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Eleven

Chantelle Carson’s apartment building could have used some TLC. The eaves sagged, and the paint on the front door was chipped. Given the rundown exterior, Madison didn’t hold much hope for a nicer interior.

Officer Harrison, who had been posted at the back entrance to the Bernsteins’ property, was standing outside Carson’s door. “Detectives,” he said and added a smile. “The door’s unlocked.”

“Thanks.” Good thing for his well-being he hadn’t pulled out “ma’am” like he had earlier.

“I spoke to the building manager,” Harrison said. “You know, when I got the key to the vic’s apartment.”

“Did you tell the manager that Chantelle Carson was murdered?” Madison drilled him with a glare.

“Uh, yes, ma’am.”

And there it was! That word! She was only thirty-six, not fifty—the fact she probably had the better part of fifteen years on the officer aside. “Detective Knight,” she seethed.

“Sorry, Detective, and should I have refrained from telling the manager?” Harrison looked from Madison to Terry, who shook his head.

“What’s done is done,” Terry told him.

She was too angry to speak. It would have been nice to see the manager’s initial reaction to the news. “Please let the manager know we’d like to speak with—”

“Done,” Harrison rushed out, standing tall and puffing out his chest. “I told him that detectives would be wanting to speak with him before the day’s over. He said he’d get himself a coffee on account of the fact he’s normally early to bed.”

Madison took a deep breath, searched within for an ounce of patience. “And the man’s name?”

“Theo Green, apartment 101, ma—”

She met his gaze, killing the ma’am on his tongue. She put on a pair of gloves and turned the door handle, letting herself and Terry inside.

A standing coatrack was positioned to the right of the door, the light switches behind it. Madison flicked them all on, revealing a compact, boxy space. There were some windows, their curtains drawn. Given the apartment’s location on the north side of the building, the space was probably full of shadows even during the day.

The living room was straight ahead, sparsely decorated with cheap, possibly secondhand furniture. To the right of the entry was a galley-style kitchen with laminate counters and cabinetry faces and hardware that dated back to the sixties. The backsplash was a patterned tile illustrating weaved baskets with flowers on some, garlic bulbs on others.

But it wasn’t just the dated decor and the cheap furnishings that made the place feel grimy; there was a strong chemical smell that seemed to be trying to hide a musty odor.

“Can’t believe Carson went from homes in the north end to this.” She was in a state of disbelief.

“Barrett said that Abbott destroyed her.”

“Well, here’s proof her finances took a hit. When the bank opens on Monday, we’ll need to talk to that banker, Alan Lowe, the one named on the piece of paper from Carson’s pocket.”

Terry nodded.

Madison walked through the apartment. Things didn’t get any better. A bathroom that had mold in the grout and a green toilet, sink, and tub. At least they matched.

A single bedroom that was barely big enough for a queen bed, dresser, and nightstand. A black-mold spot on the ceiling where there’d been a leak—or still was.

Madison grasped to find something good, but it was impossible. Even the building’s location in the east end put it close to industrial buildings and the power generation plant. She never researched it but heard that living too close to one wasn’t good for your health. Regardless, what seemed apparent was Chantelle Carson’s life had taken a nosedive that led her to moving here. What Lana Barrett had told them appeared to be true, but they still had to prove this Saul Abbott character was responsible.

Madison glanced around the room, taking it in. For someone coming from money, Carson’s bed didn’t even have a headboard or footboard. It was just sitting on a wheeled metal frame. But the bed was made, a white duvet spread over it. There was a tower dresser, four drawers, of honey-colored wood and a mismatched nightstand. The latter held an alarm clock and a water glass on a coaster. That touch told Madison that Carson worked with what she had. Madison lifted the glass and noted how the water had evaporated and left rings on the inside. “This has been here for a day or two.”

“We know she didn’t make it home last night; maybe she wasn’t here the night before either.” Terry backed out of a closet he’d been in, holding a book.

“What is that?”

He thumbed through the pages. “Looks like a diary to me. Appears to be how she felt while going through her separation and divorce.”

“We’ll definitely want to take that with us.” It could have been Carson’s shrink who suggested she record her feelings and emotions, assuming she had one. Madison had been seeing one for a while now, something that had started as a mandatory requirement by her sergeant, but she’d continued seeing Dr. Tabitha Connor even after that time had passed. Her next appointment was this coming Monday.

“Not clear on how it will help solve her murder, but okay.”

