“Please, Gage?” Quinn’s voice comes back on the line, and it breaks my heart.
With a reluctant sigh, I say something I shouldn’t. “I’ll do some more digging. Okay?”
I can hear her blow her nose on the other end of the line, but then she says, “Thank you. Thank you so much, Gage. I know you’ll find the real killer because you’re the best police officer in Ames.”
Okay, now she’s just blowing smoke up my ass. “Right. I’ll see you when you get back.” Because she’s not going to let this go. And I don’t blame her.
“Bye, Gage.”
“Bye, Quinn.”
With a sigh, I put my car into Reverse, back out of my driveway, and head back over to Social Apartments. There’s something our eyewitness said that’s been bothering me. Might as well see if I can speak to Daisy Buchanan again. Maybe this time she’ll open the door all the way.
* * *
This timewhen I pull into the apartment complex, I drive directly to 1320 and park. Reaching down to my left, I pop the trunk to retrieve my Ames PD wind jacket. Since I changed into street clothes at the station, I feel as though I need to wear something identifying me as a cop doing official business, plus it’s getting colder now that fall’s setting in. Pulling that over my head, I check my pocket for my badge and contemplate adding my holster but decide against it.
When I knock on Buchanan’s door, I expect the same thing to happen as this morning, that she’ll open it an inch and that’s all, but surprisingly that’s not the case. No, this time she opens it at least six inches. It’s just enough to see her—well, most of her.
She’s short. I knew that. I’d guess close to five-two or five-three. Her hair is dark, and from what I can gather from the size of the bun on top of her head, I’d say it’s pretty long. She’s wearing glasses now, which look too big for her smallish face. I suppose it helps to see the big eyes behind them. From here, I can’t tell exactly what color her eyes are, but my best guess would be blue or perhaps gray. No matter the color, I feel a little taken aback by the size of them now that I can see two at once. Doe-eyed. That’s a good word for her.
I quickly scan down her body and note her attire. An oversized Iowa State sweatshirt hides her body and covers her down to her knees, where tights or leggings take over. Below that, I catch a flash of pink toenail polish on her bare feet.
“Officer Golden?”
“Oh, uh, yes.” I clear my throat. “Miss Buchanan, would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”
Her long lashes flutter behind her giant lenses. “More questions?” She sounds nervous.
“Yes. A few more.”
Pushing the door open wider, she steps aside and gestures for me to enter. Which is weird because this morning, she wouldn’t budge from her front door.
“Thanks,” I say as I pass through her doorway to stand in what is a mirror image of Kara Becker’s place. Daisy’s kitchen is on my left, meaning her bedroom would be to the right after the small dining nook. “Nice place.” I say it just to make small talk. Because it’s not nice. I’d go so far as to call it a hoarder’s paradise. She’s got stuff everywhere. In the living area is a two-seater couch, but on either side of that are stacks of boxes and plastic containers that hold—I lean closer—magazines, maybe? Newspapers?
Not only that, there are boxes stacked up along the wall that should lead to a small deck space, but hers is completely blocked by brown cardboard. A small television, maybe a twenty-two-inch, rests on top of old milk crates that are filled with things. I can’t tell what they are from here, but they look to be collectible items—tchotchkes is what my mom calls them.
“Yeah, well….” Clearing her throat, she points to the sofa. “Have a seat.” She pulls up a tall stool that she takes from a spot near the kitchen. It’s hard to tell for sure, because there’s a rack that holds clothing that blocks that part of the apartment from this area.
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything?” She’s getting more nervous by the minute, but a small laugh seems to break the ice. “I’ve got water.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I watch her step on the rung of the stool to rise high enough to get into the seat. I changed my mind—if she’s five feet tall, I’d be surprised.
“Did you just move in?” I’m not sure why I ask her that. I guess it’s due to the stacked boxes against the wall. I point to them.
Shaking her head, she answers me. “No. This stuff was my mom’s.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“Gone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
