Later, Monique turned away from her window. Staring at the rain wasn't going to get her anywhere. If Rafe wanted to break up, so be it. She would survive. She always survived. She slipped her iPod into the speaker dock and let it run through her favorite playlist. Music always helped no matter what mood she was in or how bad the day had been. Nerves were making her jumpy. She needed to do something. The weak light through the window didn't show it, but her home needed a cleaning. Anything that would help take her mind off the memory of the blood across the hall.
It didn't take long, but the familiar steps of dusting, polishing, and scouring brought a measure of peace. The staleness that dulled her senses lifted, replaced with the clean sharp smell of lemon and bleach. Monique threw the cleaning cloths into the laundry basket then leaned out through the open window and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The rain had stopped while she was cleaning, the clouds evaporating to reveal the sky, pale blue just waiting for the sun to set and display stars.
She knew logically that the argument with Rafe wasn't going to end the relationship. In her head, the reality of his accusation rang true, and she couldn't argue against anything he'd said. In her heart, something twisted the words into weapons and truth didn't matter. It wasn't her fault she couldn't feel anything. He knew her history, and he knew what she'd overcome. She hated that he was trying to change her. She knew she was broken. She didn't need anyone to fix her.
Broken had worked for the last eighteen years.
She shook her head and stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray she held. Thinking wouldn't solve the problem. She needed to talk to Rafe, but she also needed to take some time to get over the fight first. If she called him right now, there was a real chance she'd make things worse while trying to fix them.
In the kitchen, Monique started a pot of coffee and then picked up the material Walk in The Past had sent about the new ghost walk she was leading in a couple of days. Vancouver had enough history to make hundreds of different tours, and she filled some time with leading tourists through the more seedy parts of town. The stories she told about the history of the area seemed to entertain. Some of them were true, and some complete fiction.
Halfway through the material, Monique heard a door slam across the hall. Fear shot through her entire body. Were the police back? She walked to the peephole and glanced out, but there was nothing to see. Monique leaned against the door. The noise had definitely come from across the hall. Wanting to avoid going back to picking over her relationship defects, and bored with the reading material, she turned the lock quietly and darted across the hall.
Monique tried to look through the peephole into the apartment, but the distortion blurred all the details. She leaned against the door, careful not to break the crime tape, and listened. Yes, there was something going on in there. Someone was tossing heavy things around.
She pushed away from the door and ducked back into her own apartment. Should she call the police? What if it was something innocent? She reached for the phone to call Rafe for advice before she remembered the fight.
She put her eye to her own peephole, but there was no one in the hall. She knew that calling the cops was the right thing to do. She knew it wasn't something innocent. Why would someone innocently be going through the murdered guy's apartment? She glanced at the phone and made her decision.
"Hey, cut it out," a woman shrieked.
Monique ran back to the door to see who had come from the apartment. It wasn't a stranger. Mac, the guy who lived next door stood in her line of sight. He had his arm around a skinny blond chick, a bottle of Jack in the hand dangling near her breasts. He slobbered a kiss on her cheek and then elbowed his door open. They fell through it, both giggling.
Glancing at the apartment across from her, Monique decided to wait. If she called the cops now, she didn't have any details. If she kept watch, maybe she would see something useful. She hated her father for many things, but mostly right now, because he'd made her afraid of the police, and that was making her look for excuses to delay the call.
Monique took the phone from its cradle and held it ready to call if something happened.
Keeping her eye to the peephole, she couldn't help imagining what was going on in the apartment. Why would someone need to come back there? Had they used a key? She tried to think back over the month since the guy had moved in. Alexi, that was his name. She'd told the police she hadn't noticed any visitors, was that really the case? There was that one time, some older guy was banging on Alexi's door. But he wasn't home, so that probably doesn't count.
Music started thumping out of Mac's apartment. It sounded like a porn sound track. Monique snorted a laugh. At least someone was having fun.
She checked the clock. Whoever was in the apartment had been there for fifteen minutes. They might not come out for a while. If she'd phoned the cops when she first heard the door, they would be here by now. She pressed 911 and waited for the response. Her hand trembled. She shook it out to release the tension, hoping that it would work, and that the trembling wasn't the start of a panic attack.
"911 what is your emergency?"
"I... um, I saw someone go into an apartment," she said. Damn nerves, damn history.
"Ma'am?"
Monique took a breath. "Sorry. I live across from the guy who got murdered... at the Montrose... on 15th... near Main. Someone is in the apartment."
"The police are on their way. Are you in danger?"
Keeping her eye on the door across the way, Monique said, "No. Whoever it is doesn't know I heard anything. They are still in there. I heard them tossing stuff around."
"The police will be there in two minutes. I'll stay on the line with you until they arrive."
"No, I'm fine. I'll wait for them. Thanks." Monique hung up the phone and put it back on the cradle.
A sound drew her back to the peephole. A man, tall, skinny, and bald was locking the door behind him. He turned to Mac's door and said something Monique couldn't make out, but he followed it with a dirty leer.
Then he turned to stare at her apartment.
She jumped back at the sight of his dark eyes burning through the door. He looked like something from a horror movie. The one monster that looked human until you got close and saw the blankness behind his eyes.
Telling herself he couldn't see her, Monique put her eye back to the peephole and was relieved that his gaze was on the floor. She watched him bend and retrieve a black gym bag from the carpet. He checked the weight of the bag and then headed to the stairwell.
The elevator chimed just as she heard the stairwell door bang shut. Monique pulled open her door to see detectives Watson and Adams step into the hall.
"He went down the stairs," she kept her voice quiet, not wanting the man to know she'd seen anything. "He just went down."
