14

Forty-Five

The library was a bust. Taylor combed through the records, but didn’t find the face of the man she remembered from her parents’ party. Frustrated, she took a drive in the cold, hard winter air, trying to clear her head. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself at the apartment buildings where Frank Richardson was killed.

Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly what she was doing. Paying penance to the dead. Would anyone feel that for Charlotte? Was there a soul who would watch for her, pray for her, remember her fondly?

She climbed the stairs to the apartment and saw the door was cracked. She drew her weapon and slipped to the wall, left shoulder flat against the doorjamb. She listened hard, then put the gun away. The cleaners were here.

A horrific job they had, too. Following behind crime and avarice, cleaning up the messes made when a life ends, a heart ceases to beat, by choice or by violence. They were the lost ones, the unnoticed and unknown, the creatures who stealthily eradicated the signs of death.

Taylor looked into the apartment. She recognized the cleaner, a stout lady name Stella, who smoked like a chimney. She claimed the constant cloud of cigarette smoke kept the stench of death from her nostrils. Taylor smelled it on her, the unmistakable scent of burnt tobacco, and was hit with a mouth-salivating craving for a smoke. Shaking her head to literally make it go away, she stepped into the room and greeted Stella.

“Hey, LT.” Stella sounded like a truck driver on a bender, but Taylor knew she was a sweet, God-fearing woman who sacrificed her own happiness to help families maintain some sense of closure after their loved one’s death. She stopped scrubbing.

“What are you doing out here? I thought this scene was cleared for me.”

“Oh, it is, Stella, don’t worry. I was just here to say, well, I guess I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Knew the vic, eh?” Stella leaned back from the blood pool she was removing from the apartment’s carpet. “I could use a smoke, anyway. Want to join me?”

“I wish. No, I think I’ll just stay here for a minute.”

“Suit yourself.” She stood, knees popping, and sauntered past Taylor, a sour look on her face. But she squeezed Taylor’s arm in passing, and Taylor knew it was a show of support.

Alone now, she took in the scene. Frank Richardson’s blood was black and shiny, several days old and forever interred into the grain of this room. All the scrubbing and cleaning, the replacement carpet and linoleum floors, the fresh paint, none of that would truly erase the imprint of the man’s soul, brutally taken from this space. A certain dislocation of the very air would stay in this room forever.

Taylor said a prayer for the man, and apologized out loud. Knowing there was nothing left to do, she turned to leave. As she walked to the door, she spied a file folder, sitting apart from Stella’s cleaning supplies.

“Stella, is this yours?”

Stella was on the landing and shouted back to her. “Is what mine?”

“The manila folder. Is that yours?”

“Naw, I found it when I cleaned out the air intake for the air conditioner. There was some blood on the screen and it was inside when I took it off.” She appeared in the doorway. “You wanna take a look? I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

Taylor was already standing over the folder. She bent down and used a pen to open the file. She knew before she started reading what she had. Frank Richardson’s notes. The file he was trying to get to her the day he died. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Taylor picked up the file.

“Why are you grinning ear to ear, Lieutenant?”

“Because, Miss Stella, this is the missing piece of the puzzle. Thank you so much for finding it.” Taylor nearly gave the woman a hug, but Stella held up her hands.

“Yeah, I know. You don’t want to be touching me, child, I smell bad. I’m getting back to work.”

Taylor went directly to the car and called in to the office. Marcus answered the phone.

“Hey, tell me something. Did you guys ever track down Frank Richardson’s last movements?”

“Sort of. We found his car in the parking lot of the apartment building. His cell phone was in the center console, had a voice mail from someone who didn’t identify himself but requested Frank meet him at the apartment. So he went there of his own accord.”

“Well, that makes sense, then. I just found the file he was trying to get to us. He must have gone to the apartment before the meet, stashed the information for safety’s sake. Smart guy. He must have known there was something big in these files. Thanks, Marcus. I’ll see you in a bit.”

It was all coming together. Now, if she could just find Snow White’s identity. It was curled in the corner of her mind like a snake waiting to strike.