expected something more ominous. It looks so . . . normal.”
Esther was right. The police tape was gone by now, and so was most of the snow. There were no traces of blood on the concrete, no chalk outline, no sign that a violent crime had taken place here.
From my talks with Quinn, I knew this was the work of the crime-scene unit. In their search for a murder weapon or forensic evidence, crime technicians would have meticulously combed through every garbage and recycling bin, then had the trash carted away and stored in case they’d missed anything during the initial search.
I understood the procedures on an intellectual level, but the emotional effect was unsettling. It felt as if Alf never existed. Like this wonderful man had been wiped away by bureaucrats of a heartless metropolis that had no time to mourn the death of its citizen.
In twenty-four hours, Alf went from human being to crime victim; tabloid folly to complete eradication. The speed of erasing a person in this town was too unsettling to contemplate—
and anyway
, I promised myself,
I’m not going to forget him
.
“What did you say, boss?”
“Nothing. Come on.”
We moved through the dim alley and into the darkened courtyard, where the second metal Dumpster stood beside the line of blue plastic recycling bins.
From one of my hoodie’s deep pockets, I fished out a small flashlight, one more powerful than the keychain light I’d had the night before. I flipped it on and scanned the fire escape above the trash bins. Then I moved to those crates I’d seen, stacked against a far wall. I hauled one off the top of the pile and dragged it over to the blue recycling bin to act as a step—exactly the way I was sure Alf had.
“You’re really going up there?” Esther whispered.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Just watch my back and warn me if someone comes.” I turned to start climbing.
“Wait!” she rasped. “How can I warn you if you’re all the way up there and I’m down here? I’ll have to shout.”
“You’re right.” I thought it over. “We’ll use our cell phones like walkie-talkies.”
We made the connection a moment later. “Keep the line open the whole time I’m up there,” I whispered. Then I pocketed the open phone and boosted myself to the top of one of the blue bins, bruising an elbow in the process.
“Ouch.”
“You okay?”
“I’ll live.”
I climbed to my feet, boots thumping dully on the frigid plastic lid, and made sure my footing was secure before I reached into my pocket to check the connection.
“Still there, Esther?”
“Affirmative. What next?”
“I’m going to climb the fire escape ladder up to the second-floor landing.”
“But those ladders are always locked in place for security,” she warned.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, eyeballing my Everest.
The wrought-iron framework appeared pretty typical for an apartment building of this age and type: metal stair-cases connecting narrow grilled balconies that sat parallel to each story. In an emergency, a simple sliding ladder allowed tenants to move from the second-floor balcony to the ground. When not in use, the ladder was locked high off the ground—to keep people like me from trespassing.
“I’m going to pull myself up,” I told Esther, my focus on the ladder’s bottom rung, just above my head. “Stand by; I may need help.”
Okay
, I thought,
so I haven’t done a pull-up since high school gym class, but my job has its daily physical demands and I swim laps semiregularly in the local Y’s pool. I’m in passable shape. How hard can one stupid pull-up be?
Taking a deep breath, I jumped up to grip the wrought-iron rung and heaved with all my might. But my body didn’t lift up. Instead, the freezing black bar shot out of my hands as the heavy metal structure rolled down its runner with a wince-inducing grinding. Then the bottom of the ladder slammed the ground with an explosive
clang!
I froze.
“Crap,” Esther said over the phone. “That was loud!”
“The ladder wasn’t locked!” I rasped into the cell. “If anyone comes out, just tell them you’re a new tenant and you were emptying your trash!”
We waited nearly five minutes, just to be safe, but no one came to investigate. Then on a deep breath of bracing winter air, I gripped a cold metal rung and began to climb. At the top of the ladder, I stepped onto the second-floor balcony. That’s when I noticed that the security release hook had rusted through—
It wasn’t unlocked
, I realized.
It was broken.
There was still snow and ice on the grillwork. My gloved fingers grabbed the guardrail, and I knocked free an entire row of tiny icicles. With a crystalline tinkling, they rained down on Esther.
“Watch the shrapnel, boss!” she complained over the cell. “And keep the noise down, too.”
“Sorry.”
