I called Erickson and told him to cut the kid loose. We didn't have enough for an arrest at this point.
JD and I headed back to the station to fill out after-action reports and log the helmet into evidence.
By that time, Tabitha had sent me a download link for the security footage. I called her back and said I would need a copy of the full 24-hour timeline. Maybe we could place Noah in the apartment separate from the time of the assailant.
I looked at my watch. We still had time to track down Brandon before tonight's fashion show. Ginger and Cinnamon were modeling, along with a few other high-profile models. It was slated to be quite the event, and something neither JD nor I wanted to miss. Scantily clad beauties prancing around in frilly lingerie. Toned skin, all-natural perky assets. I couldn’t think of a better place to spend the evening.
Grace sent me links to Brandon’s social media pages. From there, I was able to figure out he bartended at Swell.
I found Denise at her desk, and we chatted a bit. I asked her to run background on Brandon. DMV records indicated he lived at the Delphine. It was another popular midrise.
Brandon had a drug possession charge and an assault and battery, but otherwise, he had stayed out of major trouble. It looked like he’d been involved in a bar fight and gotten popped with a bag of marijuana.
“He’s cute,” Denise said, looking at his mugshot.
“He could be a murderer,” I quipped.
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” she said with a frown.
"How are you feeling?” I asked.
"I'm getting there,” she said.
Denise was recovering from injuries she had sustained during our last adventure. After that experience, I wasn't sure she'd ever want to get back into the field. I couldn't blame her if she lived out the rest of her career behind a desk. No shame in that.
I thanked her for the information, then we left the station and set out for the Delphine.
We pulled into the visitor lot, and I found a place to park. JD and I hopped out and made our way to the main entrance.
I buzzed random numbers at the call box until somebody let us in. We strolled through the lobby and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Brandon lived in #407. I put a fist against the door and waited for a response.
The sound of a television filtered down the foyer. I figured somebody was home. Footsteps shuffled to the door, and Brandon answered.
I flashed my badge and made introductions.
He was a handsome man in his mid-20s with wavy sandy-brown hair, a chiseled jaw lined with a day’s worth of stubble, and narrow blue eyes. He had a muscular physique and stood about 6’1”. He could have easily been the man underneath the motorcycle helmet. He was a little bulkier than Noah.
"Is there some kind of problem?”
"I'm hoping you can help us. You were supposed to have a date with Abigail Jordan last night, is that correct?”
He looked confused. "Yeah. How did you know?”
I ignored the question. "Did you go on that date?”
"No. She stood me up.”
"Did you go by her apartment?”
"No. She was supposed to meet me at Blue Ruin. But she never showed up. I called her a couple of times and figured she had found a better option." He grinned. "It all worked out. I met this smoking hot redhead." Then he muttered aside, "To tell you the truth, she was a lot more fun. Better in bed."
"Abigail's dead.”
His eyes rounded. "No shit? Really?”
"Really," I said.
"What happened?”
