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had started a fashion accessory business? When did that happen? I kept searching and, half an hour later, I had her address.
    I packed up my laptop and left.

C HAPTER 6
    M y GPS took me to the Bay Breeze Apartments on Warm Springs Road, a sprawling complex in a nice area of Henderson. The buildings were sand-colored stucco with red tile roofs. Lots of pine and palm trees, green belts, plants, and flowers. I wound my way through the maze of driveways and speed bumps and pulled into a parking spot outside Courtney’s apartment.
    The place seemed quiet. Too quiet. Not much traffic, lots of open parking slots. I sat in my car wondering what was up. I mean, Courtney had been murdered. Where were her family and friends? Everybody congregates s omewhere at a time like this. If they weren’t here, where would I find them?
    Only one way to find out.
    I left my car and rang the doorbell. I’d done this sort of thing before but still didn’t like it. It’s not easy walking into a home full of mourners. I didn’t top anyone’s list of who to call during an emotional crisis. A party, yes, but not something like this.
    After a few minutes, I rang the bell again. I was thinking that maybe I’d just leave a note or something, when I heard sounds from inside and the door opened.
    A tall guy—I figured him for thirty—squinted down at me. He was thin—too thin, really, which only men can be.
    He had black hair, a goatee, and enough tattoos to cause strangers to look twice—and not because they figured he was starring in his own reality show. He wore jeans and a tired-looking T-shirt.
    â€œYeah?” he said.
    He didn’t exactly look overcome with grief, but hey, who was I to judge?
    â€œI’m an old friend of Courtney’s,” I said and introduced myself. No need to get into the whole I-found-her-dead-at-Holt’s thing.
    He didn’t respond. Instantly, I panicked.
    What if this guy was Courtney’s brother or boyfriend or something, and the cops hadn’t notified him that she was dead yet? What if he asked me why I was here? What would I say?
    I wished I’d checked Courtney’s Facebook page back at Starbucks so maybe I’d know who this guy was. But I’d been afraid to. I figured Detective Webster was monitoring it and would try to make something of it—something that would benefit the cops—so no way was I doing that.
    I was ready to make a break for my car when the guy said, “Guess you heard.”
    I really hoped he was asking if I’d heard about Courtney’s death.
    Just to play it safe, I said, “I heard.”
    â€œDetectives were here earlier,” he said. “Thought maybe you were them. I’m Tony Hubbard. Come on in.”
    He walked back into the apartment. I followed.
    The layout of the place seemed typical. Living room/ dining room combo, small galley kitchen, hallways leading to bedrooms and bathrooms.
    From the looks of Courtney’s apartment, I figured she hadn’t lived there very long. Basic furniture—TV, stereo, sofa, end tables—was in place, but that was about it. No pictures on the wall, no plants, nothing that showcased the personality of the occupants.
    It was weird. I mean, why would you not decorate your apartment? Yeah, okay, so maybe she didn’t have much money, but who needs money? That’s what credit cards are for. Right?
    â€œWant a beer?” Tony asked, as he headed into the kitchen.
    â€œSure,” I said, and followed.
    He pulled two cold ones out of the fridge and passed one to me. I cracked it open and asked, “So you’re Courtney’s . . .?”
    â€œWe’ve been together for a couple of months now,” Tony said, and made a sweeping motion with his beer can. I took that to mean he lived in the apartment with Courtney and they were official boyfriend–girlfriend.
    â€œDoes Courtney have family around here?” I asked, glancing