Using the tiny beam from my pocket flashlight, I searched for anything out of the ordinary. Two windows faced the second-floor balcony—presumably different apartments. Both were curtained and dark, and the glass on each window appeared intact and undisturbed.
On my way to the third floor, a blast of arctic wind swept through the courtyard. The fire escape bucked under my feet like trick stairs in an amusement park fun house. Freaked a little, I clung to the rocking metal until the wind subsided.
That’s when I heard a loud
bang
from the courtyard below. I put the phone to my ear and heard Esther’s frantic whisper. “Boss? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Someone came out of that steel back door.”
She said nothing more for several long, tense moments. Finally, she spoke again, but not to me.
“Hi, I guess you’re emptying your garbage, too.”
A woman’s voice replied, but I couldn’t make out the words.
“No. I just moved in.” Esther again.
More conversation.
“Thanks,” Esther told the stranger, “but I’m not going back inside. I was on my way out anyway, so I’ll just hit the street through the alley.”
A moment later, I heard the steel door clang. I kept the phone to my ear and waited.
“Boss?”
“I heard what happened, Esther. Where are you?”
“Back on the sidewalk out front,” she replied. “That woman was
way
suspicious. She waited till I left the courtyard before she went back inside. Now I’m stuck on the street. And there are like a million dog walkers out here. I can’t get back to the courtyard without being seen.”
“Don’t worry, Esther. I’m okay up here—” And now, given that tenant’s reaction, I figured she was more likely to draw attention to what I was doing than prevent anyone from noticing. “Just wait for me on the corner, in front of the White Horse Tavern.”
“Fine,” Esther said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather wait
inside
. It’s freezing out here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I’d noticed. “Just keep the line open, okay?”
“Roger.”
I pressed on. When I got to the escape’s third-floor landing, I heard laughter and conversation muffled by drawn blinds and a closed window. I flipped off my flashlight. Examining the landing and the windows on this floor, I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so I moved on.
It was the fourth floor that gave me what I’d come here looking for: Light from a bare window spilled onto the metal grillwork. The illumination wasn’t just bright enough to make the icicles glisten, it cast a spotlight on something peculiar just below the window ledge. A small, round hole had been punched into a mound of snow. The tiny crater reminded me of those chilling little sinkholes I’d spotted the night before on the layered sidewalk—random white resting places for the change that scattered when Alf’s “Santa Bag” had been broken open and robbed.
Careful to stay hidden beneath the brightly lit window, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled up to the pitted snow. Something shiny and smooth sat in the center of that little indentation. As I snatched it up, a shadow suddenly crossed the light.
Someone’s moving inside that apartment!
I reared back—only to be stopped short when my hoodie snagged on a sharp object hanging just below the window ledge above me. It took me a moment to detach myself from what looked like a loose cable television hook.
Finally free, I sat back on my haunches and studied the object in my hand. It appeared to be a white button. A little larger than one of those old Susan B. Anthony silver dollars, it had four holes in its center and a bold
TS
design embossed on both sides.
TS—Traveling Santa . . . Oh my God.
This was the missing button from Alf Glockner’s Santa suit!
I’d assumed Alf’s attacker had ripped the button off while trying to get to the dead man’s wallet. But Alf obviously lost the button in front of this window, probably on the same hook that just snagged my hoodie!
“Okay, Alf,” I whispered, half believing his spirit was still swirling around me on the winter gusts, “what the heck were you doing all the way up here?”
“What did you say, boss?”
I swallowed hard and put the cell to my mouth. “Stand by, Esther.”
Think, Clare, think . . .
When Mike talked to me about his cases, he talked
method
, too; most of that method involved reconstructing possible scenarios of past actions based on discovered evidence.
“
It’s really not that complicated
,” he’d once told me, “
not if you have an imagination.
”
Right
, I thought.
Ask questions. Imagine the possible answers . . .
First question: Why was Alf in this courtyard? The evidence of his button, right under this intact window, pretty well answers that one. Alf was spying on someone in this apartment.
“And?”
I could practically hear Quinn challenging me.
“Next question? Isn’t it obvious?”

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