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Authors: Mark Henwick
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half-wilted lettuce lay next to a carton of milk with an expiration date over the weekend.
I turned back to the living area and noticed a couple of framed photographs, both of Jennifer Kingslund—one with Troy outside the Golden Harvest, and one of her alone.
A local newspaper lay on the table, open to a picture of Troy receiving an award for winning a bike race. I checked the date—last week. He wore a distinctive shirt and shorts with a large yellow and black diamond pattern. It was so distinctive, it made me go back to the second bedroom and check out the bike gear. The clothes weren’t there.
I walked back. The whole living area smelled clean. Not clean in a nice way; a sterile, bleached way. I got down on my hands and knees, cursing the aches and bruises, and sniffed the carpet. Next to the coffee table, someone had washed it with bleach. It was a shade lighter and the smell was very strong.
Moving the stuff off the top, I lifted the coffee table. On the underside of the foot was what looked like dried blood, as if a little had seeped underneath before the carpet had been washed.
That did it for me. I eased myself back up and got my cell. She answered right away.
“Jen, it’s Amber, can you talk?”
“One moment, please.” I could hear some background noises as she finished a conversation, then she came back on. She was back in clipped businesswoman mode, despite the late hour.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“I’m at Troy’s apartment. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Go ahead.”
“You said he wasn’t at work over the weekend. When was the last time you or your staff saw him?”
“He finished work on Friday at about 11:30 p.m. I checked with the staff at the restaurant. That’s the last I know.”
“Do you know if he has a cleaning service come in?”
“It’s a company apartment, Amber. We pay for a cleaning service to go in on Fridays.” Ahh. That’s why she had the keys. That crossed one question off the list, but I was still going to have to ask her some personal questions.
“Do you know him well enough to say whether he’s a tidy person?”
“Troy? No. We met at his place occasionally. It wasn’t dirty or anything, but it wasn’t neat. Typical bachelor.”
“Jen, you may find this intrusive, but I have to ask. Is there anything between you and Troy on a personal level?”
“You mean lovers? No. Not my type and anyway, not a good idea these days.”
“Okay, Jen, this is my reading, worst case. He was dressed for biking, about to go out or just come back. Some of his biking clothes are missing but the bike’s here. Either someone that he knew came over, or someone very good broke in without damaging the door, and waited for him to come back. There was a struggle, some blood was spilled. Someone washed the carpet with bleach. He was carried out, wrapped up in his comforter or bedspread.”
I waited, but Jennifer didn’t say anything, although I’d heard her breath hiss in while I’d been speaking. I went on. “But I can read this a completely different way. He doesn’t like covers on the bed. He spilled some red wine and cleaned it up. He went out for a jog instead of a bike ride. He got hit by a car and he’s in a hospital somewhere.”
“No. I’ve had my assistant check every hospital already,” Jennifer said. “Nothing.”
“That’s good work. Jen, if this is a crime scene, the longer we leave it, the less likely it is that the police will be able to do anything. For instance, there’s a security camera in the lobby. It’ll take the police to get hold of the footage in a hurry. Neighbors need to be questioned, and they’ll be a lot more cooperative with the police. I don’t know that there’s been a crime here, but I’m advising you to call them tonight.”
“Will they take it seriously, Amber? Will they do something quickly enough?”
“A request from you to the police is going to carry some weight, but I’ll be honest, it’s hard for
I turned back to the living area and noticed a couple of framed photographs, both of Jennifer Kingslund—one with Troy outside the Golden Harvest, and one of her alone.
A local newspaper lay on the table, open to a picture of Troy receiving an award for winning a bike race. I checked the date—last week. He wore a distinctive shirt and shorts with a large yellow and black diamond pattern. It was so distinctive, it made me go back to the second bedroom and check out the bike gear. The clothes weren’t there.
I walked back. The whole living area smelled clean. Not clean in a nice way; a sterile, bleached way. I got down on my hands and knees, cursing the aches and bruises, and sniffed the carpet. Next to the coffee table, someone had washed it with bleach. It was a shade lighter and the smell was very strong.
Moving the stuff off the top, I lifted the coffee table. On the underside of the foot was what looked like dried blood, as if a little had seeped underneath before the carpet had been washed.
That did it for me. I eased myself back up and got my cell. She answered right away.
“Jen, it’s Amber, can you talk?”
“One moment, please.” I could hear some background noises as she finished a conversation, then she came back on. She was back in clipped businesswoman mode, despite the late hour.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“I’m at Troy’s apartment. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Go ahead.”
“You said he wasn’t at work over the weekend. When was the last time you or your staff saw him?”
“He finished work on Friday at about 11:30 p.m. I checked with the staff at the restaurant. That’s the last I know.”
“Do you know if he has a cleaning service come in?”
“It’s a company apartment, Amber. We pay for a cleaning service to go in on Fridays.” Ahh. That’s why she had the keys. That crossed one question off the list, but I was still going to have to ask her some personal questions.
“Do you know him well enough to say whether he’s a tidy person?”
“Troy? No. We met at his place occasionally. It wasn’t dirty or anything, but it wasn’t neat. Typical bachelor.”
“Jen, you may find this intrusive, but I have to ask. Is there anything between you and Troy on a personal level?”
“You mean lovers? No. Not my type and anyway, not a good idea these days.”
“Okay, Jen, this is my reading, worst case. He was dressed for biking, about to go out or just come back. Some of his biking clothes are missing but the bike’s here. Either someone that he knew came over, or someone very good broke in without damaging the door, and waited for him to come back. There was a struggle, some blood was spilled. Someone washed the carpet with bleach. He was carried out, wrapped up in his comforter or bedspread.”
I waited, but Jennifer didn’t say anything, although I’d heard her breath hiss in while I’d been speaking. I went on. “But I can read this a completely different way. He doesn’t like covers on the bed. He spilled some red wine and cleaned it up. He went out for a jog instead of a bike ride. He got hit by a car and he’s in a hospital somewhere.”
“No. I’ve had my assistant check every hospital already,” Jennifer said. “Nothing.”
“That’s good work. Jen, if this is a crime scene, the longer we leave it, the less likely it is that the police will be able to do anything. For instance, there’s a security camera in the lobby. It’ll take the police to get hold of the footage in a hurry. Neighbors need to be questioned, and they’ll be a lot more cooperative with the police. I don’t know that there’s been a crime here, but I’m advising you to call them tonight.”
“Will they take it seriously, Amber? Will they do something quickly enough?”
“A request from you to the police is going to carry some weight, but I’ll be honest, it’s hard for
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