“To knock on some doors.”
Ryan is at my side; his cologne is overpowering. My olfactory senses are aggravated by the heady scent of whatever name brand he is wearing.
In the hallway, I hear Barton talking about a missing Jeep Cherokee, his walkie-talkie crackling with static.
Ryan and I start at the head of the hallway where Ryan ended before I got here, and I rap on an apartment door belonging to an elderly woman named Cora Findings. Our presence elicits the gunfire barks of a small dog somewhere behind a closed door in the apartment.
Ryan starts to back away from the door, sliding up behind me. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Where are you going?”
“I was bitten by a dog when I was young,” he says. “I don’t like them.”
I turn to the pale, weathered face of Ms. Findings, shadowed in the hall’s dim light. “We’re police officers, ma’am. And we’re asking everyone in the building if they heard or saw anything unusual this evening.”