The Alexandru Chronicles: The Beginning (31 page)

Yet, it was the discouraging way that Monica had looked in that picture, that had Genevieve ultimately making up her mind. This woman needed a champion and since no man wanted to step forward to be her champion, Genevieve had decided to step up to the plate and try to help her.

It wasn't just this dutiful obligation, though, but Genevieve couldn't stand the idea that Monica's family was suffering over not knowing whether Monica was alive or dead; they needed closure and answers.

As she leaned out, to cut the chain, it was just her touching it, with the wire cutters, that had it falling away from the gate; making this loud clinking sound as it hit the pavement—at least it sounded loud, on the mostly deserted block.

It was strange, from the moment she had driven up, she had noticed that nobody – not even an animal – was present.

It was like everyone had just up and left. Of course, since this was a bad side of town, there was probably a reasonable explanation.

Decent people would try hard not to live on a bad side of town, with their family. If they had the money, they would try to live some where that was safer and not such an eye sore.

Yet, not all the time was this the case. While the undesirables preferred such areas, as the one she was standing in, some times, good people, who were just barely getting by, had to, also, live in such areas. Yet, still, she had noticed during those more recent occasions of her coming out this way, how many people, mostly undesirables, had been out on the street. Either there were the common criminals, trying to make a living by selling their bodies or drugs. Or there was the homeless, who were left either scrummaging around for food or trying to find shelter from the heat.

Now, though, there wasn't a soul in sight.

Genevieve would have expected a homeless person to have already approached her about money. Yet, she didn't see anyone.

That in itself made the situation a whole lot more creepier than it was.

Had it been like this, the night Kyle and her had been out here?

She couldn't say.

After she had again given her surroundings that once over, she finally pushed the gate open. The moment the gate swung open, making this eery screeching sound as it did, she felt these cold fingernails start to work their way down her spine.

It was that typical fear that all humans felt when afraid of something. And of course, this fear had her close to turning around and running back to her car. Yet, while it was her human instinct to high tail it out of there, the cop in her was quick to stump the fear boiling up inside her.

Not even bothering to spare her surroundings one last look, she hastily entered the fenced in area.

She needed to search James Fording's apartment again.

She had this strange eery feeling that all the answers, regarding Monica, was in that apartment. Where he had hidden Monica's body, might just be under her nose.

XXX

Kyle had tried five times to get a hold of Genevieve, he felt like such an ass for the way he had treated her; leaving her there at
O'Reilly's,
after calling her an inconsiderate bitch. He should have been happy that Genevieve trusted and depended upon him so much.

Instead of her sisters, she had called him.   

It wasn't that she didn't love her sisters, she did. It was just that her thoughts had been more focused on him than them at that time – she had wanted him to help her.

Yet, like a selfish cad, he had acted horribly toward her by calling her an inconsiderate bitch and then telling her that he was going to push her out of his car if she didn't get out.

He would be lucky if she ever forgave him.

He hadn't been entirely truthful, when telling Genevieve that he had a lot of friends. To be honest he didn't have that many. At least not that many that he liked or trusted that much.

Genevieve was the only close friend, that he actually had.

He had felt so guilt ridden over the way he had treated Genevieve, that the moment he arrived at the precinct, he had, already, made up his mind to beg her for her forgiveness. Yet, before he had even made it through the door, he was informed by a fellow detective that his partner had already been and gone. From what he gathered, from that detective, Genevieve had briefly looked at this file upon her desk and then before leaving she had exchanged words with Detective Malcolm, who, in a foul mood, had left shortly after Genevieve had. 

Briefly Kyle wondered what Genevieve had actually said to that scumbag Malcolm to make him angry. Most likely it was the typical Genevieve response:

“
Either get the hell out of my way or I'll shove my gun up your ass.”

That was his partner. She was a foul mouth little sailor.

Yet, he wouldn't have changed anything about her; her mouth was what made her—her.

Leaning across to her desk, he saw that the file she had been reading was either not there or was stacked neatly with the other folders on the left side of her desk. Yet, when he went through those folders, he didn't see anything new. They were all cases that him and her had worked on.

It was possible, that she had taken that file with her.

As he sat back in his chair, he couldn't help wondering what his partner could be doing; at that moment, without him.  He had this unsettling feeling, that Genevieve was up to something bad. Yet, because she was temperamental, and mad at him, she wouldn't confide to him what it was that she was up to.

Genevieve had gotten mad at him before, and, for close to three weeks, she wouldn't communicate with him about anything. She kept her distance and unless she needed his input, she gave new meaning to the silent treatment.

Sighing he rubbed his face and as he tried, unsuccessfully, to preoccupy himself in his work, he tried not thinking about, what kind of trouble his partner could be getting herself into; at that moment.

