I gave him a sassy grin. “Good, because you’re stuck with it forever.”
“Let’s talk to the neighbors,” Jack said. “CSI team should be here any minute.”
The girl next door answered on the second knock—young, early twenties, yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. Her hair was piled in a messy bun, and she squinted at Jack’s badge like she needed glasses and wasn’t wearing them.
“Yeah, I know Andre. Kind of.” She leaned against the doorframe. “We’re not friends or anything, but we say hi in the hall. He helped me carry groceries once when my bag broke. Seems like a sweet guy.”
“Did you ever see anyone visiting him?” Jack asked. “Friends, a girlfriend?”
“There’s a woman.” She perked up a little, the way people did when they had something useful to contribute. “Pretty. She’s mixed, maybe Black and Asian. Great hair. I saw her a few times over the past couple months, usually in the evenings.”
“Did you ever talk to her? Get a name?”
“No, we never spoke. I just figured she was his girlfriend.” She shrugged. “They seem happy. He walks her to her car sometimes, kiss her goodbye. Cute stuff.”
“What kind of car?”
“Um.” She squinted again, thinking. “Silver, I think? One of those little Hondas.”
“Did you notice anything unusual recently? Any strangers, any arguments?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s pretty quiet up here.” Her face clouded. “Is Andre okay? Did something happen?”
“We’re looking into some things,” Jack said, which wasn’t an answer at all. He handed her a card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
The man across the hall was older, late sixties, with the look of someone who’d retired from something physical—broad shoulders, thick hands, a military tattoo faded to blue-green on his forearm.
“Know him well enough to say hello,” he said. “Polite. Respectful. You could tell he’d served.”
“Did you ever see him with anyone? A girlfriend, friends?”
“The girl, sure. Pretty thing, always dressed nice. Saw her coming and going for a couple months now.” He rubbed his jaw. “There was another guy too. Older white fella, looked like he’d been through it. Face all beat up, you know? Like a fighter. He’d pick Andre up sometimes, early mornings. They’d leave together in the guy’s truck.”
“What kind of truck?” Jack asked.
“Old Chevy, I think. Dark blue. Beat to hell.”
“How often did you see them together?”
“A couple times a week, maybe. Sometimes more.” The man shrugged. “Figured it was a workout buddy or something.”
“Did you ever hear what they talked about?”
“Nah. I mind my own business.” He paused. “The kid’s dead, isn’t he? That’s why you’re here.”
Jack didn’t confirm or deny. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else?—”
“I’ll call.” The man took the card, studied it, then looked up with tired eyes. “He was a good kid. You could tell just by looking at him. Whatever happened, he didn’t deserve it.”
Nobody ever did. That was the hell of it.
CSI had shown up and were doing their thing in the apartment, so we walked back to the Tahoe in silence, the evening air thick and heavy around us. The parking lot lights had flickered on while we were inside, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made the world feel older and sadder than it was.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the cash. Thousands of dollars, hidden behind a wall like a secret. Like a sin.
“The girlfriend’s prints are probably all over that apartment,” Jack said as we reached the truck. “The trainer’s too, if they spent any time there.”
“Daniels will find them. And once we have prints, we can run them.”
