Frenchy Logan

Right Place, Wrong Time

I stopped my car across from the modest, four-story apartment building, my eyes drawn to the warm light coming from a second floor window. That must be it, I thought, glancing at the other windows, their dark faces reflecting the pale, cold glow of the street lights. Two black and whites were double-parked in front of the building as well as an innocent-looking van that I recognized as belonging to the medical examiner's office.

"Right place, wrong time," I said aloud, closing my eyes and snuggling into the fleece lining of my warm denim jacket. I let my head drop back against the headrest.

I was tired.

Why in the world did you check your voice mail before going to bed, I asked myself, frowning. You could have just walked in the door and went right to sleep, but no, you had to choose right then to listen to that nagging little voice that had been yammering at you all evening for turning off your cell phone.

“Stupid conscience,” I muttered, knowing full well that if I hadn’t checked my voice mail and found the message from Vic telling me we had a case that my partner of the last ten years still would have covered for me, no questions asked. Partners took care of each other; didn’t my silly conscience know that?

Apparently so, I answered myself with a grimace, that’s why you’re here. But wouldn’t a more important question be why in the world did you stay so late at Kevin's apartment in the first place? You hadn’t seen twenty-something for twenty-something years and good health and regular exercise aside you just couldn’t run more than twenty-four hours without sleep any more. You knew you had to get up at 5am the next morning, and you knew that if you got a callout, you’d probably be up all night, so why take the risk?

Well, no great mystery there, I answered, picturing Kevin's laughing brown eyes and infectious smile. Who would have thought that a self-professed loner like Detective Belinda "Frenchy" Logan would have ever found anything in common with such an outgoing personality?

You're beginning to develop a distinct lack of judgment when you're around that guy, I told myself, trying to sound firm, but failing miserably.

As long as it doesn't affect your judgment while you're working said another voice in my mind, sounding suspiciously like a certain bossy detective I knew.

The thought of that voice, like the sound of an alarm clock, sent a little burst of adrenaline through my veins, and my eyes snapped open. With a sinking feeling I noticed the growing chill in the car and realized that I'd been resting my eyes a little longer than I should have. "Come on, sleepyhead, Vic’s waiting," I muttered, and opened the car door, grateful for the cold that immediately slapped me in the face. I took a few seconds to indulge in a good long stretch, and shrugged off the last clingy cobwebs of sleep before I crossed the empty street and went up the few steps to the well-lit doorway of the apartment building.

The foyer was cool with the night air that had gathered inside, giving testimony that the door had been opened and closed many times recently. A murder usually did generate a lot of traffic.

I recognized the uniformed officer who stood in an open doorway opposite the stairs that led up to the next floor. Pete Callwell had been on the force almost as long as I had, and was perfectly happy with his position as a beat cop, though he didn't look very happy when I walked in. It only took a moment for that to change, however, and I watched his harried, frustrated expression melt into one of grateful relief when he saw me. The change was so sudden and complete that I almost laughed, but fortunately for me I had the presence of mind not to. Pete and I were long-time friends, but I could tell by the way he was acting that he wasn't having a good night.

“When is that detective going to get here? When can I go home?" The plaintive voice coming through the open doorway gave me a clue to Pete's problems. I watched as he pulled the door closed and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"I swear, Frenchy," he told me as I walked up, "If that had been anyone but you walking through that door, I was ready to go back in there and put that guy out of my misery… permanently." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the closed door behind him while resting his other hand suggestively on his holstered weapon.

"That bad?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

"You don't know the half of it," he assured me. "If Vic hadn't insisted we try to hang on to him till you got here, I'd have pushed him out the door myself a long time ago."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Name's Jeffery Coyner," said Pete "Claims he's the victim's boyfriend. Apparently he showed up here around midnight and found her dead in her apartment upstairs. According to the building manager, the guy woke up practically the whole building with his screaming and crying."

"Protesting too much, maybe?"

Pete gave a noncommittal shrug. "Normally I'd say yes, but this time I'm not so sure, Frenchy. I mean, I've been working crap like this long enough that I can usually tell when someone's pulling a Shakespeare, but I’ve been around this guy now for the better part of two hours and I don’t think he’s acting.”

"So why’d Vic have you hold him?"

Pete gave me a quick half grin. "Well, believe it or not, Mr. Smooth-Talker couldn't get Coyner to calm down long enough to get anything sensible out of him. My partner and I were all for letting the poor kid go on home tonight and having him come in tomorrow, but Vic said to hold him here to wait for you. The building manager, Mr. Berrolli, let us wait in his apartment. Though I don’t suppose he would have offered if he'd known how long we'd be hanging out here waiting on you to show up." Pete looked at me accusingly.

"Don't look at me, I didn’t ask for this case," I said, holding my hands up innocently and hoping I didn't look as guilty as I felt.

Pete's eyes widened in feigned surprise, "They let you ask now?" he joked, and then quickly turned serious again. "Anyway, you ready to see this guy?"

"Lead on," I said, waving a hand in the direction of the door, grateful the subject of my whereabouts for the last few hours had been dropped.

Pete gave the door a staccato rap and it was quickly opened by another officer. "My new partner," Pete said, nodding toward the young officer as he walked past. "Martinez, meet Detective Frenchy Logan. Detective Logan, Office Juan Martinez."

