Snakes & Ladders (5 page)

When Striker reached the centre of the vacant lot, he stopped. He looked across the way – at Mandy Gill’s window, then at the empty three-storey behind him. At the very top was an attic. Its windows were covered with broken shutters. Everything inside appeared dark and still.

He pointed at it.

‘The attic. It’s directly across the way from Mandy’s room. And it’s one floor up – a perfect spot for a vantage point.’

Felicia came up beside him for a better look, so close he could smell the vanilla scent of her perfume. The wind whipped her long hair across her face and she used her hand to hold it down.

‘The attic looks right into her window,’ she agreed. ‘Wanna check it out?’

Striker nodded. He crossed the vacant lot, weaving around the construction debris and potholes, until he stepped on to the next yard. Directly in front of him was the house. East side, ground floor.

He took out his flashlight and shone it on the building. The walls were made of wood and stucco that was broken off and chipped in large patches. Old rickety planks covered up most of the windows, and the one in front of Striker was no different. He gloved up with a pair of leather Windstoppers – they were thick enough to stop the glass from slicing him – and yanked hard on the lowest plank. It creaked and groaned, but remained firmly in place.

‘The wood is strong,’ Felicia remarked.

‘Long nails.’

Striker left the boards in place and made his way around the house with Felicia following. By the time they’d seen all four sides – and that included a heavily planked front door, complete with iron bars – he was satisfied the place was secure.

Felicia shivered from the cold. ‘We done our tour here?’

‘You can wait in the car, if you want.’

‘Wow. Touchy, touchy.’ She looked up at the top two floors. ‘All the other windows are too high. Someone would have needed a ladder to get up there.’

Striker didn’t disagree. The other windows were definitely out of reach. To complicate matters, the house was built on a slope. The next floor was over ten feet above the outside ground. The attic was another two floors above – far too high for someone to reach – but something about the attic called out to him. Then he figured out what was bothering him.

‘The boards have been removed from the attic window . . . and that doesn’t make sense. No Break and Enter toad is gonna climb all the way up there to force his way inside, not when he can just crowbar one of these bottom windows open. The only reason for breaking off those attic boards is if he did it from the inside – to get a better view.’

Felicia saw his point. ‘Of the Lucky Lodge.’

Striker turned his concentration to the ground-floor windows in front of him. After a more careful look, he noticed something odd with one of them. Compared to the other windows around the house – all of which were also boarded up – the planks on this one were different. They were stronger wood. Cleaner. Newer. And when he shone his flashlight on the boards, the shiny silver of new nail heads gleamed back.

He pointed this out to Felicia. ‘The other boards on the other windows are old, but this one’s been boarded up recently. And look at the angle of these two – they’ve been driven in poorly. By the looks of it, the guy was left-handed.’

Felicia looked at the nails and agreed. Then she squatted down low and shone her flashlight through the frozen blades of grass. ‘Look here. There’s small bits of glass. Just tiny stuff. Cubes, really. But it’s there. It’s almost like someone broke the window, then boarded it back up and cleaned the mess.’

Striker called up Dispatch, gave her the address, and asked if there were any recent break-ins reported to the house. When the answer came back no, he hung up and fixed Felicia with a stare. ‘When’s the last time you ever heard of a B and E guy repairing a place before he left?’

‘Never.’

‘Exactly.’

He reached out again with both his hands, grabbed hold of the upper plank, and reefed back on it with all his might. The connection was strong, and it took several attempts before the nails loosened, but in the end the planks gave way and tore out of the frame. Striker threw the planks into the construction site, and looked in through the window.

Behind him, Felicia made an uncomfortable sound. ‘We don’t have permission here, you know.’

He turned around. ‘What?’

‘Technically, we’re breaking and entering this place. Maybe we should get hold of the property rep.’

Striker let out a small laugh, one that pissed off Felicia – he could see it in her eyes. ‘I’m not waiting around here for three hours so some idiot can let us in the front door – and that’s
if
he even comes down here, and
if
he consents to us searching the place. Right now we’re going in under exigent circumstances.’

Felicia raised an eyebrow. ‘Exigent circumstances?’