XXX

It didn't take Genevieve long to find James Fording's apartment. Unlike that Friday night, there was no eery music playing in the background or unnatural black fog outside. In fact, if anything, the apartments, that she had, curiously, searched, looked as if the people, who had occupied them, were planning on returning to them.

In most of the apartments she had gone into, there were large stacks of cocaine and marijuana on the tables, which was strange, because drug dealers were not in the habit of leaving such a stash for long periods of time. It had taken Genevieve handling the package of one of these narcotics, for her to notice this fine dust that had settled on top of it.  

When she had thought it couldn't get any stranger, it did.

Each bedroom had had large stacks or rolls of money in it. For a dirty and even clean cop, these stacks were very tempting.

Yet, Genevieve was one of these people who was more toward having a clean conscience rather than a dirty one. So, all she had done with the money, was frown at it and then put it back where she had found it.

As she continued on her way to her destination, she tried rationalizing where the drug dealers and everyone else had gone.

There was a possibility that everyone could have been rounded up?

Yet, that still couldn't explain away the drugs and money still being in these apartments.

It made more sense that if a raid had happened, that the drugs and money would have all been seized too.

The moment she got to James Fording's apartment, she was surprised by the brand new door that was now in the place of the old one.

If it wasn't puzzlingly enough to see this new door, what had her even more puzzled was to find the door locked. 

All the apartments, she had gone into, had been unlocked.

So, why would this one be locked?

Because someone doesn't want you to enter, dumbass.

The annoying vexing of her conscience, was starting to really get on her nerves. It was constantly nagging her about not doing this; if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that Amelia was standing right beside her—hissing in her ear.

“
This is wrong and could end with horrible repercussions.”

Yea, she could hear her sister saying this.

Yet, how was she supposed to do the right thing, if she couldn't break the law in the process of getting there. In all honesty, her conscience was starting to become a nagging bitch, that didn't seem to understand that she was trying to do the right thing.

After propping her wire cutters up against the wall, adjacent to Fording's door, she brought her foot back and kicked in the door.

Like most of things, now days, this door was cheaply made. It came open with just one, good, kick and almost came off it's hinges. Taking her side arm out, she cautiously went into the apartment.

As she looked around at everything, she was somewhat surprised to see that the apartment looked a lot cleaner than it had been when she had been there those last two times.

The pizza box was gone and there wasn't as many ants as before. Also, it looked as if someone had done the dishes; and that small amount cocaine on the table had been wiped away.

It was still an eye sore, just a slightly cleaner eye sore.

It was upon Genevieve heading into the bedroom, that she got even more of a surprise; the record player was no longer there and the bedroom, like the living area, had been straightened up.

Someone had definitely been staying here.

Who?

She hadn't a clue.

As she scanned the bedroom, it was then that her gaze landed on the closest. She had been in this room two times, before, and she had looked over everything thoroughly the first time. Yet, at that time, she had been looking for evidence and clues on why her supposed, murdered, victim was dead and who had killed him.

She had found nothing, but a lot of disgusting garbage and a butt load of ants and other bugs.

Yea, it had not been fun searching for clues.

And, yet, that was what was in her job description.

Luckily her.

Now though, the situation was different, she wasn't searching anymore for her missing stiff from the morgue. Or even clues on what or who killed him.

At this point she could have cared less. Some people just deserved to die and James Fording was one of these people.

It was now Monica Summers, that had her searching for clues.

Where was she?

After putting her gun back into her holster,  Genevieve headed over to the closet. Before opening the door, she contentedly listened; it made sense that someone would be hiding inside that closet. Yet, no matter how hard she strained to listen, she couldn't hear anyone moving around inside.

Taking a shaky breathe, she quickly opened the door.

The moment the door swung open, she was shocked and, at the same time, relieved, when nobody jumped out at her.

Yet, that shock was quickly replaced with this new astonishment; at the sight of the clothes hanging up in the closet.

These were not men's clothes.

They were women.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kyle had been trying practically the whole day to get a hold of Genevieve. Each time he called, his calls were forward to her voice-mail.

The last call, which was incidentally the twelfth call, one more than Cirpian if he had even bothered keeping count, was the final straw on him calling her.

Obviously, Genevieve had her phone on either silent or she had turned it off.

Either way, she was in no mood to talk to him.

He was tempted to go to her apartment and wait for her, but knowing Genevieve, and karma, she wouldn't return home until after dark and by then he probably would have died of heat stroke. 

Irritably sighing, he threw his phone down upon his desk.

So, she was ignoring him.

Well, two could play that game.