"Nice to meet you, Detective Logan," he said, flashing me a quick, boyish smile as I walked past him.

"Martinez," I acknowledged, looking at his smooth brown face and thick curly hair. Too cute! I thought, and then realized this fresh faced kid was probably young enough to be my son.

Well that's a depressing thought, I told myself, filing it quickly away in the Maybe-I'll-Think-About-It-Later-And-Maybe-I-Won't file at the back of my mind.

"Are you the detective?" I heard a voice ask with the same high-pitched whine I had heard earlier, and felt an insistent tug on the sleeve of my jacket.

I turned quickly and found myself looking at an obviously agitated young man who stared at me through puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

"Are you the detective?" he asked again, sniffing and wiping his nose with a crumpled handkerchief. "Because if you are, I'd really like to go home now," begged the young man, stepping so close I could smell his breath.

Thank goodness he likes peppermint and not alcohol, I thought, letting Pete handle the man’s slightly aggressive behavior.

"Come on now, Mr. Coyner, just calm down," Pete said with a bored voice, giving me the impression he'd repeated those same words more than a few times. He took the young man by the arm and tried to pull him back toward a couch set against the far wall of the room, but Coyner suddenly stopped and jerked his arm out of Pete's grasp. Apparently Mr. Coyner had been cooperative all evening and had just decided he'd had enough.

“Look,” Coyner said, running shaky fingers through his dark blond hair, “You’ve got to understand that I’m real upset right now. I came by to check on my girlfriend and found her….” He broke off a moment, struggling for composure. “God, I hate this,” he continued, looking up at the ceiling, “How could someone do that to her? She never wanted to hurt anyone, why would someone want to hurt her? Why! Why! Why did it have to happen!” he demanded, getting louder as he started to pace in growing agitation.

With a determined expression, Pete started to reach for Coyner again, but I caught his eye and shook my head. I needed Coyner to talk to me, which meant that I first needed him to focus on me. Pete looked undecided for a minute, but finally backed away and moved to stand beside his young partner near the door.

I let Coyner pace out the emotional surge he’d just gone through and used the time to give the room we were in a quick look. It was a cozy little apartment, neat and not overly crowded. There was a small fireplace in the far corner that looked inviting with a fire that burned low but steady behind the screen and a pair of comfortable looking easy chairs situated nearby. I noticed one of the chairs was occupied by an older gentleman that I pegged as being the apartment's resident, Mr. Berrolli. He had his hands curled around a white coffee cup and he looked at me over its rim as he sipped. We exchanged nods before I turned back to the distraught young man who had finally stopped pacing and now stood in the middle of the room, head down, staring at the rug. He had his arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to hold himself together.

“Mr. Coyner…Mr. Coyner?" I called, finally getting him to look at me. "My name's Detective Logan," I said calmly, "I understand you've been through a lot, Mr. Coyner, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I just need to ask you a couple of quick questions and then you can go home. It won't take long, I promise."

I studied Coyner while he appeared to be considering my words. I had thought Martinez was cute, but even with the puffy eyes this guy had him beat hands down. In fact, he had one of those faces that, for a man, usually caused people to instantly label him either gay or a narcissist. Well, I thought, apparently he has…had a girlfriend, so he must not be gay. Thinks a lot of his appearance though, I noted, taking in his high-end clothes and salon-styled hair.

"Rose was my girlfriend.” Coyner finally spoke, surprising me with his low, quiet voice; a complete contrast to his earlier outburst.

I nodded, and stepped toward him slowly, placing a comforting arm on his shoulder. “I know…. I understand Mr. Coyner." I assured him. “Believe me, I’ve had to deal with the loss of a loved one myself.”

He shook his head. “Not like this. You haven’t lost anyone like this,” he said emphatically. "You haven’t….” He broke off, his hands clenching his arms tightly.

“You’re right, Mr. Coyner, you’re right,” I soothed. “I’m sorry. Look, why don't we sit down and you can tell me a little bit about Rose," I suggested, in what my partner called my 'I'm-you're-friend-you-can-talk-to-me' voice. “I’d really like to hear about her.”

The young man was silent a moment and then nodded, “Okay. I think I’d like to talk about her. What…what do you want to know?”

“Let’s sit here, Jeff…may I call you Jeff?” I asked, taking a seat on the couch.

Coyner shrugged, "Whatever," he said as he sat down beside me, his posture stiff. He stared blankly at the wall opposite the couch, apparently waiting for my questions.

“How long have you known Rose,” I began.

At first I thought he wasn't going to answer.

“Almost a year,” he finally replied, his words coming slowly. “We met when she started working at Martellie’s over on Fifty-eighth. I’m a bartender there." He paused and leaned forward, his arms on his knees and his hands clasped together in front of him. His nails looked like he had them manicured on a regular basis.

"I remember the first day she walked in. God, she was so beautiful! We were drawn to each other. Everyone said we made the perfect couple…like we were meant for each other.” His voice caught and he blinked rapidly and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It's O.K., its O.K." I said softly, "We'll take this slow, alright? Just take a deep breath."

He nodded and followed my instructions, the exhale of his breath giving me another whiff of peppermint.

