“Hey, Mr. Z.”
He was carrying a small ladder, a drop cloth, and a gallon of paint. And he was headed to the apartment at the end of the hall. What the heck? When I’d first moved in, I wanted that apartment. I begged. I pleaded. But no. The owners weren’t willing to shell out the money it would take to renovate it. And now he was renovating it? Now they were willing?
“What’s going on?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
He drew to a stop in front of me, key at the ready. While Cookie’s apartment and mine were right across the hall from each other, the end apartment spanned the length of both of ours with the door perpendicular to the main hall. It was like taking both of ours and putting them together. Since it’d suffered major water damage a few years ago and the owners lost the insurance money at the casinos before they could finish the renovations, it’d sat vacant for years. Which made no sense to me whatsoever.
“Finally finishing up this apartment,” he said, pointing with a key. “Got some construction guys coming in this afternoon. Might get noisy.”
Hope blossomed in my chest like a begonia in spring. My apartment was way too small now with all my new stuff. I could totally use bigger and better digs. “I want it,” I said, blurting it out before I could stop myself.
He raised a brow. “Can’t let you have it. Already have a tenant.”
“No way. Mr. Z, I’ve wanted that apartment since I first looked at this place. You promised to put me on the list of possible tenants.”
“And you are on the list. Right below these people.”
I gasped. “You mean, you cheated?”
“No. I took a bribe. Not the same thing.”
He started for the door again. I took a menacing step in front of him. “I bribed you, too, if you’ll remember.”
With a snort, he said, “Was that a bribe? I thought it was a tip.”
I was now officially appalled. “And I offered to pay you more than what I was paying for this cracker box.”
“You dissing my building?”
“No, your ethics.”
“If I’m recalling this right, you offered to pay fifty dollars more a month for this apartment.”
“That’s right.”
“For an apartment that’s twice the size of yours.”
“Yeah, so? It’s all I had at the time.”
“From my understanding, the new tenant is paying three times what you pay for yours. And paying for all the repairs.”
Crap. I probably couldn’t afford to do something like that. Maybe if I sent back the espresso machine. And the electric nail gun. “I cannot believe you went behind my back like this.”
He picked up the ladder. “I don’t think renting out an apartment is going behind your back, Ms. Davidson. But if you feel that strongly about it, you can always kiss my ass.”
“In your dreams.”
After a soft chuckle, he disappeared into the apartment. I got a peek at the new drywall lining the walls, all fresh and unpainted. Clearly, I’d missed something.
I strode through Cookie’s door, cursing my bad luck. And bad hearing.
“Did you know Mr. Z rented 3B?”
Cookie looked up from her computer. “No way. I wanted that apartment.”
“I did, too. Who do you think our neighbor will be?”
“Probably another elderly woman with poodles.”
“Maybe. Or maybe a serial killer.”
“One can dream. What do you have?” She nodded toward the paper in my hands.
“Oh, right. We have a client.”
“Really?” Her surprise wasn’t completely unexpected. It’d been a while. But it was a little offensive.
“Yeah. She just showed up. Maybe those ads we’re running on late-night radio are working.”
“Possibly, but I still think they’d work even better if they were in English. Not many people speak Japanese around here.”
“Honestly, Cook, you act like I don’t even want any new clients.”
She reached over and snatched the paper out of my hands. “I wonder where I got that idea from.”
With a confounded shrug, I glanced behind me to make sure Harper wasn’t at the door; then I spoke softly to Cook. “I need you to find out everything you can about her. I need family members, work and volunteer history, parking tickets, whatever you can get.”
“You got it. Where are you going now?” she asked as I headed for the door.
“Harper believes someone is trying to kill her, so I’m taking her to the safe house.”
“Sounds like a plan.” After the door clicked closed, she yelled out, “We have a safe house?”
3
Welcome back.
I see the assassins have failed.
—T-SHIRT
After a battle of epic proportions, where my legs wanted to go one way while my head told them to go another, I strode with Harper past my dad’s bar and down the alley toward our makeshift safe house. I couldn’t help but scan the terrain like a soldier in hostile territory. Oddly enough, Harper did the same thing. We looked like tweakers as we passed businesses, college students, and the occasional homeless person.
I decided to try to lighten the mood. “So, what did you always want to be when you grew up?” I asked Harper.
She walked beside me, arms crossed at chest, head down, and fought to smile.
“It’s just up here,” I said, saving her from having to respond. “Pari’s a saint. Only with full sleeves and a bad attitude. Other than that, you can totally count on her. Mostly for questionable advice, but we all have to be good at something, right?”