Chapter 2

When they finished their discussion, Michael said, apropos nothing that had preceded it, “I think my building is going downhill.”

“I hope you mean where you live, not here,” Carolyn replied with a smile.

“Yes.” He shook his head. “I have the crazy lady from hell living next door.”

She laughed. “So you’ve said. Did she come home drunk again this weekend?”

“Yeah. At least this time she had company, who apparently knew how to work a key, because she only ranted for a couple of minutes.”

“That’s a blessing. Why else do you think it’s going downhill?”

“The hallway smelled like something died. Like a mouse in the walls, or…whatever.”

Carolyn wrinkled her nose. “Been there, smelled that. Not pleasant. I hope you let the manager know.”

“I did. He said he’d check it out.”

“Good. With luck, by the time you get home everything will be fine. I guess you can be glad the critter didn’t die in yourwalls.”

“No kidding,” he replied emphatically.

* * * *

It was around six-thirty when Michael drove down the alley behind his building and into the underground parking garage. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, sniffing as he did to see if the smell had gotten any worse. There was a faint trace of it, which did not make him happyIf I can smell it in here, what’s it going to be like by the time I get to my place?

He got off the elevator, walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and stopped dead in his tracks. The door to his neighbor’s condo was open, with a uniformed police officer standing next to it.

Now what? Michael debated turning around and leaving—especially since the odor was much stronger than it had been that morning. But curiosity got the better of him. He figured his neighbor had probably gone on another verbal rampage and the cops had been called.

He walked toward his door, only to be stopped by the officer asking who he was.

“Michael Wright. I live there,” Michael replied, pointing to his unit.

“ID, please.”

Michael frowned but took it out to show the man. “What’s going on?”

“Your neighbor, Ms. Lee, was murdered,” a man in a suit said, coming out of unit four-oh-three. He introduced himself as Detective Daniels.

“You’re shitting me,” Michael replied in shock.

“No, Mr. Wright.”

“When? Wait.” Michael shuddered. “Is that the smell?”

“Yes, sir. At this point the ME says she probably died two days ago. That would be Sunday. Did you see or hear anything?”

Michael shook his head. “Nothing since Saturday night when she pulled her usual ‘I can’t get in’ rant. Drunk, I suspect.”

“From what I’ve been told, that’s happened before.”

“Yeah. Every Saturday since she moved in.” Michael paused. “This time, she had company.”

“You saw whoever it was?”

“Yes. I was pissed and was going to read her the riot act. She got her door unlocked just as I opened mine. There was a man with her. Actually, the weekend before there was one too. I didn’t see him, but I heard him laugh.”

“What did the man this weekend look like?”

“Mmm. I barely saw him but, yeah, he had dark hair and thick, bushy eyebrows.” Michael pinched his nose—not because he was thinking, but the odor was getting to him. “How long before this goes away,” he asked nasally.

“Once we release the unit, your manager can call in a specialist to do cleanup. With luck, things should be back to normal within a day or two—out here.”

“Oh, great.”

The detective smiled in commiseration. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not that I can think of. Is the…is her body gone?”

“Yes. It was taken away a couple of hours ago.”

“Thank God. Is it okay for me to go into my place, now?”

“Yes. I’ll be in contact with you if I have any more questions.”

Michael nodded, unlocked his door, turned off the security alarm, and then locked it when he was inside. He could smell the odor in the entryway, but only faintly, for which he was very glad. He remembered some scented candles an acquaintance had given him a year ago that he’d stashed away—somewhere. He finally located them after digging through the hall closet, unwrapped one and lit it, setting it on the entryway table.

Even patchouli is better than decomposition.He chuckled weakly. Hell, burned dinner would smell better. Not that he planned on doing that. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to fix anything to eat, all things considered.

He changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, then went online to check his personal emails. There was nothing other than spam and a bill from the utility company. He paid it and logged off. After grabbing a bottle of juice from the fridge, he got the book he was reading and went out to the balcony where there was fresh air; leaving the door open to, hopefully, air out his unit.