Yet, he knew that he really had no intention of playing the same game as her; like a whipped dog, he would answer the phone the second she called him.

XXX

As Genevieve leaned out and fingered a woman’s sweater in the closet, she felt the scratchiness of the material's cuff – this sweater had seen better days. As she stood there, just holding the sleeve, she was suddenly slammed with this overwhelming sense of limitation. First, the dusty packages of drugs. Second, the inhabitants weren't even present in this apartment complex. Now, she was having to deal with women's clothing in a dead man's closet. 

What could possibly happen next?

If the wicked witch of the west came flying in on her broom, then she was in serious trouble.

There was just so much that one's brain could take, before reaching that ultimate limit.

When Genevieve heard the creaking of floor boards behind her, she instantly turned around. All too sure that she would see the wicked witch, herself, standing behind her.

Yet, for some strange reason, she was very much surprised by there being nobody there.

It was her imagination playing tricks on her again; this time using her ears to deceive her.

Subconsciously glancing down at her watch, she saw that it was already six. And dusk would most likely be settling on the apartment building around seven or eight. She really needed to move her ass, and find what it was that she was looking for. 

Yet, the problem was, she hadn't a clue what that was. Or where to find it.

It took her close to thirty minutes, looking through that closet, for her to figure out that none of the boxes, that had been there before, were there now.

While they had taken some of the boxes and a few other items, back to the precinct; the others they had left, because they didn't seem to be of any important value.

Of course the boxes taken over to the precinct, hadn't been either. In those boxes there hadn't been really anything of significant value, that could tell them who her murdered stiff was, where he had come from, who he was related to, and etc. The only thing that had been done, before his body disappeared from the morgue, was running his prints, which had, to Genevieve, taken forever for anyone to get back to her.

Okay, maybe she was over exaggerating.

Yet, it had seemed like forever.

Once she had rummaged through the boxes in the closet, and come to the conclusion that all this stuff didn't belong to James Fording, she started looking around the room. She had a feeling that the boxes that had been in the closet before, had most likely been thrown away by whoever had been living here after James Fording.

During her quick survey, around the room, Genevieve was able to form an instant impression of who this new tenant was. Just from the female clothes in the closet and the feminine touches around the apartment, she was positive that the new lodger was a down on her luck homeless woman—just looking for a place to stay and having no luck with finding any place that was affordable. Not just that, though, but she had also taken into account the small amount of toys in the closet; which led her to believe that her homeless woman was also a mother – possibly a wife. Yet, that wasn't a definite possibility.

In all appearances, it appeared from the closet, that there were no other persons, but a mother and her child or children.

As she looked around the room and outside into the living room, Genevieve noticed how dusty everything was. Women were considered, by nature, neat little nesters. Well, most of them were. Some, like Amelia, expected unpaid servant-hood.

“They must have left pretty, damn, quick, for all this stuff to still be here.” it was the sudden sound of her voice, that had her inwardly flinching. She had been thinking this, but hadn't intended on voicing this out loud.

Well, now, wasn't this a disappointing trip?

If a person had moved in, the chances of them keeping anything, that had belonged to the previous tenant, was just wishful thinking.

Disappointingly, shaking her head, Genevieve was just about to leave, when she remembered something that Malcolm, of all people, had told her:

“People hide their valuables in the last place, you or anyone would actually look.”

At that time, she hadn't put much stock into what he was telling her. She had been a rookie and her first impression of him, hadn't been a good one.

Swiftly turning around to look at the bed, she didn't even think about it. She just went over to it and, grabbing hold of it, she flipped it over. 

Right away a bunch of bugs scurried out of the way, Genevieve didn't even have time to jump back or shriek when a cockroach ran across her shoe.

The journal was taped right to the bottom of the mattress. James Fording must have gotten on the floor and scooted himself partially under his bed—just the idea of him getting on that floor, had Genevieve instantly suppressing a shudder.

While it made her practically cringe at the idea of getting on the floor with huge ass bugs, she had to admit that it was a pretty ingenious hiding place.

Most of the time, people taped certain items, that they didn't want other people to find, to the bottom of a dresser drawer; that would have been the next place that she would have looked, if she hadn't found it under the mattress.

Untaping the journal from its spot, she started flipping through the pages. There was a lot of writings that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Just a lot of senseless bitching and complaining about other nationalities and how he hated that his girlfriend was mulatto.

From what she could gather, James Fording was a raciest who had justified his beating of his girlfriend for being because he hated blacks; he had been trying to beat the blackness out of her.

More and more, Genevieve found herself feeling nothing but utter contempt for James Fording. She knew it was wrong for her to think ill of the dead, but the man was nothing but a waste of a life.