"You said you came by to check on her when you got off work, right?”

He nodded again.

“What time was that?”

“Close to midnight. We both worked the evening shift.”

"You wouldn’t have seen her before then? You weren't living together?”

His body jerked, like I’d hit a nerve. “No,” he said, turning to look at me. I could see anger glitter in their depths; heard it in his voice. “She wouldn’t do that!" He blinked rapidly before turning back again to stare at the wall. "She’s not that kind of girl," he said.

“Of course not," I agreed, wanting to ask what really made Jeffery Coyner angry; that I had asked such a question about the woman he appeared to worship, or that said woman hadn’t wanted to move in with him.

Instead, I asked as gently as possible, “Tell me, Jeff, when was the last time you saw Rose alive?"

I watched him swallow convulsively before he spoke. “At work… the day before yesterday.”

"That would be Sunday," I asked, since it was well after midnight now and technically Tuesday morning, and I didn’t want there to be any confusion about the day later.

"No, it was Saturday. I saw her Saturday."

“You didn’t see her at all on Sunday?”

He shook his head. “No. We’re not the kind of couple who have to live in each other’s back pocket. Sometimes she does her thing; sometimes I do mine.”

“Who was doing their ‘thing’ on Sunday, Jeff, you or Rose?”

He appeared to hesitate a moment and finally shrugged. “I was. I wanted to go to a play over in Richland, but it wasn’t one she wanted to see so I went alone.”

“Did you stay in Richland over night,” I asked.

“No, I was home by 10:30 that night.”

“And you didn’t see her at all on Monday until you came over at midnight?”

“She wasn’t at work,” he said, “They told me….they told me at work that she’d quit, but I didn’t believe them. She liked her job, liked us working together. She would have told me if she’d been planning to quit. Something must have happened to make her change her mind. I don’t know what it was. I tried to call her, but she didn’t answer her phone, so I came over to check on her.” He suddenly turned and looked at me intently. "Are you any good?"

I had been listening closely to his rambling statements and his sudden question caught me completely off guard. "I beg your pardon?"

"Are you good at what you do? The detecting…detective work? Do you think you'll be able to find who killed Rose?"

Everyone wants assurances, I thought sadly.

"I promise you, Mr. Coyner….Jeff, I promise we’re going to do everything we can to find Rose’s killer.”

“What…what will happen to him? I mean, when you….when you catch whoever k...killed Rose, what will you do to him?”

“We put people like that behind bars, Jeff, and we make sure they stay there for a very long time.”

"Prison," he whispered. “They…they’d just go to prison?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing how he must feel since prison didn’t fit my idea of justice for a cold-blooded murderer either. “We don’t have the death penalty in this state, Jeff, but believe me, they will suffer for what they did to Rose, that I can promise you.”

"Frenchy?" Pete called.

I looked over at the two officers and saw Pete tap at his watch and then point toward the fireplace. The fire had almost gone out and poor Mr. Berrolli had nodded off in his chair. And Vic is still waiting upstairs, I reminded myself, deciding I'd gotten enough from the boyfriend for the time being.

“I think that’s enough questions for now, Mr. Coyner.” I reached into my pocket and handed him one of my cards. “We'll be in touch with you later, probably tomorrow,” I told him, “But if you think of anything in the mean time that might help us find Rose's killer, please call me, my number’s on this card.” Coyner nodded and seemed to take great care to tuck the card safely away in the pocket of his shirt.

“You have his info?” I asked Pete.

He nodded.

“Good.” I stood up and offered Coyner my hand, “Go home and try to get some rest, Mr. Coyner,” I suggested. “Why don’t you let us call you a cab? It’s very late.”

“No, thank you,” he said, as he stood. He picked up an expensive fleece-lined coat from where it lay on the back of the couch and slipped it on. “My car’s outside and I’d much prefer driving myself, if you don’t mind. I’ll be alright…really. I think I just need to go home now.”

I followed Coyner out of the apartment, but stopped in the foyer and watched him continue out the door. He looked tired, but calm, and his walk was steady.

"You sure about this?"

Pete had followed me into the foyer, leaving his partner to wake the sleeping Mr. Berrolli.

"Not really," I said, "But short of handcuffing him and putting him in the back of a squad car, what else can we do? The man wants to drive himself home. He’s not intoxicated, and he’s definitely calmed down, so unless someone follows him and actually sees him driving erratically, I think we have to let him go.” I sighed dramatically. “I'd certainly feel a lot better though, if I knew he made it home safely."

"O.K., O.K. I know where this is headed," Pete said. "We'll follow the poor guy home, Frenchy, but just remember you owe me one!"

"Thanks Pete," I said, giving him a grateful smile. “Guess I'd better go on upstairs. What apartment are we in?"

"Don't worry," he said, waving me toward the stairs, "Just go on up to the second floor. You can't miss it."

When I came out of the stairwell and turned the corner onto the second floor I saw exactly what Pete was talking about. Considering it was almost 3am, the hallway outside apartment 2B seemed a bit crowded. Another pair of uniformed officers, two guys with a gurney from the ME's office, and my partner, Vic Tamone, all turned toward me as I walked down the hall from the stairwell.