“Don’t know until we take a closer look, do we?” She let her question sit and then added, “We discussed the possibility that Carson may have been planning to confront Abbott. Her intentions could be in that journal. Even if it doesn’t cover Abbott, the journal might help us identify someone in her life with whom she had an issue or conflict.”

Terry stuck his head back into the closet and reemerged with a shoebox. He lifted the lid and held it so Madison could see inside. “Looks like there are more journals.”

“We’ll take them all.”

Madison returned to the living room. A sagging corduroy sofa, small flatscreen TV, and Blu-ray player. No stereo or sound system. A lidded ottoman served double duty as a coffee table and a storage container. A small bamboo tray sat on top of it with the TV remote and a box of tissues. Madison sat the tray on the couch and opened the ottoman. Inside was a laptop and its power cord. She removed both. They’d take them to Cynthia for her and her team to look over. There was also a small stack of bills from Stiles Wireless, a service provider for internet and cell phones. A customer herself and familiar with their invoices, Madison confirmed the billing was to Chantelle Carson and scanned down to see that Carson had Stiles Wireless manage both her internet and her phone. The account was current. She compared the phone number to the one she’d tried earlier that was disconnected. They were different.

She called Cynthia. When she answered, Madison gave her the new ten digits. “I’ll need you to trace this when you get a chance. Might lead us to her phone, the crime scene, possibly her attacker.”

“I’ll get to it as soon as possible. Mark and I are just pulling into the lot at Carson’s building.”

“Thanks.” Madison ended the call and updated Terry.

“Glad they’re here. They can bag up the laptop, its cord, and the journals.” He slipped into the kitchen and started opening cabinets.

Madison came up behind him. “Looking to fix yourself a snack?”

“Not a bad idea since it’s well past dinner hour and you didn’t stop anywhere for us to get food.”

“My chocolate bar carried me over quite nicely.” She realized that she’d had a few hours nausea-free. Maybe whatever bug she had was gone now.

“Huh,” he grumbled and continued opening and closing doors. “Oh.”

If I could take that one word away from him today… “What is it?”

He came out with a heap of envelopes. He fanned them. Past Due or Final Notice stamps adorned all of them, and none had been opened. Probably because she couldn’t pay them, but she hadn’t thrown them out either, so she must have had intentions to clear her debt.

“Poor lady,” Madison lamented.

“Quite literally.”

Madison rolled her eyes.

“Honey, I’m home,” Cynthia called out.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to live here.” Madison proceeded to fill Cynthia and Mark in on the journals, laptop, and the Stiles Wireless bills. “There’s also a bunch of past due notices—” Madison flicked a hand toward the kitchen counter where Terry had abandoned the pile of envelopes.

“Okay.” Cynthia turned to Mark, who was behind her, and gestured for him to get to work.

“How did you make out with the back driveway at the Bernsteins’, their upper deck, and Carson’s car?”

Cynthia smirked and shook her head. To Terry, she said, “She doesn’t give anyone much time to catch their breath.”

“I know you live for this,” Madison kicked out, aware her best friend loved her job.

“Nothing on the stairs or railing. The drops on the dirt were blood. Same type as Carson’s, but it will take time to confirm DNA, as you know.”

“And the shoeprint a match to her boots?” Madison asked.

“Could be.”

“Anything in her car?”

“Yeah, found pictures of some guy in the glovebox.”

“Some guy…” Slight goose bumps rose on Madison’s arms.

“If I were to wager a guess, I’d say she was stalking him.”

“And when were you going to fill me in on that?” Madison’s tone was sharper than intended, but it felt like Cynthia had held back potentially important information.

“I am now.” Cynthia moved past Madison.

“I’d like to see the pictures,” Madison said.

“They’ve already been locked in evidence.”

Madison talked herself down from lashing out at her friend. “There’s someone who is of interest to the case.”

“And when were you going to tell me?” Cynthia cocked her head and smiled.

“Trying to. Carson’s ex was a con man. We still need to find him. The guy in the pictures… was he good-looking, blond?”

“Yeah,” Cynthia said.

“Could be Saul Abbott.” Madison looked at Terry.

“Who?” Cynthia asked.

“The someone who is of interest to the case, Cynthia. Keep up,” Terry teased.

“You two have the ability to drive me crazy sometimes.” Cynthia set out to join Mark in the collection of items and processing of the apartment.

Madison faced Terry. “So Carson was stalking Abbott.”

“Sounds possible,” he said slowly. “But it’s still a leap from that to her winding up stabbed. Besides, remember GB. How does that connect to Abbott?”

Madison sighed and worried her lip. She had no idea. Yet.