Page 10 of Hard Heart

Arresting Officer: Officer M. Reynolds #2176

Custody Status: Transported to Fairfax County Detention Center

Bond: Held without bond pending arraignment

See? Just a bunch of words that didn’t say much at all. The death of a young woman condensed into a few short paragraphs. The only interesting point was the part about the bedroom windows. What did “secured” mean? Locked? Latched? Painted shut? If there was any way to open a window from the outside, then surely Sykes’s defence would have leapt on that?

By the time the trial came around, it was generally accepted that the only way out of Costello’s room was through the door, and if her housemates broke it down, then presumably that had also been secured. Jammed? Locked? Who had a key? I had so many questions and so few answers. The transcript might be able to help with some of them, and the county clerk had readily offered to provide a copy, but the copying charge was five dollars per page, and the transcript was almost seven hundred pages long.

I didn’t have that kind of money, not unless I cashed the cheque from Lloyd Bester, and spending his “compensation” would feel like defeat. I wanted to show him I didn’t need his stupid son. That I could manage just fine on my own, thank you very much.

Over the past few days, I’d wavered between burying the files and forgetting I’d ever heard the name Levi Sykes, or writing a cheque to Fairfax County. Every time I took a break from studying, I’d find myself reading through old news articles, trying to understand how Ruby Costello wound up breathing her last. This Tuesday evening was no different. I’d been through almost all of the applications at work now, I’d identified eleven cases with merit, and I had enough on my plate without losing my mind to a man I’d never met.

So why couldn’t I forget him?

The case had been a huge story at the time. A locked-room mystery, a juicy murder, and eight young, photogenic roommates as suspects. Two photos appeared over and over in the media. One of the Blackstone gang in happier times, smiling for the camera, posing in a tight group with their arms around each other. They’d been friends too. The other showed Costello alone, a beautiful blue-eyed blonde laughing at something she saw off-camera. She reminded me a little of Flora.

There had also been a tenth resident at Blackstone House, an “unidentified minor” whose name had never been revealed, a footnote that fuelled rumours of kidnapping and child sacrifice. No charges relating to the minor’s presence had ever been filed. Sykes hadn’t mentioned their name in his application form, only that of Justin Norquist, who he said was the person most likely to have been paid by Big Oil to kill Costello. Of note: Norquist was now running a successful construction company. Sykes had somehow found out about this, and he had no idea where Norquist would have got the capital to start such a venture.

I’d even called my friend Petronella, whose father was a property developer back in England. She spoke with her dad, who said Norquist must have had either a reasonable amount of cash on hand or support from a bank in order to build his business so fast, and a bank would require security on any loan. He didn’t have family money. His alcoholic father had died while awaiting trial for burning down their modest home with Justin’s mother still inside it.

The mystery deepened.

I jumped when the door slammed, immediately on guard because I wasn’t expecting anyone. Heidi limped in and tossed her oversized handbag onto the sofa.

“Are you okay?” I asked, even though it was obvious she wasn’t.

“I think I broke my ankle.”

“Then shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“Do you know how much a visit to the emergency room costs?”

A lot. Dad had insisted I buy insurance, and he reimbursed me—without his help, I’d never have been able to afford medical care in the US. And even with insurance, I’d heard tales of brutal excess payments, or whatever they called those here. Co-pays?

“Okay, so rest, ice, compression, elevation.” I’d taken a first-aid course at school. “Do you have a bandage?”

“No?” She flopped onto the sofa. “Crystal was using baby oil as part of her act, and I slipped right off the freaking stage.”

“Yikes. How did you get home?”

“The manager drove me. At least the guy I fell on didn’t complain. He even gave me a tip. Said having me land in his lap was the best fun he’d had in years, and I should charge extra for that.”

“Seems a strange idea of fun.”

“Yup, but two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks. I need to DoorDash some Advil.”

“I’ve got plenty of Advil.”

Headache pills were a staple in my law firm associate survival kit. I rummaged through the freezer, and although we didn’t have any ice cubes, there was half a bag of peas that had seen better days. I wrapped it in a tea towel and tucked the makeshift ice pack under Heidi’s ankle, which was now propped up on an arm of the sofa, twice the size it should be, and turning a funny shade of purple. She swallowed a couple of painkillers too.

“Okay, good—rest, ice, and elevation. We have three out of the four,” I said. “Do you have insurance?”

She shook her head. “It’ll be fine. I just need a few days off, is all. I didn’t hear anything actually crack.”

“How loud was the music?”

“Pretty loud,” she admitted. “But I have this one routine where I’m mostly sitting on a chair, and I can run a special offer on lap dances.”