“Say that you think there’s something familiar about the person in the photo after all and you’d like to see the video to confirm your suspicions.”
Theo took in the sight of my worn jeans and T-shirt with a critical eye. “Maybe wear a different outfit when you meet up with him.”
I jumped to my feet again but didn’t stalk off, even though the temptation was there. I had too many worrisome thoughts swirling around in my head, and I needed to talk them out.
“Maybe Hoffman came to the Mirage to break into my place and steal more from me,” I theorized.
“What have you got left to steal?” Jemma asked.
I decided to sidestep that question. “Maybe Freddie caught him trying to break into my apartment.” I considered what I’d said. “Except that doesn’t explain why Freddie was killed downstairs. Unless Hoffman followed or chased him down there after Freddie caught him.”
“All speculation,” Theo said.
I bristled at her dismissive tone. “What else have we got?”
“It’s not about what we’ve got now,” she said with a confident smile. “It’s about what we’regoingto get.”
I didn’t much like the sound of that.
At least I didn’t have to worry about picking a lock or otherwise forcing entry into Hoffman’s apartment. That was about the only bright side I could see as I stood outside my ex’s door that afternoon. I couldn’t entirely blame Theo and Jemma for what I was about to do. They might have been the first to voice the plan to search Hoffman’s place, but it had already been forming in my head at the time. Sure, I could have gone straight to Thor—Detective Callahan—and given him the spiel that Jemma had suggested, but I wasn’t quite ready to throw Hoffman to the wolves.
Not that I’d voiced that out loud. Jemma would have shipped me off to therapy if I’d so much as hinted that I might not want to turn Hoffman in to the cops. I had no positive feelings left for the guy, but the thought that I could have dated a murderer, even if he hadn’t yet killed anyone while we were together, threatened to chip away at my soul. I wanted to know if there was any more evidence against him before I talked to Detective Callahan. Or maybe I simply needed time to come to terms with the extent of Hoffman’s villainy. Whatever the true reason, I’d ridden the subway to Longwood in the South Bronx and hoofed it the rest of the way to the three-story brick building where Hoffman had lived since before I met him.
Fortunately, our breakup had been so abrupt that I’d never returned the key he’d given me back when we were still starry-eyed with each other. When I was starry-eyed, anyway. I was no longer certain that he’d ever felt that way about me. I’d probably been a mark right from the beginning.
My already fragile self-esteem crumbled a little more with that thought, so I tried my best to shove it into the dark, cobwebby shadows at the back of my mind.
Before leaving the Mirage, I’d taken a page out of Hoffman’s own book and pulled on a black hoodie. I’d paired it with black cargo pants that I dug out from the back of my closet. Beforedisembarking from the train, I’d pulled up the hood to hide my face from any surveillance cameras at the subway station, local businesses, and residences. Big Brother was everywhere, as Theo had reminded me before she’d zoomed off to her grandparents’ apartment.
Once inside Hoffman’s building, I jogged up the stairs to the top floor. I made sure I was alone in the corridor and then slipped the key into the lock, hating the slight tremor in my fingers. I wasn’t cut out for a life of crime, and I definitely wasn’t cut out for flying solo in a life of crime. My sidekicks had abandoned me. Theo because she had to help her grandmother prepare Sunday dinner, and Jemma because she had a date with DeVaughn.
My brain shoved Wyatt to center stage in my thoughts and shone a spotlight on him. I could have invited him along, since we’d agreed to work the case together, but Wyatt felt like a dangerous complication, one I didn’t think I could handle in my life. So I lassoed my thoughts of him with a mental rope and, with great effort, dragged them out of the spotlight.
I slipped into Hoffman’s apartment and quietly shut the door behind me. Thanks to his love of documenting every moment of his life on Instagram, I knew that he was currently off enjoying an extended weekend in the Hamptons with Tiffany. Hopefully that gave me plenty of time to search his place without getting interrupted by his sudden return. I didn’t need a repeat of what had happened at Rosario’s place.
I paused inside the door to pull on my purple gloves. To my right was a door that led to the bathroom, and the cramped kitchen was to my left. I bypassed both rooms as well as the door to the bedroom. I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to go in there. Partly because I didn’t want to face memories of intimate moments shared with Hoffman and partly because I wasn’t keen to find any evidence of what he’d been up to with Tiffany. Although I doubted he ever brought Tiffany to his place. The building was old and outdated and in serious need of TLC. It also smelledperpetually of Thai curry due to a neighbor’s obsession with the dish. Plus, cleaning was not something Hoffman bothered to do very often.
That certainly hadn’t changed, I observed as I reached the living area and took in the sight of take-out containers strewn about the room along with empty beer cans and the occasional item of clothing. Tiffany probably lived in a penthouse apartment when she wasn’t weekending in the Hamptons. Hoffman might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even he would know that the sight of this place would probably be enough to make Tiffany dump him.
I worked quickly, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. I didn’t want to get caught, and simply being in Hoffman’s place, being surrounded by his belongings, filled me with memories that now made me cringe and question my judgment. Hoffman was fairly good-looking, and he talked a good game, but now that I knew the guy behind the façade, it was hard not to feel ashamed that I’d ever fallen for him.
“Ugh,” I said aloud as I carefully looked beneath a pile of stained take-out menus.
It wasn’t the mess that had grossed me out, though. It was my memories and the effect they were having on my feelings of self-worth.
I paused my search and rolled my shoulders, blowing out a breath that made my lips wobble. My version of shaking it off. It helped enough to allow me to refocus on my reason for being there.
I made quick work of the living room and then forced myself to peek into the bedroom. It looked much the same as I remembered: rumpled sheets, an iPad on the bedside table, jeans and T-shirts strewn about.
What got me was the smell. As faint as it was, Hoffman’s scent hung in the air and sent another rush of shame through me. I backed out of the room and turned my attention to the kitchen. Ihadn’t made it far when I spotted something on the counter, sitting between the coffee maker and the microwave. I picked it up carefully with my gloved fingers, recognition and dread forming a hard lump in my stomach.
It was a label from a bottle of whiskey, with bits of broken brown glass stuck to the back of it. If I recalled correctly, it was similar—if not identical—to the label on the open bottle of whiskey that Theo and I had found in Freddie’s apartment. If Hoffman had taken the label from the smashed bottle in Freddie’s office—which might have been broken in a struggle right before the murder—that would explain why it had bits of broken glass clinging to it. But why the heck would Hoffman bother taking the label?
I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I did know that the label connected Hoffman to the murder scene.
I tugged off one glove so I could use my phone to snap several pictures of both sides of the label. With that done, I decided I didn’t want to press my luck. I eased the apartment door open and peeked out into the hall. The coast was clear, so I got the hell out of Dodge.
Chapter
