The Way of the Guilty: A Hope Street Church Mystery - By Jennifer Stanley Page 0,36

knew that it sold for over three thousand dollars.

“How could you afford this watch?” Cooper quietly accused the room. “The TVs? Steaks from Whole Foods? And the rent?”

“Have you found anything?” Trish asked as she walked into the room. “Phil’s gone to the office to get me orange juice, but I don’t think we’ll have more than ten minutes to search.”

“Miguel had to be living beyond his means.” Cooper opened the closet, examining the divide between Miguel’s Love Motors work shirts and a colorful array of silk button-downs, tailored slacks, and expensive leather footwear.

Trish whistled. “He must’ve maxed out a few credit cards on this wardrobe alone. Those loafers are Moreschis. Italian leather. Cost almost two hundred and fifty dollars a pair.”

Cooper fingered the shimmery material of a black-and-yellow collared shirt. The colors reminded her of Miguel’s nickname. “The bee,” she whispered and then looked over at Trish, who was producing a strange, strangled noise in the corner of the room.

Joining her in front of the nightstand pinned between the bed and the wall containing the room’s only window, Cooper bent down over an open drawer filled with lewd magazines.

“It’s not the porn that’s got me winded,” Trish breathed heavily, “but what’s underneath.”

Removing a pen from her purse, Cooper lifted the oft-used pile of magazines until she could see what was hidden below. She saw three neat stacks of money held together with rubber bands. The bills on the top were hundreds. Trish reached inside the drawer and quickly flipped through the nearest brick of cash.

“They’re all hundreds,” she stated in awe.

Cooper shut the drawer. “He could have gotten credit cards with his fake documents, but not cash. Miguel must have had another source of income besides his paycheck from Love Motors.”

“The cash is definitely odd. And have you noticed that there’s nothing personal in this apartment? No photographs, no letters—none of the paperwork we all have stuffed into drawers.” Trish walked out of the bedroom and Cooper followed her into the kitchen. “No catalogues, nothing’s taped to the fridge, there’s no calendar. Why is it our young man made no imprint on his own home?”

“Maybe he was afraid to,” Cooper suggested and then jumped as she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. Expecting Phil, Trish hustled to the sofa and slumped against the cushions.

The footsteps halted at the door and someone knocked tentatively.

Cooper’s heart began drumming loudly, but she opened the door to find an attractive Asian woman in her early twenties on the other side.

“Oh!” she squeaked. “I’m sorry! I heard people in here and wondered . . .” She leaned to the left in order to peer around Cooper. Spying Trish, she apologized again, yet was too curious to leave. “Are you Miguel’s friends?”

Cooper answered vaguely, “We’re visitors.”

Confused, the young woman peeked at Trish again. “Are you with the police? They interviewed me last week. Miguel liked to play his music too loud sometimes, but other than that, I hardly ever knew when he was home.” She sounded regretful. “I tried to get to know him. He seemed to like to go clubbing, so I invited him out with me and my friends, but he never came.” She pushed a wave of glossy black hair back from her face and studied Cooper’s mismatched eyes. “I’m Lisa. Who are you?”

“Feel free to come in,” Trish hailed her from the sofa. “I’m Trish Tyler. I’m a realtor. This is Delilah, my client.”

Lisa tiptoed into the apartment. “They’re already leasing this apartment? What are they going to do with all his stuff? Once, when I was opening Christmas cards by the mailboxes, I asked Miguel if he’d gotten any, but he said he had no family. Isn’t that so sad?” Her eyes grew wistful. “He was really sweet. I had a crush on him, big-time, but he wasn’t interested.”

“His loss, I’d say.” Trish gave the girl’s arm a maternal pat. “What happened to Miguel?”

“You don’t know?” Lisa’s jaw dropped. “He died. No one knows how. The police were here for hours. I know because I was home with a nasty virus. They even had those drug dogs, like you see at the airport.” She seemed pleased to be performing for a captivated audience. “But I heard one cop tell another cop that the place was clean.” She crossed her arms. “I could have told them that. Miguel was no drug dealer! He was polite and nice and shy. And he never had anyone over, either, so if was