“My apartment. He’s-I think he’s really dead.” The last words were a frantic whisper.
“Are you safe? Is there somebody else in the apartment? Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never killed somebody before,” Robby shot back. “I’m scared.”
Calder put his phone on speaker, shoving his legs into the jeans he found on the floor. “Listen, angel face, I’m on my way. If you’re sure you’re safe, you need to hang up and call 911. Do you understand?”
There was a shuddery sob. “He looks really bad. I don’t think he’s breathing.”
The kid was clearly going into shock. “Hey, I know you’re scared. I’m on my way. But youhaveto call the police. Do you hear me? It’s already going to look suspicious that you called me and not them. Hang up and don’t say a word about what happened until I get there.”
“You’re coming?” Robby asked, sounding uncertain.
“I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Hurry,” Robby begged before disconnecting the call.
Calder shoved a white t-shirt over his head, stuffed his wallet in his back pocket, and pulled the pistol from its hiding place in his top drawer. Once he had his keys in hand, he called up Linc.
“It’s three in the morning. Somebody better be dead,” Linc growled into the phone.
Calder gave a humorless laugh. “Funny you should say that. I need a criminal defense attorney.”
“Christ, Calder. Tell me you didn’t kill some hookup’s spouse. Or worse. A client.”
“Not me. Robby Shaw just called me in a panic saying he killed somebody in his apartment.”
“What? What happened?” Linc asked, sounding much more alert than just a moment ago.
“No idea. But the kid sounded real shook up.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for so long Calder checked to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected. “Wyatt just left his house a few hours ago,” Linc finally managed. “Why the hell did he call you? You messing around with this kid?”
“Hey, he’s not a client,” Calder said by way of an answer. “Are you going to help me out with an attorney, or do I need to Google while I’m driving?”
Linc grunted. “I’m on it. I know a guy. I’ll have him call you.”
When Calder pulled into the lot of Robby’s building, the place already crawled with patrol cars. He walked towards the building’s entrance with purpose, flashing his credentials at the officers and closing them too quickly for them to get a good look. He ducked beneath the crime scene tape, making his way past a group of shell-shocked building staff toward the elevators in the middle of the hall.
A pale, sweaty, plain-clothed detective with a receding hairline and a paunch over his waistband held out a hand to stop him once he reached Robby’s floor. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be up here.”
Calder didn’t even hesitate. “That’s my boyfriend’s apartment.” He pointed to the open doorway.
The man’s brows shot up. “Is that kid even legal?”
“Can I see him or not?” Calder drawled, refusing to take the bait.
“Don’t touch anything,” the man snapped, stepping aside.
Calder tipped his head. “Much obliged.”
The detective rolled his eyes, following Calder into the apartment. He stopped short just inside the doorway. It looked like a massacre had taken place. On the floor was a large middle-aged man with a neat inch-long gash in the side of his neck. He had a pasty gray pallor to his skin, and his jaw hung in a grotesque caricature of a scream. Robby sat on the sofa, his once white long-sleeved henley now mostly rust-colored. He cradled Casanova on his lap, the dog’s body covered in bloody handprints.
When Robby noticed Calder, his face collapsed and he started to cry. Calder’s heart seized at the boy’s tears. He couldn’t think of anything else to do but wrap his arms around him.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” he said, his words muffled against Calder’s chest.
“Shh, I know. It’s going to be alright. We’ll get it sorted out. I called an attorney.”
