CHAPTER TWO
1821 Words
CHAPTER TWO
Mia North sat on a park bench, holding that crumpled sheet of paper, staking out the home of one of the Dallas Fort Worth Police Department’s finest—Detective Kevin Reynolds.
Well, finest is a matter of opinion, she thought bitterly, pushing away thoughts of Kelsey. Right now, her almost nine-year-old daughter would be getting out of bed.
Which meant that Mia had missed yet another home-cooked breakfast from mom.
All because of this bastard.
She checked the address. Yes. It matched. That’s where that jerk lived.
That’s where he slept, where he ate, where he enjoyed time with his family . . . while Mia North skulked around, day after day, hoping to avoid getting caught. She could barely take a single breath without worrying someone was on her tail.
Because of him.
Kevin Reynolds.
Well, Wilson Andrews, actually. Wilson Andrews was the senate hopeful who, in effort to protect his insane brother Jerry, had tried to pin a number of his crimes on Mia. She’d been an easy target, since she’d been arrested and convicted for the murder of one Ellis Horvath, who’d been stalking her young daughter Kelsey. All it had taken was Kevin Reynolds to do a little behind-the-scenes evidence-meddling, and she’d come out looking guilty as sin.
Kevin had to have been paid off by Wilson Andrews. She knew it. She knew there was a connection somewhere. There had to be.
She just had to find a way to prove it.
This felt like it. If she could get inside his house, maybe she could find some evidence that tied the detective to the senate hopeful. Maybe she could find out exactly what he was doing, lurking about the warehouse where Ellis Horvath was killed.
Her fingers curled into fists as she sat near the old beater car she’d bought for $200 off a shady lot outside of town, waiting for the man of the hour to make an appearance. He’d have to leave, soon, for work . . . wouldn’t he?
But she’d been sitting there, on the park bench across the street from his apartment building, waiting for an hour. No Reynolds.
Screw this, she thought, checking the time on her burner phone. It was almost nine o’clock. Impatient, she tucked the paper into her jacket, pulled the hood up over her dark ponytail, pushed her dark sunglasses up on her nose, and jogged across the street.
The apartment building was a box, with a single, glass door in the center. When she walked past, peering in innocently, she saw a foyer with a few mailboxes. She scanned the area to make sure no one was watching. Then, taking a chance, she climbed the three short steps and tried the door, expecting it to be locked.
But it opened easily.
She stepped inside and strode briskly to the mailboxes. The floor was old linoleum and the dozen or so mailboxes were once-brass, now worn and scratched, with various colored placards containing many names, some faded, some brand new.
Kevin Reynolds’s name looked like the newest of them all. She inhaled sharply as she read the number of his apartment: 3E.
E, she thought, Third floor.
The stench of cat piss hit her as she turned to climb the crumbling stairs.
Somehow, I get the feeling Kevin Reynolds is not married. No married woman would live in this place. I bet he’s newly divorced, she thought. Good.
Though it was nowhere near the horrors she’d been through, what with the arrest, the conviction, the weeks in prison . . . it was a little bit of bleakness in his life. She didn’t wish ill on anyone, really, but with people like him and Wilson Andrews? It was hard not to.
As she climbed the steps, the stench of cat urine combined with that of old garbage. She held a hand over her nose and continued on.
The caustic scent only seemed to grow as she made her way down the hallway, 3A, 3B, 3C . . .
Suddenly, a door behind her swung open. An older, female voice barked, “What are you? Who are you? You one of them prostitutes? d**g dealers? This is a respectable place! We don’t need none of your kind, skulking around here!”
Mia whirled, shaking her head. She found a stout woman with gray, pin-curled hair, brandishing a broom, as if she intended to use it as a weapon on Mia. “No, I’m just . . .I’m from public works. I’m investigating that smell.”
The woman scowled. “What smell? Where’s your credentials? You’re a lying hussy, that’s what you are. We don’t need no more prostitutes around here. d**g users. You people give our place a bad name, coming in here, all shady-like.”
Mia turned and took a step away from the woman, hoping she’d leave her alone.
But she cringed when the woman shrieked, “Hey! You listen to me! I’m calling the police!” and slammed the door to her apartment, making the walls rattle.
The police. She had to get out of here. But as she was about to turn, at around 3D, the horrific smell took on another quality, one that made her eyes water and her heart jam in her throat.
