Allison Brennan - Silenced

Lucy smiled. She had no idea what Genie was talking about because she didn’t watch television.

“Seriously,” Genie said, “you have more creds than most of our rookies. Let’s go hit up the vic’s last known address and see what we learn, then I’ll drop you at the morgue. That’s not far from FBI headquarters, right?”

“A few blocks.”

“I’ll work the hookers,” Genie said. “They’re not going to talk to a white fed, but they’ll shoot straight with me.”

They walked toward Genie’s unmarked police sedan. “Don’t forget to give your grandson another dollar-twenty-five.”

“You counted?”

“You were too angry with those two jerks to do it yourself.”

Genie sighed and took out her coin purse. “He’ll be going to Harvard at this rate.”

Nicole’s last known address was only six blocks from where she’d been murdered.

The neighborhood was what Lucy would classify as a slum. One of the worst in DC, heavily segregated. While most neighborhoods were mixed, this one was one hundred percent black. Lucy definitely stood out, and not in a good way.

It seemed areas like this were worse in the summer, when the humidity made the overflowing Dumpsters smell ten times worse; when the heat shimmered off the sidewalks and streets; when the people slumped shirtless in any shade they could find from the sweltering sun.

Maybe because of the heat, no one bothered them as they walked from Genie’s unmarked but obvious police sedan to the doorway of a four-story apartment building that dominated the short block. The window AC units made the entire building groan.

Genie buzzed the manager first, but the buzzer was broken and there was meager security on the main door. Genie opened it with a shove and they knocked on the first door, 1A, with

AN G R

in broken letters underneath. “Hope that’s not foreshadowing his mood,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the door. Behind the door a television roared with canned laughter.

“I really hate this neighborhood,” Genie muttered. “I pull a case here at least twice a week.”

The manager was a rotund black woman in her sixties. She was dressed in a blinding bright pink muumuu with green flowers.

“What do the cops want with who today?” she asked.

Genie showed the manager Nicole’s driver’s license photo. “Nicole Bellows, four-B.”

“Don’t live here.”

She started to close the door.

“But she used to,” Genie said.

The woman stepped heavily into the hall and shut the door behind her, though Lucy could still hear the laugh track of a mindless sitcom. “Let’s see her.”

Genie showed the manager the photo. The woman put on her glasses and stared. “She’s one of the hookers. Moved out back before Thanksgiving. Found herself a sugar daddy, I suppose.”

“Do you know who?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?” She laughed at her own joke. “All I know is she caught up on her back rent and gave me two weeks. That covered her room through Halloween, I think. I haven’t seen her since.”

“How long did she live here?”

She shrugged. “Maybe a year. Little longer.” She glared at them. “She wasn’t a bad girl, you know. Never brought trouble here. No drugs. I catch one of my tenants with drugs, they don’t get no second chance. Drugs are killing my people, I don’t tolerate that garbage.”

“Nicole wasn’t a problem, then,” Genie said.

“Nope. Didn’t think she’d stay as long as she did.”

“Did she have any friends in the building?”

“Dunno. But I remember one friend, came by a couple times. I told her once, don’t come here at night, it wasn’t safe for a rich white girl like her.”

Lucy’s interest was piqued. “Do you remember her name?”

“Never introduced. She didn’t belong here. I think she was in Nicole’s line of work, if you know what I mean.”

“Are any of Nicole’s friends still in the building?”

“Four-C. Cora Fox. Been here for years. Nosy bitch, too.”

“Is she here now, or are we wasting our time walking up four flights?”

“She’s here, but you won’t find her upstairs. Coolest place in the building is the basement. I put in some fans, bring in some blocks of ice.”

Lucy’s surprise must have showed on her face.

The manager said, “You wouldn’t understand, chica .”

Genie grinned. “Nice meeting you-?”

“Meggie. Meggie Prince.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Lucy said, not understanding what Genie found humorous. She was still stunned at being called chica. Being half Cuban, she could pass for Hispanic or Caucasion, but growing up in San Diego, she blended in and rarely thought about skin color. That sounded trite, but it was the way she’d been raised.

Lucy and Genie took the stairs down to the basement. Support beams six feet apart seemed to hold up the building, and the ceiling was so low Lucy could reach up and touch it without stretching. But it was definitely twenty degrees cooler down here. In each corner of the long, narrow space was a big metal tub with a block of melting ice. A fan blew on the ice, cooling the air.

There were about two dozen people lounging about talking or watching one of three televisions, all of which had the same sitcom that the manager had been watching. Half got up and left when Genie and Lucy walked in. Genie stopped each woman and asked if she was Cora.

Finally, from the far corner, a skinny middle-aged woman who’d been watching them from the minute they entered said, “I’m Cora.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like cops.”

Genie said, “And I don’t like attitude, but here we are.”

“I don’t rat on friends.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m here about Nicole Bellows.”

“Well, seeing that Nicole ain’t my friend, whaddya want to know?”

“She’s your neighbor?” Lucy asked.

“ Former neighbor. That stuck-up whore moved out last year. October, maybe. Didn’t the super tell you that?”

“Yes. She also said you knew her.”

Cora shrugged. “As much as anyone could. She thought she was better than us, like her shit don’t stink.”

“It doesn’t anymore,” Genie said. “She’s dead.”

Cora put her hands up and leaned back. “Hey, I didn’t know.”

“We’re trying to retrace her steps. This is the last address we have on her.”

“There’s been a lot of steps between then and now.”

“So send us in the right direction. Do you know where she moved? Did she give you an address?”

“Nope. All I knew was what she told me, that she was moving to a house with a yard. Thought she was all that, you know? I said to her, found a sucker? A pimp? You know, trying to get the truth ’cuz I knew she was still hooking. And she says, no, she was making more money working less hours. I told her she was full of shit.” She shrugged.

“You didn’t believe her?” Lucy asked.

“I did,” Cora admitted. “But I thought she was into something. She aspired to be a high-paid call girl. I said to her, no one’s going to be paying top dollar for a two-bit whore. But she cleaned up, quit snorting-all her profits used to go up her nose.”

Maybe Meggie Prince didn’t know everything that went on in her building, or she lied a good game.

“I remember when she was in withdrawal,” Cora continued. “Her white bitch friend stayed here to keep Nicole straight. Never thought I’d see that goody-two-shoes stay overnight in this slum, but I guess people surprise you sometimes.”

Lucy asked, “Her friend? Does her friend have a name?”

“No idea. She was brave, I tell you, ’cause white girls don’t do well this side of town, know what I mean? But she stuck with Nicole for three days.”