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“You can play games all you want, Mr. Babbitt.” Mr. Weaver, the obese manager of CeCe’s apartment building, stood in CeCe’s doorway sweating. “Now step away from the door and let me in.”
“No.” CeCe held his place. “You have no right to come in without notice.”
“I got every goddamn right, I manage this building.” Weaver pulled his stained T-shirt over his wide nose. “Your apartment’s stinking up the whole damn hallway.”
CeCe clenched his teeth. “It’s not my apartment.”
Ms. Okorie pointed at CeCe from her door. “It is you.”
“It is you.” Mr. Choo rushed past, holding his nose.
“It’s not me,” CeCe growled.
More tenants came from their apartments, holding their noses.
“I’ve had enough.” Weaver raised his flabby arm, shifting musk in CeCe’s direction.
CeCe grimaced. “Look who’s talking about smells.”
“Don’t worry about me, you little turd.” Weaver’s chins wobbled. “I’ll be back tomorrow with the police and if it still stinks in here you’re out. You understand me, boy? Your ass is out on the street and you can take that funk with you.” He waddled to the stairs and stopped, giving CeCe the evil eye. “Tomorrow morning, Babbitt.” He left.
The tenants stared at CeCe.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
He slammed his door.
****
“Hey.” Connie caught Detective Phelps three days later.
“Hey there.” Phelps sat at her desk, unwrapping the oily meatball sandwich. “Want some?”
“Ugh.” Connie held her stomach. “That’s way too greasy for me. Needed to ask you something.”
“How’s Dee? Heard she left town on an emergency.”
“Yeah she has a friend or something sick. Um, how’s the Jessica Jacobs case going?”
“Not too good.” Phelps stuck a straw in the can of her strawberry soda. “I’m not finding any leads and her body hasn’t turned up yet. Something on your mind?”
“I told you my theory.”
“I understand you don’t like CeCe but that doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”
“Come on, Pipa. He’s lying about not knowing Jessica and he lied about his building being renovated.”
“We don’t know he lied about Jessica and so what if he lied to his aunt?” Phelps munched. “Maybe he doesn’t want her snooping around in his business. It doesn’t prove he’s a killer and before you mention Jeanette Dobbins he was cleared and we have to respect that.”
“Where is he then? He hasn’t been in the last few days.”
Detective Le halted before passing Phelps’ desk. “You guys talking about CeCe?”
“What makes you say that?” Phelps asked.
Le chuckled, opening his sticky bun. “Connie’s always talking about CeCe.”
She sighed, holding her hip. “What’s it to you?”
The corners of his almond-shaped eyes lifted. “He doesn’t work here anymore.”
Phelps dipped a fry in a pool of ketchup. “What?”
“Yeah, he up and quit.” Le licked icing from his finger. “Hasn’t it been weird to you guys lately? Everyone’s vanishing.” He bit into the gooey pastry. “Lucian, CeCe, and now Dee’s run off.”
“Shit.” Connie marched to her desk and called CeCe’s apartment building.
“This is Mr. Weaver,” a man answered. “May I help you?”
Connie leaned forward in her chair. “Is this the building manager?”
“Yes it is.” He wheezed. “Are you interested in a rental?”
“This is Detective Connie Wilks of the Baltimore Police. Does a CeCe Babbitt still live there?”
“No and good riddance. He was a pain the ass.”
“Shit.” Connie sighed, rubbing her forehead. “He’s gone?”
“Yep.” He crunched as if he were eating chips. “Never been happier to see a tenant leave. There was this awful funk coming out of his apartment and it was driving everyone crazy.”
“Do you know where he went? Or where he’s staying now?”
“Hell no and I don’t care. Is that all you wanted?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a good day then.” He hung up.
“Damn it.” Connie rubbed her mouth. “CeCe. How did we let you get away?”