"It's about time you got here." Vic growled, straightening from his slouch against the closed door of 2B. He took his big hands from the pockets of his tan overcoat and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at me with grey eyes under brows that matched his salt and pepper hair.

I yawned, not particularly bothered by his attitude. After knowing the man for twenty years and working with him for the past ten, our relationship was more like a pair of fractious siblings than that of mere co-workers. Picking at each other had become a habit.

I shrugged. "I went out; didn't get home until way late, and yes, before you ask, I had a very good reason for turning off my phone.”

“I just bet you did,” muttered the shorter of the ME guys.

“Shut up, Westerly,” Vic and I both said together.

“What's the matter, Tamone?” Stan Westerly grinned, “You jealous?”

The hallway we were standing in wasn’t that wide and Vic’s right hand came within inches of the little man’s face before Westerly let out a squeak and dodged behind the larger bulk of one of the uniformed cops.

“You never did know when to shut up, Westerly”, muttered Vic.

“Anyway,” I told Vic, stepping between him and Westerly, “You're just lucky I checked my messages when I got home, partner, or I’d be sound asleep right now and you’d be handling this one all by yourself."

“Nope,” Vic countered, shaking his head and poking his finger at me, “You're lucky you checked your messages, Frenchy girl, because I was five minutes away from going over to your apartment and dragging your sorry butt out of bed. Now…if you're finally ready to go to work, might I suggest we go inside," he said, opening the door to the apartment with a flourish and bowing me through.

Our tiny audience notwithstanding, I couldn’t resist sticking my tongue out at him as I walked past and was rewarded with a rough grunt and muttered “Brat.” Then, “Sorry guys,” I heard him say behind me, speaking to Westerly and his partner, Sam Pulett, who had jumped to follow us into the apartment, “But we need a few minutes alone,” Vic told them, with a wicked grin in his voice. I glanced over my shoulder in time to catch their frustrated faces before he closed the door.

“You’re an evil man, Victor Tamone,” I accused, smiling at the theatrical leer he gave me. Not for the first time I silently thanked God that I worked with someone who could make me laugh, otherwise this job would have swallowed me up and spit me out long ago.

My smile faded as I walked on into the apartment and saw the body. The young woman was fully dressed, lying sprawled on the bare floor near a long, narrow coffee table. "Her name's Rosalie Davis," Vic said, filling me in on the details. "ID in her purse says she’s twenty-three. There’s a little over two-hundred dollars still in her wallet, so I don’t think we’re looking at a robbery here. No signs of forced entry at the door and the windows are all locked. Oh, and while you were ‘out’,” he said, unable to resist one more dig, “The crime scene techs came and dusted the place for prints and the ME's come and gone. He placed the time of death about seven, eight hours ago; sometime between seven and eight. Apparently her boyfriend found her around midnight. You saw him?"

"The guy downstairs, Jeff Coyner? Yeah, I saw him. We had a nice little chat before I kicked him loose. He had his car outside and insisted on driving, so I had Callwell and Martinez follow him home. He seemed pretty upset."

"I know. I couldn't get much out of him earlier; figured you'd have better luck so I had him hang around until you got here." It was eerily quiet as we moved around the room except for Vic's hard-soled steps, which sent echoes bouncing off the bare walls of the sparsely furnished apartment. I made a quick note of the hallway at one end of the room that probably led to the bedroom and an archway in one wall that opened into the kitchen, before turning my attention back to the dead woman who lay on her side, one arm thrown out toward the door. She was young and pretty, her short, pale blond hair stood out sharply against the blood that had pooled thickly around her head like a dark halo. I looked at her clothes and shivered. Except for the shoes, she and I were dressed almost the same in jeans, dark turtle-neck sweater, and jacket. I looked at the pointed toes and high heels of her black boots and thankfully wiggled my toes in my own comfortable sneakers.

I started to take a deep breath and then changed my mind. The apartment was warm; warmer than the hallway and foyer, and much warmer than the cold January night outside. Hot blood sitting in a small warm room for eight hours or so didn't make for the best atmosphere. I felt an ugly knot tighten in my stomach and swallowed hard.

"Do we have a murder weapon," I asked my partner as I squatted down next to the halo of blood to check out the damage to the woman’s skull.

"Not yet. The ME said it was some kind of blunt object. He’ll know more when he gets her back to his office for a proper exam. ‘Course, could be the killer took whatever it was with him." Vic suggested.

"Anything’s possible,” I said as I drew my partner’s attention to the woman’s out-stretched arm. "See how she fell toward the door?” I asked. “You think maybe she was trying to run?"

"If she was, it didn't do her much good, poor kid. Kind of hard to run with someone bashing in the back of your skull."

I stood and gave the rest of the room a long look. There wasn't much to see. The only pieces of furniture in the room were an old sofa set out away from the walls and turned at an angle toward the small corner fireplace, and the coffee table, which sat along the back of the sofa. The sofa looked like it had been slept in, with two small pillows and a blanket shoved down to one end. Several cardboard boxes were stacked against the wall near the door. One was labeled “clothes” written in wide, black marker. Another said “dishes” and a third was just labeled “stuff”. Two more were unlabeled, one set upon the other, the top one open.

"Moving in or moving out?" I asked Vic, indicating the boxes.

