Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,62
every surface. The coffee table’s glass top is streaked with white residue.
“Somebody’s doing drugs,” I say, stating the obvious.
Tyler checks the kitchen and pantry, then nods down the apartment’s only hallway. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here, but let’s do a quick sweep. Stay with me.”
We search the first bedroom, then a tiny, outdated bathroom.
There’s a closed door at the end of the hallway, and as we approach, Tyler raises a hand, signaling for me to be quiet and stand back against the wall. He reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and slowly pushes the door wide open.
The room is dark and dank, the curtains drawn to block out daylight. Light from the hallway shines into the room, illuminating a small sliver of the floor. As Tyler steps into the room, I follow right behind him. The bed is unmade. The burgundy carpet is littered with trash, and there’s a mountain of clothes piled on the bed, next to an open suitcase. It looks like someone might have been packing.
When Tyler freezes, I notice there’s something lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, mostly hidden from view. All we can see is a shoe.
“What is that?” I don’t know why I’m whispering, because we’re the only ones here.
Tyler flips on the room’s single light. I follow him as he walks to the foot of the bed to get a better view.
Jesus, it’s a body. A man. And he’s clearly dead.
Sheer relief rushes through me, making me lightheaded. It’s not Layla.
I take a closer look at the victim’s blond hair. “My god, is that Sean? What the hell?”
“Don’t touch anything,” Tyler warns. He grabs a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and pulls them on before he crouches beside the body and rolls it over.
We both stare down at Sean Dickerson’s lifeless eyes. There’s a hole in the center of his forehead. There’s also a huge blood stain in the center of his chest, soaking his T-shirt.
That’s when I notice the pool of blood beneath him, partially camouflaged by the dark burgundy carpet. “My god.”
Tyler rises to his feet. “We have to go before the cops arrive. I’m surprised they didn’t beat us here.”
“Shouldn’t we call 911 first? We can’t just leave him here.”
I see a flash of indecision cross Tyler’s face before he shakes his head. “There’s nothing we can do for Sean now. Let the cops do their jobs and find him themselves. Besides, if they know we’re here, it will only complicate our efforts to find Layla.”
“All right.” He’s right about Sean. And our first priority has to be finding Layla.
On our way out of the apartment, Tyler stops to rifle through a stack of unopened mail lying on the coffee table. He snags an envelope and tucks it into his jacket pocket.
“What’d you take?” I ask him.
“A pay stub for someone by the name of Chad Faulkner. I’m guessing it belongs to Sean’s roommate as it’s addressed to this apartment. It came from Tillerson Packaging—I know where that is. Let’s go pay Chad a visit.”
We drive across town to Tillerson Packaging, which turns out to be a manufacturer of food packaging supplies. Their building is located in an industrial park, and apparently second shift is in full force as the employee parking lot is filled with cars. Attached to the ugly gray manufacturing plant is a single-story white building.
Tyler checks his watch. “The administrative offices are closed by now, but the plant’s open. Let’s see what we can find out.”
We park in a visitor lot and walk around to the back of the two-story factory. At a rear entrance, two middle-age men and an older woman congregate near a designated smoking shack.
Tyler approaches them without hesitation. “Do any of you know Chad Faulkner?”
They eye us warily.
The woman, a sixty-something with a short cap of white hair, nods. “What about him? I don’t suppose you’re here from the child support agency.” She laughs.
The two men say nothing.
“No,” Tyler says. “Chicago PD.”
The woman narrows her eyes at Tyler. “Where’s your badge?” She looks past Tyler to me. “And what do you want with Chad?” She sounds more curious than suspicious.
“Do you know if he’s here now?” Tyler nods toward the open rear door that leads to the factory floor, which is bustling with activity.
She shakes her head. “No. He came in for first shift early this morning but left a couple hours later. Said he wasn’t feeling well. What’s it to you?”