Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,77
dawn when it wasn’t even their case.
“What about Crime Scene? Who’s here?” Jacob glanced at the dumpster, where a guy in a white Tyvek suit was shining a flashlight on something.
“There’s a team with the body and another in the apartment building. Landlord let them into Rydell’s unit. Crawford is in there now.”
“I’m more interested in the rental unit.”
They crossed the lot, ignoring the curious glances from building residents who were watching the action unfold.
“Rydell is in 132, and the studio he rents is right across the hall,” Kendra said. “Landlord claims he didn’t know anything about Rydell renting out the studio—said he thought he was using it as an art space—but I could tell he was lying. He’s probably getting a kickback to keep quiet so Rydell can duck the lodging tax.”
They stepped onto a sidewalk where a glass door stood open. The apartments were situated along a long hall that smelled moldy. The teal-and-purple carpeting looked a few decades old, and brown water stains dotted the popcorn ceiling.
“What tourist would want a room here?” Kendra said. “This place is a dump.”
“It’s five minutes from the airport,” Jacob pointed out.
“Still.”
She ducked under the yellow crime scene tape blocking off the end of the hallway. Jacob followed, and they stopped to pull paper booties on over their shoes. Both apartment doors stood open.
“His is on the left,” she said, nodding at the unit where a pair of CSIs in white coveralls moved around a living room. “Hey, anything in there yet?” Kendra called.
“Nothing so far.” The CSI stepped out and passed them a box of gloves.
After pulling a glove on, Jacob stepped into the studio apartment and caught a whiff of bleach. It was faint, but it was one of those things he noticed instantly since becoming a cop.
The studio was sparsely furnished with a gray futon with red throw pillows, a gray armchair, and a light wood coffee table. A tiny kitchen that consisted of about four square feet of checkered linoleum lined the far wall.
“Not much of a kitchen,” Kendra observed.
“More than I’ve got.” Jacob stepped over to the stove, which was spotlessly clean. He took a mini-Maglite from his pocket and shined it over the sink. It looked clean, too. There was a pedal-operated trash can. Jacob stepped on the pedal and found the can empty—not even a bag.
Kendra opened the fridge. “No food. No drinks. Whoever was staying here didn’t leave much. Or else Rydell cleaned the room right after he left.”
“Rydell could have been dead by then. Maybe the guest cleaned up after himself. And how do we know when he left?” Jacob asked.
“We don’t.”
Jacob walked down a short hallway and opened a door to find a closet with a set of gray sheets and gray towels, along with an unopened three-pack of soap. He stepped into a tiny bathroom, where the bleach smell was stronger. The bathroom had a prefab shower stall and a Formica vanity with a small sink. Jacob shined his flashlight around the rim.
“What are you thinking?”
He glanced at Kendra behind him in the mirror. “I don’t like coincidences,” he said.
“You’re talking about the timing?”
“The timing. The knife wound. The Illinois plates.”
She crossed her arms. “So, you’re thinking what? McKinney’s hit man came down here, checked into this room, murdered Dana Smith, aka Robin Nally, and then decided to kill the man who rented him the room before leaving town? Why do that?”
“Could be Rydell saw something or heard something he wasn’t supposed to,” Jacob said. “I mean, look around. The place is immaculate and it reeks of bleach.” He took out his flashlight and shined it over the vanity. Crouching down, he studied the lip of the sink. “Check this out.”
“What?” Kendra knelt beside him, and he pointed his flashlight at a tiny brown speck on the underside of the faucet.
“Blood,” she said. “Maybe he cut himself shaving.”
“Or cleaned up a murder weapon.” Jacob stood. “We need a CSI in here with some luminol. Ten-to-one odds, this place lights up like a Christmas tree.”
* * *
* * *
PAIN POUNDED THROUGH Tabitha’s head. Her eyes seemed to be glued shut.
She managed to lift her lids, but closed her eyes again, wincing at the light.
The pain intensified. It had a sound. A rhythm. It echoed through her head and traveled down her body to her toes, making everything in between throb, too.
She wanted water. Her tongue felt dry and thick. The thought of a tall glass of water made her