"Landlord said she moved in a couple weeks ago with a few boxes and one suitcase. The couch and table were left by the previous renter. Bedroom down the hall is empty except for her clothes and the suitcase. Nothing in the kitchen either,” he signed. “Not even an olive in the fridge,” he said mournfully.

“You and olives,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t believe my own partner would stoop to snitching olives from a victim’s refrigerator.

Vic snorted, “As if.”

He walked over to the boxes and flipped back the flaps of the one that was open. “What I don’t get is why she hasn’t unpacked anything. There’s no pictures set out, no knick-knacks, no nothing. Down right depressing place if you ask me."

"Except for these," I said slowly, focusing on the only bright spot of color in the little apartment. A bouquet of colorful flowers in a glass vase sat in the center of the coffee table.

"Yeah, they don't quite fit the rest of her décor, do they? I figure she just bought those today. There was a sales receipt for flowers on the floor by the other end of the couch,” Vic said, as he pulled a small plastic evidence bag out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. "Probably fell out of the grocery bag when she took the flowers out. There's even a couple of leaves and some petals on those pillows on the couch,"

I held the bag up, trying to force my eyes to focus on the small words and numbers printed on the receipt inside. God, I hated getting old. Or maybe it was just the late night and lack of sleep I thought hopefully. A tap on my arm got my attention and made me look up.

"Happens to everyone sooner or later, Frenchy-girl," Vic grinned, holding out a pair of reading glasses.

"Just shut up," I muttered, snatching the glasses and slipping them on. A second look at the paper was depressing in its clearness. "You're right," I admitted, looking up at him over the glasses, ignoring his smirk. "This is a receipt for some flowers; flowers and a package of breath mints. Hmmm…no store name or time stamp," I mused, as I gave the receipt a second look, "Must be from a small local store."

I paused a moment, thinking about the breath mints. "You know, Vic, I don't think Rosalie bought these flowers. I think her boyfriend bought them before he came to see her."

"You sound pretty certain about that," he said.

"I am," I told him, taking off the glasses and handing them back to him along with the evidence bag. "You would be too if you'd noticed Coyner's breath when you talked to him tonight."

"His breath! Frenchy, what are you talking about?"

"The receipt is for flowers and breath mints," I reminded him. "Coyner got in my face first thing when I walked in the manager's apartment downstairs. I couldn't help but notice that his breath smelled minty, like he'd been sucking on a peppermint. All I thought about it at the time was how much better it smelled than stale beer, but I’m thinking now that he bought the breath mints and flowers before coming to see our victim. Wouldn’t take much to check it out to be sure."

"Okay," Vic shrugged, "So now we know why the flowers look so out of place. It's because her boyfriend brought them when he came to see her." Vic snapped his fingers. "Which means that this might make a lot more sense now," he said, motioning me to follow him. He walked over to the corner fireplace where we both squatted down in front of the grey stone hearth. The fireplace had the look of recent use, but like the apartment it was almost empty. “I’ve already called a forensic expert from the county to come see what he can get from this,” he said, pointing at a small pile of black and grey ash.

I knew not to touch the fragile evidence the ash represented, but I could still recognized the tale-tale signs of burnt photographs in the curl of the larger pieces and the few white corners that I could see that appeared to have escaped the fire.

"Do you know the most common reason women burn photographs Detective Tamone?" I asked.

"Are you forgetting I've been married and divorced three times Detective Logan?" he replied. "I'd bet my proverbial pension that my dear sweet mother has the only pictures of me left in existence."

"No doubt," I said dryly, aware of Vic's dislike of cameras. "So let’s assume for the time being that they had a fight, or at least a disagreement strong enough for her to burn their pictures."

"Strong enough for him to think he needed to buy her flowers before coming to see her to try to patch things up." Vic added.

"But he was too late," I finished, standing up slowly, my knees creaking. Vic's did too, I noticed, but if he didn't say anything about mine, I certainly wasn't about to say anything about his.

"So we're back to square one," I said, sighing.

Vic shook his head. "It's worse than that, Frenchy-girl. We've just attributed the only two solid clues we had to the boyfriend, and unless you think he was putting on an act tonight…" He trailed off, his point made.

"No clues and no suspects," I said, looking around the small apartment. "That just means we're missing something partner, something important."

"Missing what?" asked Vic, sweeping the room with his arm. "Blast it all, Frenchy, there's nothing here to miss!"

"Well, maybe something will show up later," I said stubbornly. What about prints?"

"Darn few!"

"Witnesses? Any of the neighbors hear anything between seven and eight last night?"

Vic snorted. “Course not."

I shook my head and began to walk slowly, circling the sofa, coffee table, and body; looking at the crime scene from every angle. Unfortunately, any way I looked at it, there were just too many questions and not enough answers. I began to think that maybe Vic was right; maybe there was just nothing else to see.

I stopped beside the flowers and reached out to finger the soft petals. Some of the leaves were already drooping. I tipped the beautiful crystal vase. Needs water, I thought absently.

"Frenchy," Vic finally said, and walked over to stand behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders. "I think we need to let this go for now and let those guys from the medical examiner's office have the body. Why don't you go on home and try to catch an hour, I'll stay here and wrap this up and meet you at the office later."

