I gurgled.
We reached the curb in front of his apartment, and we both just sat in the vehicle, no doubt running through what had happened the last time we’d been there. Fresh snow had blanketed the bloody sidewalk, but a hint of red could still be seen at the edges of fresh ice. I took a deep breath and opened my door, stepping into the day.
An instant and raw cold pierced my jacket and burned my nose. I hurried around the other side of the SUV to open Bernie’s door and take his bag of stinky Santa clothes. In silent agreement, we hustled as fast as possible across the treacherous ground, up the stairs next to the destroyed railing, and right into the front door of the building.
We both let loose sighs of relief at not being shot.
A rough set of stairs sat to the right of the entryway across from a door, while another door was straight ahead.
“That’s me.” Bernie pointed ahead of us and lumbered toward his door, fumbling in his bag for a key to unlock it. We moved inside a one bedroom apartment with hand-me-down furniture and dust covering the cold surfaces. “Florence got the house in the divorce, and I haven’t entertained very much.” He looked around as if seeing the dismal place for the first time. “I guess I’ve been a little down.”
I stepped inside, rubbing my arms to increase circulation. “Does your heat work?”
“Yeah.” He shut the door and moved for the thermostat near the utilitarian kitchen, which wasn’t much separate from the living room. There was no place for a table, so I figured he ate on the sofa watching the older television, which had been placed on a dinged-up blue dresser. “That should help.”
I set his bag down, the coffee and cinnamon rolls making themselves known in my stomach. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?” Hopefully it’d be cleaner than the rest of the place.
“Sure.” He gestured down the one narrow hallway. “Only have the one. I’ll see if I can scrounge up coffee.”
“I’ve already had too much today, but thanks.” My boots sank into the rust-colored carpet, leaving a little snow, but no way was I taking them off. The carpet was as dusty as the furniture, so who knew if it had ever been vacuumed. Bernie really had been down lately. It took me a second, but I realized he hadn’t even put up a tree. It seemed like a shame that a guy who played Santa all the time didn’t even have a tree.
I reached the first door, which had been covered at one time or another with at least ten different types of paint and had an oddly pretty plastic doorknob that looked like crystal. I pushed it open and stepped into a dated bathroom with a large green toilet and matching sink. The tile around the exposed shower was a 50’s style pink. The bathroom was okay, and I used it quickly, washing my hands and stepping outside.
The door across the hallway was open, and a massive painting of Florence in a garden hung over the bed. Taking a closer look, I determined it was actually a photograph and not a painting.
“I sent it to one of those places on the internet, and they did something fancy with it to make it look like a painting,” Bernie said at my elbow.
I looked at the scattered pictures of the two of them across his dresser, and they all appeared to have been dusted. He’d really loved her. “I’m sorry, Bernie,” I said, turning back toward the living room.
“Me, too.” He sighed heavily and followed me.
A sharp rap on the door had us both jumping.
We turned and looked at each other, our eyes wide.
“Bernie McLintock? This is the Timber City Police. Open up.”
My heart settled back where it should be upon recognizing Grant Pierce’s voice. I looked at Bernie. “This probably isn’t good.”
Bernie appeared to be done. Just plain done. “Okay.” Pushing his white hair back with one gnarled hand, he moved in front of me and opened the door to Pierce and two uniformed officers.
Pierce lifted an eyebrow at me. “Bernie McLintock, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lawrence Forrest.” He handed the arrest warrant to me. “DNA came back—your client’s on the knife as well as the body, including beneath the vic’s fingernails.”
Bernie turned around to be handcuffed.
“Pierce, come on. Somebody tried to kill him. Obviously he’s a victim,” I protested.
Pierce shrugged as the uniform set the cuffs in place. “Or he’s involved in something, and his criminal friends don’t want him to talk. Have him talk to us, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“He was shot last night. Be careful with him,” I said, tucking the warrant in my bag.
Bernie’s chest moved with a sigh. “Would you call Florence for me? She’ll bail me out. She’s done it before when I got that DUI.”
“Sure. Don’t say anything, and I’ll find you after court.” I tried not to wince that he’d just asked his possible co-conspirator to bail him out in front of the investigating detective. I truly didn’t think either one of them had anything to do with Lawrence’s death. “If Florence gets you out before I’m done, leave me a message, and we’ll meet up later. Don’t worry, Bernie. We’ll figure it out.”
Pierce gave me a look screaming that I couldn’t promise that.
I lifted my chin. “If you’re half as good of a detective as you think, you’ll figure out who really killed Lawrence.”
