That’s why I work alone.
Not much choice. I climbed the tree with caution that would have made my Navy SEAL instructor proud. Through the heavy humidity, over the rail, past the dead body, into the bedroom. Nothing shone in the moonlight.
I realized that I should erase the answering machine message. So maybe it was good that Murray dropped his phone. I eased through the condo, found the offending technology, and pressed delete.
I retraced our steps. Back in the third floor bedroom, I crawled along the shadowed floor and used my hands to brush the strands of carpet. Nothing. I eased into the bathroom. I tried the flashlight. Next to the toilet I saw a gleam of plastic. His phone was in shards covered in puke. I used a quarter of a roll of toilet paper to encase the mess then retraced my steps. I’d be tempted to throttle the reporter myself, if he was even still alive when I got back down, or hadn’t been captured, or passed out from his wound, or crawled away, or given us away. After observing everything outside and in, I swung off the balcony and clambered back down the tree trunk. I saw no flashes of light. I heard no thunks of bullets striking.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
I dumped the dampened shards of his phone in Murray’s lap.
He caught the whiff and began to toss it away.
I said, “It’s evidence of where we were. Just hang on to it.”
Luckily, he was all puked out.