Diana Killian - Murder On The Eightfold Path

“You know the police have probably been all over this place by now.”

Elysia tossed a furtive look over her shoulder and stepped inside the apartment. A.J. followed her inside, and Elysia closed the door. The apartment smelled stale, empty.

A.J. looked around. They stood in a long, narrow living room. The walls were dove gray, the carpet white, the furniture dark and severe and modern. The only splash of color came from the primitive abstract paintings on the wall: orange, blue, and green swirls that reminded A.J. of the sort of things a hazmat team generally dealt with. It had the signature look of a mediocre interior decorator: overpriced and impersonal.

The entertainment system looked especially pricey. But there were only a handful of CDs: Englebert Humperdinck, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tom Jones. Music to seduce older ladies by. There were no DVDs.

“It doesn’t look like he spent a lot of time here. Is this where you used to meet?”

Elysia shook her head. She seemed uncharacteristically quiet.

They wandered into the kitchen. Another long, narrow room. Pale green walls and white tile. White stove, fridge, dishwasher, microwave. A.J. opened a cupboard and there were two plates, two coffee cups, a few glasses.

“He certainly didn’t eat here often.”

“No. We usually ate out.”

A.J. opened the fridge and found it empty of food beyond a jar of green olives, three bottles of champagne, and a damp looking takeout container of moldy looking koshary.

“Whatever he was spending his ill-gotten gains on, it wasn’t the good life.”

There was no answer. A.J. glanced around and saw that her mother had left the room. She found her in the bedroom-inside the walk-in closet to be precise-and saw that in this room spartan simplicity gave way to sybaritic luxury. The queen-sized bed had a silver brocade bedspread and was piled high with jewel-bright velvet cushions. The closet was stuffed with clothes: tailored suits, silk shirts, designer sportswear, and cashmere sweaters. There were rows and rows of expensive shoes. Dicky had possessed far more shoes than A.J. owned, even back when she’d been a rising young freelancer.

Elysia methodically checked the pockets of the trousers and shirts and blazers. A.J. moved off to the bathroom and found the glass shelves packed with a variety of name-brand grooming products. Dicky also had more hair products than she did. A.J. counted shampoos and conditioners from L’Occitane, Calvin Klein, and The Salon.

Returning to the bedroom, she noticed a snapshot tucked in the corner of the framed mirror over the dresser. The family grouped in front of the neutral background appeared to be Egyptian: a dignified older man, a plump, comfortable middle-aged woman, two self-conscious teenaged girls, and a little boy. Judging by clothes and haircuts, the photograph seemed quite recent. Was this Dicky’s family? She couldn’t think of another reason for such a group portrait.

As she studied the photo, A.J. viewed Dakarai Massri for the first time as something more than a threat to her mother. She recalled how young he had been; she recognized that whatever his faults, he had been someone with hopes and fears, dreams and ambitions, disappointments and sorrows. He had a family somewhere and they had probably loved him and would soon be, if they were not already, grieving for him.

“What about this bookie of his?” A.J. called. “Do you think Dicky might have had gambling debts he couldn’t pay?”

“He liked to gamble,” Elysia replied absently.

“What did he gamble on?”

“Horses, mostly. But he spends-spent-a fair amount of time in Atlantic City.”

A.J. sat down gingerly on the side of the bed. “I don’t begin to know how we would locate a bookie or investigate Dicky’s gambling habits.”

“Hmm. I admit it’ll take some thought.” Elysia stepped out of the closet and looked around. “I don’t see his laptop anywhere.”

“Did he have a laptop?” A.J. asked sharply.

“One of those cute little notebook thingies.”

“The police must have it. Did you write him e-mails?” A.J. braced herself for the answer.

“You know I don’t use e-mail unless I have to.”

That was true, and it was one bright spot. At least Elysia would not have left an electronic trail.

They went through all the drawers in Dicky’s bureau and dressing table but turned up nothing more interesting than an overabundance of dress socks.

A.J. sifted through her share of the dresser drawers quickly. She wanted out of this apartment as soon as possible. All they needed was a nosy neighbor or a prospective tenant and they’d be trying to explain themselves to the local law-and good luck with that. “What about his friends? Did he have any?”

“I met his upstairs neighbor once,” Elysia said. “They seemed to get on well enough.”

“It’s so weird. He’s like the Man Who Never Was.”

“I assure you, pumpkin, he most definitely was.”

As A.J. slid the drawer back it seemed to stick. She pulled it out, tried again, and heard something tear.

“There’s something here.”

A.J. pulled the drawer all the way out and Elysia rushed to take it from her.

“You’re not supposed to lift!”

Letting Elysia take the drawer, A.J. reached inside. Jammed into the wooden track was a crumpled greeting card. She freed it carefully, drew it out, and smoothed the stiff paper, examining it curiously.

Elaborate gold script on embossed white stock read Happy Birthday to My Husband.

Heart pounding in hope, A.J. opened the card. Beneath the usual lavish and saccharine sentiments was scrawled xo and a name: Medea.

“Hey, take a look at this.” She held the card out to her mother.

Elysia took the card and opened it. She seemed to go very still.

“He was married,” A.J. said.

Elysia said nothing.

“He was already married to someone else. Married to someone named Medea. If we could find this woman, this Medea, we would probably have the answer to who killed Dicky.”

Still Elysia did not speak-and that was so odd that A.J. fell silent, too.

And in that profound silence she heard a key scrape in the front door lock and the sound of the front door opening.

“Hide!” gasped Elysia, attempting to shove the drawer soundlessly back in its track.

“Hide where?” squeaked A.J.

There was no more time than that. Elysia dove beneath the bed. Her arm poked from beneath the bed skirt, beckoning wildly to A.J., but A.J. knew there was no way her back would permit her to climb under the bed-not if she planned on ever climbing out again. She backed into the crowded walk-in closet, ducking behind the suits and silk shirts, listening tensely. Yes, someone had definitely entered the apartment.

The scent of Dicky’s aftershave was disconcerting. A.J. tried to blank it out and concentrate on the voices. Blanketed in sport coats and shirts, she could see nothing, and though she could hear voices, they were too low to discern more than that there were two more people in the apartment and that one was-possibly-female.

Her first panicked thought had been that she and Elysia had been discovered by the apartment complex manager, but she realized now that that was probably incorrect. The intruders sounded as though they might be arguing. Then A.J. heard the distinct slide of blinds across the front window.

Perhaps these were the hitherto unknown friends or family of the dead man? Oh God. What if they had arrived to pack all his things?

She heard the floor creak. A male voice close to the bedroom door said, “I still don’t see the point of this.”

The answer was indistinct.

“Well, we better make this fast. That gardener is coming down this way.”