‘I’ll work it out later.’

Before she could argue the point further, Striker used the last remaining broken plank to rake away the small teeth of sharp glass from the window frame. Then he shone his flashlight through the window.

Inside was the living room. Thick drapes hung across all the other windows, keeping the place entombed in darkness. Clear plastic hung over the couch and love seat, and boxes filled with other unknown belongings were stacked in the far corner. No lights of any kind were on. Not even the stove or microwave clocks in the adjoining kitchen.

‘Looks like the power’s been cut here, too,’ he said.

Felicia said nothing back. She stepped forward, right up to the window, then searched the darkness of the room and frowned.

‘Let’s call for a dog,’ she suggested.

‘And let some mangy mutt destroy any evidence left behind? Forget it, I’ll risk this one on my own.’

‘But Jacob—’

‘I’m going in, Feleesh. Just cover me, okay?’

Striker took off his coat. He draped it across the window frame to cover any leftover slivers of glass that might cut him. Then he drew his SIG Sauer, ducked low, and stepped in through the window frame.

The first thing he noticed inside the living room was the scent of dampness; it lived in the walls and unused furniture. The smell reminded him of an old folks’ home. He shone his flashlight around all four corners of the room, spotted nothing of interest, then stepped forward and peered into the kitchen. It was the same. Dark. Bare. Still.

The place looked deserted.

‘Hold up,’ he heard from Felicia. ‘I’m coming with you.’

He smiled at that. He knew she would come, in the end. She was stubborn, like always, but forever faithful. It was her best quality.

When she reached his side, he motioned for her to cover their backs. She did. Once in position, Striker led them on. They slowly made their way to the west side of the house, then started up the staircase. They cleared each floor as they went, room by room, passing two bedrooms and a bathroom, then an office, master bedroom and ensuite on the top floor.

Felicia looked around the area, cursed, shook her head. ‘This is the east side of the house,’ she said. ‘I don’t see any window.’

Striker pointed up. He walked back into the hallway. Hanging down from the ceiling was a long nylon cord with a handle at the end. He grabbed it, then fixed Felicia with a hard look.

‘Be ready,’ he said.

‘Go,’ she replied.

He gave the cord a hard yank. A loud groan filled the air, and a fall-down staircase descended from the ceiling, bringing with it a cloud of dust and particles of sawdust. Once the staircase was resting on the main floor, Striker gave Felicia the nod, and he started up the stairs. The angle was steep, and the wood was old and rickety, but he continued up. Ten steps later, he was standing in the entrance of the attic.

It was dark and dusty, cold and quiet.

He shone his flashlight at every corner. Saw no one there. But on the east side of the attic, he spotted the window with the broken shutter. The sight of it excited him, and he started that way, then stopped. He slowed himself down, took a moment to assess the area. He shone his flashlight across the wall and saw nothing of interest. Then he aimed the beam at the floor. What he saw there made him pause. By the base of the window, in the dust, were two sets of markings. They were faint and faded and indistinct, but they were definitely there.

Felicia joined him in the attic entranceway and took note of the tracks in the dust. ‘What do you think they’re from?’ she asked.

Striker dropped into a squat position and studied the markings. Two one-inch trails, perfectly parallel.

‘Suitcase maybe. A stand. A generator. I’m not sure.’

He stood up, stepped to the side of the markings, and approached the window. As he neared it, he looked down and across the way. Directly below was the beginning of the vacant lot. Directly across the way was the Lucky Lodge.

‘You got your monocular on you?’ he asked.

Felicia nodded. ‘Always.’ She fished it out of her pocket, a token from her surveillance days.

Striker had always planned on getting one himself. He took the monocular from Felicia and used it to look across the way. The scope zeroed in on Mandy Gill’s room – a perfect unobstructed view. He could see her kitchenette, the doorway to the hall, the doorway to the bathroom and then Mandy herself, dead in the chair.

Noodles was still on scene gathering evidence.

For surveillance of unit 303, there was no better position.

Striker handed the monocular back to Felicia and turned on his flashlight. He swept the beam around the window, but saw no prints of possible value. Lastly, he illuminated the broken glass and shutter, again looking for fingerprints. He found none, but what he did find was equally telling. He reached out through the window frame and picked up a shard of broken glass. Stuck to it was a small strip of black material.

