Chapter 41

“That’s where Detective Reed lives,” I told Franklin.

“Detectives Franklin and Crenshaw responding. We’re ten minutes out,” he informed dispatch.

Ten minutes? The way the car was performing, I thought Franklin was absurdly optimistic. Sputtering and puking black clouds of smoke, the Ford lost its battle as we neared Thirty-Fourth Street, about ten blocks northeast of our destination. Franklin thumped the steering wheel, then popped the hood. A lock of hair danced across his forehead as he jiggled sparkplugs and beat the engine with a nightstick he’d collected from the backseat. Convinced of his mechanical ineptitude, I suggested a tow truck.

He ignored me and jerked a dipstick from the engine. “Grab four quarts of oil from the trunk. The last person to fill the gas tank must have forgotten to top off Candi’s oil pan.”

Candi? “Four quarts? You can’t be serious.” I didn’t know much about car maintenance, but I did know four quarts was more consistent with a complete oil change than a “top off.” I suddenly had a hell of a lot of respect for Candi.

“Get a move on, Crenshaw,” he demanded.

I handed off the oil and climbed back inside the car while Franklin murmured lovingly to Candi, his sweet nothings barely audible over the glug-glug-glug of oil bathing a grateful reservoir.

Back on the road, we were the first to arrive at the complex. Cries of anguish, interspersed with screams for help, directed us to an apartment situated directly across from the one Reed rented.

The door lay open and, with my hand on my holster, I stuck my head inside. “Is anyone else here?” I asked the woman cradling a gunshot victim.

She shook her head. “Please, help my niece!”

“Is this your apartment?” Franklin asked. When she nodded, he asked her name.

“Joanna Phillips,” she managed between sobs.

The victim twitched involuntarily. Her eyes were vacant, but she attempted to say something, and, instead, gurgled past a mouthful of blood.

“And your niece? What’s her name?” I asked and motioned for Franklin to secure the apartment.

“Lauren. Why are you just standing there? Why aren’t you doing anything to help her?”

“All clear,” Franklin said to me. “An ambulance is on the way, ma’am.”

I saw the life leave the victim’s eyes, and I looked at Franklin, who checked her pulse. A subtle shake of his head confirmed there was no need for an ambulance.

“Joanna, were you the one who called the police?” he asked, in a tone not unlike the one he’d used when speaking to Candi.

“Yes. What does that matter? You need to do something.”

“Were you here when your niece was shot?” I asked, stooping beside her.

“No. I came home from work . . . and I . . . I found her like this.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but your niece was fatally wounded. She’s gone.”

“No, that can’t be. She’s so young. She’s got her whole life ahead of her. You’re wrong,” she said, blinking past tears and clinging to the victim. “Lauren’s gonna be just fine. You’ll see.”

“Joanna, you need to let go of her now, so we can do our job,” I said softly.

“No,” she said and tightened her grip on the victim. I attempted to untether Lauren and Joanna slapped my hands away. “I said no!” She swept Lauren’s hair from her face. “We’ll just wait right here until the ambulance comes,” she whispered to the corpse.

“We need to give the paramedics room to attend to Lauren. You want them to be able to do their job, don’t you?”

She nodded and released her grip hesitantly. Franklin and I eased the body to a prone position. I gestured toward three chairs bordering a compact kitchen island. “Why don’t you sit over there while we wait for them? I’ll sit with you.” While she considered a response, Franklin helped her to her feet. “Can I get you a glass of water? Maybe there’s someone you’d like me to call?”

She shook her head. “Lauren’s all I got in this world,” she murmured under her breath.

Franklin updated dispatch just as two units stormed the courtyard, guns drawn as they swept the darkened corridor. He called out, advising them of police presence and footsteps proceeded in our direction.

“It looks like the apartment across the way was hit, too,” Officer Chase Winfrey said following a hushed conversation with Franklin. “We’ll sweep it just to be sure whoever did this isn’t hiding inside.”

After the crime scene analysts finished collecting evidence and turned their attention to Reed’s apartment, I allowed entry to two coworkers the victim’s aunt—Joanna Phillips—had asked me to call. Detective Reed arrived and sidestepped the attendants pushing the gurney that carried the body toward the parking lot. I saw her through the open door and excused myself, promising Joanna that I’d return.

“You know the drill, Detective,” Franklin said to Reed. “We’ll need a list of everything that’s missing. You probably also know I have a better chance at winning the lottery than you have at getting your shit back.”

She toed off with him and narrowed her eyes. “I guess there’s no urgency then.” Her eyes flew to a portable safe the thieves had tossed in a corner. The door stood open with nothing inside. Her body tensed, jaw muscles flexing.

Winfrey reappeared in the doorway. “There was another break-in upstairs. Fortunately, no one was home.”

“Any witnesses?” Reed asked.

Winfrey shook his head.

“Let’s canvas the entire complex,” I suggested.

“Already in progress, Detective. Most of the residents are probably asleep, but,” Winfrey said past a shoulder shrug, “if we wait until a decent hour, some will have left for work.”

Franklin overheard and turned his back to the crime scene investigators. “Yeah, a neighbor getting whacked can be real inconvenient. We’ll lend a hand after the team is finished here.”

Winfrey nodded and slipped past Franklin to advise KC-CSI where to go next.

“Have you ever seen the victim with any men you might remember?” I asked Reed.

“I’ve never even seen the victim or anyone who lives in that apartment. The only resident I’ve met lives on the second or third floor. I ran into him after he came down the stairs one night when I was leaving for work. He was in a hurry, so our conversation consisted of a head nod.”

“The victim was a niece to the woman who lives there,” I informed her. “She told us her niece only recently moved in.”

“And you’re wondering what the odds are a rash of burglaries occurs soon after?”

I shrugged. “It crossed my mind. I’ll wake the manager and have a look at the security footage.”

Reed laughed hollowly. “The manager doesn’t live in this shithole. She calls home a swanky condo in Brentwood Village, another complex she manages.”