I felt guilty, for more reasons than one, and I didn't like it one bit. But he was right. I'd held up everyone for far too long. It was time to let it go for now.

"Alright," I told him, rubbing my eyes, "I could use the sleep. Maybe it'll help me think better….clear my head. Thanks, partner."

"Go on, get out of here," he said, pushing me toward the door, "And you can tell those vultures outside they can come in.” Then added, “But if Westerly tries to snap my picture with that stupid camera of his, he’ll be the one leaving here in a body bag!"

I smiled and waved as I opened the door.

Stan Westerly, ME technician and would-be reporter, had climbed up on the gurney and looked sound asleep. I looked at him and then looked at his partner, Sam.

"I'll give you fifty bucks if you can get him in a body bag before he wakes up."

"Too late," Westerly said, opening his eyes. He yawned as he sat up. "You two finished making out so soon?"

"I heard that!" Vic's voice boomed from the apartment behind me.

"Oh darn," said Westerly, jumping off the gurney and taking a quick step behind Officer Sayers again.

I laughed, albeit tiredly and motioned to Sam that he could go inside. Westerly moved toward the door at the same time. I put out an arm and stopped him. "Vic said…"

"I know, I know," said Westerly, "No pictures of him or he'll cut my throat." He made a cutting motion with his finger across his throat and let his head flop to one side.

"Close enough," I said, laughing again, and let the comical little man go through the door. "Night, guys," I said, giving the two officers a quick wave as I walked back to the stairs.

By the time my feet hit the last few stairs my body had decided to forcibly remind me that it was dead tired, and I let my sneakers clump down on each tread not really thinking about the noise I was making. As I reached the foyer, the door to Apartment 1A opened and Mr. Berrolli stuck his head out. When he saw me, he opened the door and motioned me over. Smothering a yawn behind my hand I joined him.

"I hear you promise young man you would find the killer of Miss Rose, yes?" he said, his Italian accent thick, but understandable.

"Yes, Mr. Berrolli," I assured him, not feeling all that sure myself, "We'll find her killer."

"Good, good," he nodded, "She was a very nice girl. She have very nice manners, very respectful, very quiet." He gave a flamboyant shrugged, "Young man not so quiet, but he seem to like Miss Rose very much. Is nice when gentleman bring lady flowers, eh," he winked at me.

I smiled and crossed my arms, leaning tiredly against the wall. "Yes, it's very nice," I agreed. "Do you know if Mr. Coyner brought Miss Rose flowers very often?" I asked, thinking of the fancy glass vase in the bare apartment.

"Yes, yes, four, five times I see him since she move in. Always when he comes to see her, like tonight….last night…yesterday…" he kept correcting himself. The early morning hour seemed to confuse everyone.

"I understand, Mr. Berrolli. You saw Mr. Coyner bring flowers to Rose when he came to check on her at midnight."

He looked at me strangely. "Not midnight," he said. "My wife and I, we go to bed every night at ten; like I tell young officer before."

Now it was my turn to be confused.

"Then when did you see him bring the flowers?" I asked, thinking maybe the old gentleman had a habit of getting his times confused.

"Was 7:30…..Monday night," he said smiling.

Goose bumps flashed down my arms and I pushed away from the wall. "This Monday night? Yesterday's Monday?"

"Yes, yesterday's Monday night," he assured me. "I was coming down from the third floor and saw her young man with flowers outside door of Miss Rose. He knock, door open, he goes inside."

"You're sure about the time," I asked, aware of a rising excitement inside me.

"I am very sure," he told me firmly. "Mrs. Bellaconner in apartment 3D call me a little after 7:00pm. Her commode would not stop running," he said dramatically. "So I had to go up and fix; but was nothing…nothing," he waved his hand in dismissal. "Little chain inside tank was hung on float arm. I get un-hung, flapper falls, commode stops running," he finished, spreading his arms in triumph.

"Yes, yes, that's wonderful. I'm happy for Mrs. Bellaconner," I said, "But what about seeing the boyfriend with the flowers?"

"Ah," he said, remembering, "I come back down stairs from Mrs. Bellaconner's apartment on third floor and see young man go in Miss Rose's apartment on second floor, then I come back to my apartment. But," he said, shrugging, "I miss all of Jeopardy. My wife and I, we watch every night from 7:00 to 7:30, then we watch Wheel of Fortune."

"Thank you, Mr. Berrolli," I said, grabbing his hand for a quick shake and then slapping a card in his palm. "You've been a tremendous help. I'll be getting back to you very soon." I turned and sprinted back up the stairs, wide awake, adrenaline pumping. I slowed to a quick walk going down the hallway to Rose's apartment, my mind going over every conversation I'd had that evening. The interview with Coyner, the clues Vic and I had discussed and Mr. Berrolli's missed Jeopardy show was beginning to add up to a very nasty total.

Rosalie's body was already bagged and on the gurney when I went back into the apartment.

"Out," I said, "Everybody out!"

"Yeah, you guys get out," Westerly piped up, "Me and Frenchy have some unfinished business," he said, patting the back of the couch.