The two detectives ripped open the door and raced though. "Stop! Police!"
Monique heard the words then a clatter of feet on the uncarpeted stairs. Glancing at Mac's door in case the sound had penetrated the bump kachunk of the music, Monique retreated to her apartment. If the cops were successful, she was done for the day. That would be fine. She didn't need to get involved. She could get back to her life.
Monique grabbed a bottle of Malbec from the rack and unscrewed the top. After pouring a glass, she opened all the windows and lit a cigarette. To hell with the smell. Wine glass in hand, she stood inside the living room watching the street, hoping to see the arrest. Nothing but a few pedestrians and some guy trying to park a jeep in a space big enough for a Smart car.
She stubbed out the cigarette and blew the last lungful of smoke through the open window.
Maybe it happened out in the alley. She knew the cops didn't need to let her know what happened, but it would be nice. The memory of those black eyes burning through the peephole made her skin crawl. There was no way he would know she was there. It was just a coincidence.
She reached for her cellphone. Maybe calling Rafe would help her settle. As her fingers traced the pattern to unlock it, she decided to wait. Phoning Rafe only when she was struggling seemed unfair. If she wasn't ready to commit to him, she shouldn't be ready to use him.
In the kitchen, she topped off the wine and reached for a package of Ramen noodles. Then dropped them as someone banged on her door, and the shock stopped her heart. She braced herself on the counter to stop the sudden rush of dizziness that flooded her when her heart started again, pounding so hard it felt like she was jerking to a four-part beat.
"Hang on," she called, taking one last deep breath before she swallowed a gulp of wine.
"Ms. Duchesne?" It was Watson and he sounded worried.
If they were here, the guy must have gotten away. "Yes, just a second." She checked through the peephole before opening the door, just in case.
"Are you okay?" Detective Adams asked.
Monique recognized the canned emotions, meant to put a suspect, or victim, at ease. The good cop part of the equation. She knew to avoid believing he really cared. "I'm fine. He didn't see me. I swear I didn't confront him. Just tell me what happened. Is he still out there?"
"I can't tell you much," Watson said, glancing at the coffee pot.
Monique wasn't planning to make them feel at home, so she ignored his hint. "Does that mean you didn't catch him?"
Adams pulled out his notebook, and waited for Watson to take the lead.
"We missed him. He could have hidden too many places when he went out the back. We need to know exactly what happened. Start with what you saw."
Taking a sip of her wine, Monique sat on one of the stools at the counter. "I heard a noise.... the door slamming across the hall. I wasn't sure what was going on, so I listened at the door and heard someone banging around inside."
Watson leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "Why didn't you call us then?"
"How do you know I didn't?"
"Did you? Was he only in there a minute or two?"
Monique couldn't think of a way to avoid the question, so she shrugged. "I wasn't sure that there was any problem. It could have been you guys. I would have looked pretty stupid calling the cops if it was you."
He twisted his lips then relaxed as though he'd made a decision. "No you wouldn't. What you did was stupid. If it happens again, call. So you want to give your statement here, in your apartment?"
Wary of the change in his attitude, Monique said, "Here is fine. Like I said, I heard someone banging around the apartment. Then I decided to call. I don't know maybe I realized cops would have removed the crime tape, or something."
Adams was scribbling notes. "What did you see?"
"When I was on the phone the guy came out. Maybe fifty, around six foot, maybe a couple of hundred pounds... No, he was really thin, probably more like one-eighty. Shaved head, gray stubble. Am I going too fast?"
Adams looked up. "No, carry on."
"Okay. Weird eyes. Black like they were all pupil. Oh, maybe he was high."
"Any distinguishing marks? Scars? Tattoos?"
Monique closed her eyes and reluctantly drew on the memory of that face. "No. Just the eyes were weird."
"Anything else?"
She ran the memory like a movie. "He had a black gym bag. It seemed heavy, but there was no sound when he lifted it, so whatever was inside it wasn't hard, or metal."
Watson straightened. "Have you ever seen him before?"
Monique shook her head. Then memory flashed. "Wait. There was a tattoo on his hand, the back of his hand. It was faded but I think it was an eagle... it was clutching something square." She held out her hand for the notebook. "Let me draw it for you." She sketched quickly. An eagle's head in profile, but she couldn't put any detail around the square. She pushed it back to Adams.
"Anything else?" Watson asked.
"No that's it. So, you can go now." The words felt harsh, but Monique wanted them out of her house, wanted to start putting this behind her. She'd had plenty of practice at that.
"Do you have somewhere else to stay?" Watson actually looked like he cared. She reminded herself he was just playing good cop.
"I'm fine here." Monique hoped she was right, but what if the guy came back? "He doesn't know I called you." If he came looking, there were only six apartments on the floor. It wouldn't take him long to figure out who did call. "It could have been someone downstairs, or anyone who saw him come into the building. Anyway, what are you going to do?"
"We'll send a team to check out the apartment. They'll remove the tape like you thought, so you don't think there's a problem. Then we'll get back to the investigation." Watson gestured to Adams. "We have to go. Be careful, Ms. Duchesne."
Monique strode to the door and pulled it open. "I'm a big girl. I won't open my door to strangers. Just catch the guy, and we'll all be fine."
"It's on the list of cases. We'll solve it, just be careful."
She watched them check the lock on the door across the hall and then leave. When the elevator closed, Monique stepped back into her apartment and locked herself in. Pulling a chair away from the dining table, she jammed it under the handle again.
What did he mean? It's on the list of cases? How many of these kinds of brutal murders did they have on the list? What did it take for a case to get priority?
How long did she need to keep the door locked?