The woman’s shoulders unhitched. “I told Noah that landlord of his wouldn’t just take it lying down. But does he ever listen to me?”
Apparently not. He’d shut down his Facebook account and had never given her his phone number. When it became clear that Boswell really didn’t live there, and that his charming “friend” truly didn’t know where he was—or even how to get hold of him—I left her my business card and retreated from the concrete stoop.
Once we were out of earshot from the house, Carl said, “This isn’t a murder investigation.”
I wondered what that had to do with anything…until I considered the tone I’d taken with the witness. Who wasn’t technically a witness. Since Noah Boswell hadn’t committed any crime.
We paused beside his nice car and I jammed my notepad into my pocket. “Maybe if people weren’t always acting so shifty I wouldn’t need to start grilling them.”
“The details of their personal lives aren’t relevant here, not unless they pertain to psychic matters. You’re just trying to give the man an assessment. That’s all. And if he doesn’t want us to find him? His loss.”
Playing devil’s advocate, I could see why someone might want to stay off Big Brother’s radar. I’d never personally had the choice. Then again, maybe if the FPMP in its current form had existed back when I was first diagnosed, I would’ve been spared a couple years’ limbo in a psychiatric institution and a lot of unnecessary meds.
I considered the license plate Carl had run a few minutes ago while I was busy annoying the woman with my knocking. “What now? We find Boswell’s car?”
Carl said, “I’ll see if Director Kim wants this guy bad enough to chase down his vehicle. But in the meantime, try to refrain from threatening the public. It only brings the agency unwelcome attention.”
If Laura wants him bad enough.If. Of course she would, I reasoned. She was a medium. Ghosts freaked her out. If there was anyone she’d double down on, it was Boswell.
Besides—things just weren’t adding up. And the less he wanted to talk to me, the more I wanted to press. Maybe youcould take the shield out of my wallet, but you couldn’t take a dozen years on the force out of my brain.
We headed back to the office, where I pled my case with Laura in person.
“This guy’s being evasive,” I said. “I think we need to find him and interview him.”
Laura looked at me skeptically. “As much as I’d like for you to check out this haunted review, if he doesn’t want to talk to you, we can’t exactly force him.”
I tried to play it cool, but my niggling feeling wouldn’t shut up. “Maybe he just needs a little convincing.”
Laura nodded. “I’ll have Logistics scan the traffic cam data for his license plate. But, Vic, remember…this isn’t a murder investigation.”
Why did everyone keep telling me that?
* * *
Since our attempts to contact Boswell had turned up absolutely nothing—nothing but my suspicion that he was hiding something—Carl and I figured we should take a look at his haunted ex-apartment.
The building in question was just another few minutes down Belmont in a semi-gentrified, semi-dilapidated neighborhood that was pretentious and overpriced on one block and graffiti-covered and derelict the next. Boswell’s old apartment was somewhere in between. There was a pricy coffee joint on the corner, but a lot of the lawns had that rundown look where the edging was overrun with a patchwork of Dorito bags, flattened soda bottles and facemasks.
While we waited for the property manager to let us in, I scoped out the perimeter, but none of my senses were assaulted, aside from the typical five. The weeds sprouting through the cracks looked indignant and the whole thing smelled like sour dumpster.
The apartment in question was still vacant, though I wouldn’t be so quick to credit Boswell’s review as being the reason. People are weird, and plenty of folks would pay extra for an apartment that came with a ghost attached. Especially if they could rent it out on AirBNB.
If I had to guess, I’d say the problem was the apartment itself. Third-floor walkup, no elevator, hallways that reeked of cigarette smoke, and a neighbor with a TV loud enough to vibrate the floorboards.
The inside of the place was just as unappealing as the outside. Patchy varnish on the wood floors, mismatched appliances, and mini blinds hanging crooked. Even though the whole apartment was painted a solid, unrelenting shade of landlord white, it didn’t look restful. Only cheap.
Still, when I stood in one spot and squinted, I could imagine a white futon facing a too-small TV in the living room. A bed barely big enough to hold two grown men in the bedroom. And a lime-encrusted coffee pot on the kitchen counter.
The layout might not be exactly the same as my old place…but it was close enough to pass for my last apartment’s cut-rate knockoff.
I wandered through the space, checking and rechecking, until finally I settled in the living room, staring at a fake mantle obscured with at least ninety-nine coats of thick white latex paint.
“Do you want your salt?” Carl asked.
“No. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