Big brother Vic would probably have punched Westerly for real for that remark if he'd been paying the little man any attention, but my partner knew me too well. He knew as soon as I walked through the door that my mood had darkened considerably in the short time I'd been gone. I was usually a fairly agreeable person, but when I wasn't, I didn't bother trying to hide it. The only trouble was, it wasn't Westerly I was angry at, and that stupid conscience of mine just wouldn't let me physically flatten the fool.

Fortunately for Westerly, being foolish and being stupid are not necessarily the same thing, and it only took a few seconds longer for him to realize that he needed to shut his mouth and leave.

"S…sorry, Frenchy," he muttered and hurried out the door, closing it behind him.

"Okay Frenchy," Vic said when the door was closed, "What's happened."

"I just found out from the manager that Coyner had a habit of bringing flowers when he came to see his girlfriend," I said.

"So? We'd already decided that’s where they came from. All this does is blow our theory about him bringing them because they’d had a fight."

I shook my head. "It’s more than that. We thought he brought them with him when he came back at midnight."

"What do you mean 'came back'? Are you saying Coyner was here earlier?"

I looked at my partner and nodded. "Yeah, and if Callwell’s rookie partner had asked the manager the right questions we might have known that hours ago.” I waved Vic’s disgusted snort and muttered “Rookies!” aside. “Anyway, I think we had part of it right,” I continued. “I know from talking to Coyner that Rosalie quit her job; same place where he works. My guess is that when he found that out at work yesterday he came over here during his lunch hour, between 7 and 8. He'd have had enough time; Martellie's isn't that far away. He even stopped to buy her the flowers like he always did.” I walked around the gurney with Rose’s body and picked up the flowers, the glass vase heavy in my hands. “But, if the burnt photographs mean what we think they mean, she’d decided to make a fresh start in more ways than one.” I continued. “They probably did have a fight, Vic. I'm thinking she was breaking up with him and he just found out about it last night. Coyner told me downstairs that everyone said they were the perfect couple; that they were meant for each other. Well, I think he believed that so much that he couldn't let go and when she told him no, told him to leave…he lost it.”

Vic reached out wordlessly and took the vase of flowers from my hand which I had been shaking in emphasis to each word, and set it back on the table.

“Darn it, Vic, he killed her,” I said, running the fingers of both hands through my hair and giving it a good jerk before letting go. “I’m positive of it! And you want to know the worst part? I sat there like an idiot and let that lying creep fool me into thinking he was some grief-stricken lover!" I almost shouted, angry that I could have been so taken in by Coyner’s act. I began pacing. Three steps to the wall, three steps back.

"But, how, Frenchy? What did he kill her with?” Vic demanded, doubt heavy in his eyes.

I stopped at the coffee table and huffed a frustrated breath, my eyes drawn again to the flowers. Maybe I wouldn't have thought of it if I hadn’t picked up the vase earlier. If I hadn’t noticed how heavy it was; if I hadn’t been looking at them when Vic asked the question. But I had, and I was, and slowly I picked up the vase again, it’s weight like lead in my hands.

"Maybe that's what made him think of it, too," I said aloud.

"Made who think of what, Frenchy? How about making some sense for crying out loud!"

"Coyner! That's how he killed her! The thought just popped into his head while he was holding the vase with the flowers!"

I walked over and stood under the archway to the kitchen, and lifted up the vase of flowers as if I was offering it to Vic. He watched my pantomime impatiently. I took a few steps toward him as I grabbed the flowers from the vase and threw them down on the end of the couch where the pillows and blanket were, scattering more of the leaves and petals in the process.

"Ah," said Vic, "so that's how they got there."

"Right," I nodded.

"So where are we here? Is she telling him to get out?" he asked, quickly catching on to the act.

I shrugged, "Your guess is as good as mine at this point, but I think maybe he wouldn't leave, so she tried to, and when she turned to the door…."

I flipped the heavy crystal vase around in my hand, hefted the glass club above my head and brought its rounded base slapping down into my bare palm.

"That's why it didn't have prints on it," Vic said excitedly. "Because the cold-hearted little snot washed the blood off and put the flowers back in the vase before he left, just to throw us off the track! Blast it!" said Vic, snatching his cell phone out of his pocket. I heard him put in a call to the switchboard where he had them patch him through to Pete Callwell.

"Where's Coyner? Well, get back there, we think he's the murderer! Frenchy and I are on our way!"

"Come on, Frenchy-girl," Vic said as he flipped his phone closed and headed for the door.

I knew I would remember the way Westerly jumped when Vic snatched open the door for years to come and would probably laugh every time, but right then I didn’t have the heart or the time.

We paused long enough for me to shove the vase at Officer Sayers, who still stood guard at the door. "Bag that now, and when these guys get the body out, seal the room and take the vase to the lab. Have them check it for blood trace, and call me as soon as possible. You got that?"

"Got it,” he called after us as Vic and I ran down the hall to the stairs.

Somehow we got down both flights without breaking anything and burst through the door into the deep cold of early morning.

"I'm driving," Vic said as our feet hit the sidewalk outside the apartment building. He grabbed my arm and dragged me across the street to his car where he shoved me in on the driver's side, almost sitting in my lap before I could scoot over.