She knew that smell fairly well, because it was distinct and unforgettable. It smelled sickly sweet, like that of a decaying corpse.
She inhaled deeply, to be sure.
Something was definitely wrong up here on the third floor.
She broke into a run, heading for 3E, which happened to be at the end of the hallway. When she got there, she stopped. The stench was stronger than ever. She placed her hand on the doorknob, debating what she should do. She couldn’t knock—what if someone answered?
So she quietly turned the knob. It clicked and gave way.
Mia pushed slightly, and the door opened a c***k.
She was hit with a wall of odor so strong, it felt like a physical force, pushing her back. It seemed to get in her pores, pulling tears from her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she nudged the door open a little more.
The apartment was dark. Light-blocking shades had been pulled down tight over two windows beyond an overstuffed couch, so only a small bit of light escaped from their dark outlines.
It was enough to illuminate the shape of the body, sprawled out on the threadbare rug. A black slick of blood seemed to spread from the shape, like a twisted cape.
She held her nose and crept forward until she was nearly over the dead man’s face. His skull had been smashed in, and his face, a Halloween mask of gore and mangled flesh. One eye hung loose from the ocular nerve, resting on a bloated cheek, likely popped from its place by the force of the blow. Maggots wriggled in the open sore.
She scanned the rest of the body, pushing aside his tweed blazer to reveal the badge on his belt. As grotesquely misshapen as the face was, there was no doubt.
This was Kevin Reynolds.
Which meant that her one lead, her one chance of finding justice and clearing her own name . . . was gone.
She hadn’t been affected by the stench before, but now, she stifled a gag. Covering her mouth, she reversed direction and fled.
It was only when she reached the door that she heard the sirens.
Hell. Just her luck. That neighbor hadn’t thought to call the super about the horrible smell, but she’d found it important enough to call the police about her.
She threw open the door to the lobby and found the stout lady, glaring at her and waving a rolled-up magazine at her, like she was a fly she wanted to smack. “I told you! I told you I’d call the police!”
The sirens were getting closer now. After a few weeks on the lam, Mia could tell fairly surely how far away they were by volume. They were probably mere blocks away. Unless she really wanted to go back to prison without clearing her name, she didn’t have time to spare.
There was an unmarked door in the hallway, across from her. Rushing ahead, she pushed it open to find a staircase.
The old woman screamed, “You stay here, you hussy! You d**g dealer! You let the police come talk to you!” but Mia threw herself down the steps, taking them as fast as she could.
On the ground floor, there were two doors—one with a window, from where she could see the downstairs mailboxes, and another, solid metal door. She pulled that one open carefully and peered out to a small, empty alleyway, backing up to a solid wooden fence. Beyond that, there was a line of trees. She noticed a small hole in the fence. Could I fit through that?
She’d have to try.
She slipped out and crouched behind the dumpsters there, peering through the c***k between them and the wall as a police car skidded to a stop outside the complex.
Taking a deep breath, she rose from her hiding spot, and, hugging the wall, crept closer to the opening in the fence. When she was directly in front of it, she decided that yes, she would be able to fit into the narrow opening, with inches to spare.
Ducking her head, she slipped through the small space, the top of her hood catching on the splintered wood, but she did not stop. Not until she was out of the woods, in the backyard of a home, and the apartment complex was out of sight.
She dug her hands into her pockets and found the paper with the scrawled address, from her partner, David Hunter. Thanks, buddy. But it looks like this one’s a dead end.
Had Andrews thought he would snitch, and offed him?
It didn’t matter. Kevin Reynolds couldn’t help her, now.
Her heart sunk. Her best lead, gone.
Even so, she was sure David Hunter had more leads to give her. Wilson Andrews left a lot of threads dangling in the business he was involved in. She was sure David had the connections she needed to find one of those dangling strings. One she could pull and pull until the whole fabric of his life unraveled and proved the entire case against her a fraud.
David would come through. He was doing what he could, within the confines of his job, trying not to get caught. But she had nothing to lose, and she couldn’t simply wait.
No. Her heart lurched at the thought of Kelsey and her husband Aiden, spending another day without her.
She’d have to find a way to get in touch with David and hope he had more dirt on Wilson Andrews to give her.
- Writer
