the building.
The air here smelled of mold and cigarette smoke concealed poorly by cologne. The stairwell itself was sagging, a portion of the wall bloated from water damage.
Adele wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t seem like our scumbag extraordinaire is too concerned with hygiene.”
John shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t have a choice.”
Adele paused for a moment, and nodded. “Good.”
The two of them moved up the stairs, reaching the end of the long hall.
“One-fifty-five?” she said.
John maneuvered ahead of her, his hand on his hip, his weapon visible beneath the tucked edge of his shirt.
Adele put her own hand near her waist. She wasn’t nearly as quick off the draw as John, so she unhooked her holster, deciding one could never be too careful. They moved down the hall past 150… 151… 152… A couple doors later, next to another portion of wall where the wallpaper was peeling from more water damage, beneath a particularly impressive black mold stain, Adele came to a halt.
“Door’s open,” John muttered.
Adele stared at the crack in the entryway and pushed.
The door creaked, but then went taut. It was stuck on a chain. But a thin glimmer of flickering light, as if from a TV, emanated from within apartment 155.
Adele pressed against the door, feeling the cold of the metal against her cheek; she glanced along the gap, into the apartment. The angle of the slightly ajar door gave her a long look into a kitchen crowded with piles of bottles, a scattering of newspapers on top of the stove, and a sink full of dishes, with a couple of flies flitting around beneath a window that stared out into a side alley. Adele wrinkled her nose.
She tapped her fingers against the door; no response.
“Sounds like he’s home,” John murmured.
The TV continued to blare and buzz.
Adele raised her voice. “Mr. Glaude, are you in there?”
No answer.
“Mr. Glaude?” she said, louder now. A slow prickle spread down her spine.
No answer. She tapped even more insistently against the door until her knuckles practically bruised against the metal.
“Adele,” John said, sharply.
She felt another tingle across the back of her neck, and looked at her partner.
John was pointing toward the microwave set in one of the cupboards. The glass surface of the door reflected the glow from the TV, and then something on the floor.
She strained, trying to discern the shape displayed in the glass. Then she realized what it was and went suddenly very still, her eyes widening.
A body lay on the ground in front of the TV, face down.
“Get back,” John said, sharply.
Cursing, her arms prickling with goosebumps, she stepped aside, her weapon already springing out of her holster. John took two lunging steps and shoved hard; there was a splintering sound as the chain pulled from the door itself, cracking against the wood. The chain now dangled, with a fragment of the frame still stuck to its side. The door slammed open, and Adele and John stumbled in, weapons raised.
“DGSI!” Adele shouted.
Both of them pointed their weapons around the room, across the disgusting kitchen, into the small, dingy, hazy apartment. The air smelled of skunk weed and mold.
She spotted an overflowing trashcan next to two bags with blue ties adjacent to the bin. She turned toward the TV and the corpse, her heart hammering.
Except, it wasn’t a corpse.
The body was still moving, emitting low, gurgling sounds and huffing breaths.
John hesitated and then grunted. A second later, scanning the scene, he slowly stowed his weapon. “Mr. Glaude?” John asked, some of the energy fading from his tone.
John took a couple of steps toward the snoring man lying prone on the ground. He had a bottle of wine clutched in his hand, his lips sucking on it. Adele noticed another couple of bottles scattered beneath the counter. She leaned down, poking at one, listening to the glassy, rolling sound as it slid across the tiles.
“John, this one’s from the same vineyard where Ms. Gueyen worked,” she said.
John snatched a big handful of the man’s hair—balding on top, but a long ponytail. Adele spotted many earrings through the man’s ears. John gripped the greasy hair, winced in disgust, but then lifted the head.
The man continued to snore, his eyes sealed, his jaw hanging, a thin trail of drool spilling down onto his fingers. Above him, the TV was playing a pornographic film.
“I think we found our princess,” John said. And then he tapped the bottle, picked it up, and wiggled it. “And here’s her glass slipper.”
Adele wrinkled her nose, moving over to John,