She beamed at me. “That’s very kind of you.”
I relieved her of the bag.
“Thank you, dear.” To her granddaughter she added, “Homework all done, honey?”
“Of course,” Theo replied.
With another smile, Mrs. Harris got back on the elevator. “Come up for more cookies if you get hungry,” she said as the doors closed.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Theo, already heading down the hall.
I passed through the courtyard and into the back wing of the building. I pushed open the door to the alley and kicked down the doorstop before stepping outside.
The bag of garbage slipped from my hand and slumped to the ground.
Then I screamed.
Chapter
Fifty-One
“Is he dead?” Theo asked, more curious than worried.
I, on the other hand, was definitely worried. And horrified. And feeling sick.
“I’m scared to check,” I admitted.
“Nudge him with your foot,” she suggested.
Hoffman was my ex, and a total jerk, but I couldn’t bring myself to treat him like the bag of garbage at my feet. Theo, who’d ended up following me toward the back of the building, had cruised outside when she heard my scream. Judging by the lack of looky-loos, nobody else had heard me, or everyone who had was pretending they hadn’t.
I cautiously approached Hoffman where he lay sprawled face down by the dumpster. His brown hair was matted with blood, and red splatters decorated the shoulder and hood of his heather gray sweatshirt. His messenger bag lay next to him, too flat to contain any bottles.
I crouched down and reluctantly pressed two fingers to the side of Hoffman’s neck.
I stood up and backed away. “He’s alive.” I tugged my phone out of my pocket. “I’d better call for help.”
“Not yet,” Theo said, unzipping her backpack. “Take his fingerprints first.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t you want to compare his prints to the ones in the speakeasy?”
“I need to call an ambulance. And the police. Someone clearly attacked him.”
“Another thirty seconds won’t kill him.”
This was one time I wouldn’t be swayed by Theo.
She crossed her arms and glared at me while I called 911. When I hung up a minute later, she tried again.
“We’ve probably got a couple of minutes before anyone shows up. You could still get his prints.”
“And how would I explain to the cops why he’s got black ink on his fingers?” I asked, standing firm.
Theo patted the backpack on her lap. “I’ve got wet wipes in here. My mom makes me carry them.”
Thankfully, the wail of a siren reached our ears. That wasn’t exactly an uncommon sound in the city, so I wasn’t sure if it was heading for the alley until the firetruck turned off the street and cut its siren.