Felicia made an excited sound. ‘Is it leather?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. He dropped the evidence, shard and all, into a paper bag, marked it, and carefully pocketed it. Then he turned around and found Felicia’s eyes.

‘Tape everything off?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘There’s no doubt about it. He was here.’

Ten minutes later, Noodles had made his way over to the attic and was now taking pictures and bagging samples. He stood up awkwardly in the low-ceilinged attic, and rubbed his lower back, all the while complaining about it.

‘You guys’ll have me here till the early morning light,’ he griped.

‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Striker said.

‘Like you have one.’

Striker let the banter go, and mentally went over what they had. The entire building was taped off now, with patrol cops stationed as guards at the front and back of the residence.

Striker left the scene under the command of Sergeant Mike Rothschild – an experienced old-schooler who had been one of Striker’s first NCOs many years ago.

Striker and Felicia returned to the car. After Striker hopped in the driver’s side, Felicia slammed the passenger-side door closed and bit her lip. ‘Foul play is looking more and more reasonable,’ she said.

Striker shifted in his seat. The leather was cold and it felt stiff against his back. He started the car and got the engine going. Turned on the heater. Switched the setting to defrost.

‘Yes and no,’ he finally said. ‘Sure, it looks bad. No doubt about that. But what do we really have here to suggest this is anything other than a suicide? And by that I mean
non-circumstantial
evidence.’

‘Non-circumstantial?’

‘The physical evidence all points to a suicide.’

‘That someone
filmed
.’

Striker nodded. ‘I’m not arguing that; hell, I’m the one who found the guy. It’s creepy, no doubt. But what really is that? We got a guy in the next suite filming Mandy with a set-up video camera. Why? For all we know, he had a thing for her and was videotaping her before her death. For all we know, he was there trying to get the camera back before we found it.’

‘Or maybe he was filming us, for that matter,’ Felicia said.

That notion bothered Striker. It was a possibility he hadn’t thought of. But a legitimate reality. ‘You could be right about that,’ he said. ‘One of these YouTube idiots. Or maybe another media-seller.’

‘Sounds weak when you say it.’

‘And it might well be,’ he said. ‘All I’m saying is that we don’t know
why
this happened. Hell, we don’t even have possession of the camera.’

‘What about the leather strip we found on the broken window?’

Striker nodded. ‘I have no doubt Ident will match it to the glove I tore off the suspect – the material is the same colour and texture. But even then, so what? What does it actually prove?’

‘It proves we got a sicko on our hands.’

Striker grinned darkly. ‘The world is full of sickos, Feleesh. Again, what does it prove? That someone who filmed Mandy was in the next-door apartment. He was also in the house across the way. Could’ve been a squatter, for all we know.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I doubt it, too. But that’s what we got right now. We need more.’ He turned silent as he thought things over, and he revved the engine a few times to warm it up faster. After a long moment, something occurred to him and he turned to face Felicia once more. ‘If Mandy was forced to eat those pills, then they were already ground up into powder when she took them – I saw the paste in her mouth.’

‘Saliva over time can do that,’ Felicia said wryly.

Striker gave her one of his
I’m not a moron
looks. ‘There was pill dust around her lips as well, and she also had bits of it on the corners of her mouth. The pills were crushed, Feleesh; she didn’t chew them. So either she hated taking medicine in pill form and always ingested them as powder – or someone made her take them. It’s one or the other.’

Felicia crossed her arms to keep warm. ‘If there was a struggle, you’d think she’d have fought back.’

‘There are no defensive wounds.’

‘Could she have been bound?’

Striker bit his lip as he thought that over. ‘I looked for that, and I didn’t see any ligature marks. But if something happened to her first – if she were held down, or bound, or drugged – then that would explain it. My bet would be drugs.’ He flipped through the pages of his notebook, then wrote down a few theories. ‘You can damn well
zombify
a person with a lot of over-the-counter meds – sleeping pills, Valium, anything they can crush up and slip into someone’s drink.’