There wasn't much for me to do on the way to Coyner's apartment but hang on. Vic may have had a slow, methodical manner when it came to solving a murder, but once we had our prey spotted, he moved like a greyhound. It was a funny simile, but I couldn't even smile about it. I felt detached, almost numb, and for a moment I couldn't figure out why. I was still angry at letting Coyner's act fool me. Pete would be too, I suddenly thought. We’d both underestimated his acting ability….hadn’t we?

I thought about our conversation again. How upset he had looked with the tears in his eyes. He had asked me if I were good enough to catch Rose's killer. Had he been taunting me? I had thought so two minutes ago, but for some reason when I added everything up this time I wasn't getting the same answer.

“Something’s still not right,” I told Vic as we sped along the relatively empty streets.

"What is it? What's the matter?" Vic asked.

“Why did he come back? He’d already killed her, and as far as he knew, no one had seen him, so why go back to the apartment and pretend to find her body?”

“Come on, Frenchy, he was trying to establish his innocence. He must have known we always look for suspects in the victim’s relationships first.”

“Then why not just take the murder weapon with him? Why leave it in plain sight for us to find?”

“For crying out loud, Frenchy, bad guys make mistakes all the time; it’s what we count on! Why are you so concerned with this guy’s motive? It was a crime of passion, pure and simple!”

“A crime of passion,” I repeated, my mind latching on to the last word. Suddenly it all fell into place and I felt those stupid goose bumps again.

“Oh God, Vic, I think I made a big mistake.”

“What? What mistake?”

“I let him go…even knowing how upset he was, I just let him leave.”

“Who…Coyner? Don’t worry about it, Frenchy, we’ll catch him.”

I shook my head. "I should have seen it sooner, Vic. I'm either too tired or I'm getting too old for this.”

"What do you mean, sooner? She hasn't been dead twelve hours yet. I think we did pretty darn good here, Frenchy."

I shook my head again. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Vic, a real bad feeling. Something tells me we're already too late." Vic's phone rang, and he fumbled it out of his pocket.

"Tamone here. Yeah, un-huh….un-huh…yeah, we're about five minutes out. Right. Okay." He flipped the phone closed and stuffed it back in his pocket.

I noticed we weren't going quite as fast any more.

"How'd you figure it out?" Vic asked quietly.

I sighed deeply and slumped back in the seat, knowing I’d figured it all out just a little too late. "He left the flowers for her,” I said quietly. “That, and he came back to make sure her body was found. He killed her in desperation, Vic, because she was walking away from him, from their relationship, and he didn't know any other way to stop her. Afterwards, he couldn’t stand the thought of her lying alone in that bare apartment, so he went back to make sure she was found. I imagine that seeing her again made him realize just what he’d done. The pain and the grief I saw during the interview were real; probably more real than he could bear. I just wish I’d seen the rest of it.”

“Are you sure it was there to see?” Vic asked.

“It was there,” I admitted, as much to myself as to him. “When we were talking he wanted to know what was going to happen to her killer when we caught him. I told him we'd have whoever killed Rose put away in prison for life. I thought he just wanted to make sure that whoever killed her got what they deserved. I guess, in a way, that’s exactly what he wanted to be sure of, but I remember now how upset he seemed to be when I mentioned prison. I don’t know if it was the thought of him spending the rest of his life there or if he thought prison wasn't enough of a punishment for what he’d done, either way there was only one other choice for him."

The car slowed, and Vic turned through the gates of the apartment complex where Coyner lived. We followed the reflections of blue and red lights that flashed across the dark buildings until we came to Coyner’s apartment. A crowd had already gathered; people in night clothes and slippers wearing coats and jackets, some with blankets clutched around their shoulders to keep warm, not enough sense to go in out of the cold.

Vic pulled the car to a stop near the curb and turned off the engine. Neither of us moved.

"There's a note for you," my partner finally said.

I nodded. I had thought maybe there would be. He’d want to explain to someone, and I was probably the last person he’d talked to.

We got out of the car and made our way through the crowd to where Martinez stood outside an open door. It may have been the lighting, but I thought he looked paler and maybe just a bit older than he had at Mr. Berrolli's. The lights were on inside the apartment. Pete stood in the middle of the living room, making notes in a little book. He looked up when we came in.

"Shot woke up the neighbors," he told us. "They'd already called it in when we got here."

Jeffery Coyner’s body sat limply on the couch. Behind him on the white wall was a large splatter of dark red blood and pink matter. Some of the larger drops of blood that had hit the wall around the splatter were still in the process of slowly crawling their way down toward the floor.

One of Coyner’s hands lay in his lap clutching what looked like one of the small roses from Rosalie’s bouquet. The stem was bent and the petals looked like they had been crushed. His other hand had fallen across a white envelope lying on the couch beside him. His fist was open and a pistol lay innocently on his palm. It looked like a .45. That would do it, I thought, wondering why he had the gun in the first place. He didn’t look the type.

I stepped closer to the couch and bent to look at the envelope. His hand covered most of the writing, but I could still see one word, Logan, written in neat, precise letters. I shivered as I straightened and felt Vic’s hand on my shoulder.

"You can't touch that yet,” he reminded me, nodding toward the envelope.

“I know. I don't have to,” I told him sadly, “I’m pretty sure I already know what it's going to say."

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