Marcus Sakey - Good People

“What about the…” Anna hesitated, then pointed toward the bathroom.

Abramson shook his head. “These guys are animals. At least they used the toilet. I’ve seen places they did it right on the living room carpet.” His radio chirped, and he said, “Excuse me a moment,” then stepped down the hall and answered it.

“Did what?” Tom cocked his head at Anna.

“Uh,” she said. “You don’t want to know.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Just shaken up.”

He hugged her again, wrapped his arms around her, the smell of her filling his nostrils. “Anna, maybe we should tell them-”

“No.”

“I’m just saying.”

“No.” She pulled away. “That’s our child. I’m not giving it up, not without a reason.”

He was saved from replying by Abramson’s return. “Sorry about that, folks. I didn’t realize, I guess you had an incident here the other night?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Our tenant died. This was his apartment.”

The cop nodded, not overly interested. “Well, that was my dispatcher, wanting to let me know a detective was on the way. Guy named Halden?”

“We met him that night. But he’s a homicide detective, right? Why is he coming?”

Abramson shrugged. “Have to ask him. Meanwhile, you want to take a look around, see if anything in particular is missing? I need to know for the report.”

“We didn’t know our tenant very well,” Anna said. “I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“Well, just take a glance, see if you spot anything.”

They shrugged, started walking around. Tom figured unless the refrigerator was gone, he wasn’t going to notice much difference, but it gave him time to think.

What he’d said to Anna, about it being thieves, that had been automatic, just him trying to calm her down, to make things better. Male problem solving. But in his own head, he had to wonder. They’d never been robbed before. Lincoln Square was pretty quiet. And as he took in the gaping cabinets, the cans of soup and containers of pasta spilled across the counter, the open drawers, it was hard not to get the feeling that this was a pretty thorough search for a couple of junkies.

Maybe they hit this unit instead of ours because it was on the ground floor. Maybe the place is torn apart because they were looking for cash, or for pills. Maybe they were thorough precisely because they were desperate. There’s no reason to think it’s more than that.

Except, of course, that there were reasons. Several hundred thousand of them.

DETECTIVE HALDEN made Anna feel good about paying taxes. Justice in gray pinstripes, he was in charge the moment he stepped into the room. The other cops clearly deferred to him, their posture improving. Halden spoke to the officers, nodding and asking questions. He squatted by the front door and focused a flashlight into the lock, then repeated the process in the back.

“Hello again,” as he shook their hands. “Officer Abramson gave me a rundown, but would you take me through it again, Mrs. Reed?”

“Anna, please.”

“Anna. I’d like to hear it from you.”

She nodded, sitting at the kitchen table now, the three of them having coffee, the uniformed cops gone. Told him about running errands – leaving out the part where she leveled seventy grand in debt – then coming home, finding the place ransacked. The foul smell in the bathroom, the insult of it, the violation, someone they didn’t know leaving that floating in their toilet. Her fear as she realized they might still be around, then her flight, right past her purse with her cell phone, and finally dialing 911 from the corner market. Halden nodded, scribbled the occasional note. His posture straight, a good-looking guy, clean-cut as a recruiting poster. Her gaze kept pulling to the gun on his hip, a matte black thing that made her shiver. When she finished talking, he nodded, said, “When you arrived, the door was locked?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

She thought back, remembered setting down the plastic bags to dig out her keys. “Yes.”

“And the windows were closed and locked as well.”

She nodded. Then caught where he was going, said, “Yes. So how did they-”

“Neither door shows signs of force. My guess would be that they either had keys or jimmied the lock.”

“Who would have keys?”

“A friend?” Halden stared at her. “Tell me, have you remembered anything else about your tenant?”

She made herself bite her lip before shaking her head, wanting it to look like she was thinking hard. “I’m sorry. We really didn’t know him.”

“You said the other night that you didn’t know what he did for a living.”

“No.”

“Did you ever notice him going to work? Bump into him in the hallway?”

She thought about it. “You know, I guess I didn’t, really.”

“Why do you ask?” Tom lifted his mug by the rim. “Could whoever broke in have something to do with him?”

Damn it, don’t go there. Why even plant the seed?

Halden rocked his head in a noncommittal gesture. “Hard to say.” He set his pen down on top of his notebook, the edges perfectly parallel, then leaned forward with his hands laced. “Usually we don’t disclose information about active cases, but given the circumstances, there’s something I should tell you. Your tenant, the man you knew as Bill Samuelson, that wasn’t his name. His real name was William Tuttle. When we ran his fingerprints, the record came up.” He paused. “I’m not going to lie to you. Tuttle was a bad guy.”

“What do you mean, bad?” Tom asked.

“He’d been arrested for assault. Did a little time, couple of years, on an armed robbery. He was questioned in several more, and was picked up on a distribution charge out in California, though that eventually fell apart.” Halden leaned back, spread his hands. “I should say that he wasn’t wanted for anything when he died. Just because he had a sheet doesn’t mean he was still a criminal. That’s why I was asking about a job.”

Anna could hear the ticking of the wall clock, could feel her pulse outpacing it. The money. It wasn’t what they’d thought, a quirky story, a recluse who didn’t trust banks. That money was stolen. And not in the victimless embezzlement scenario they’d spun, either. Will Tuttle was no pension scammer or white-collar embezzler. He was a dangerous man who worked with others like him. She met Tom’s eyes, saw the same calculation in them.

They had to get Halden out. The longer he was here, the greater the chance they’d slip in some way. She could tell that Tom half-wanted to just give in, to announce the truth to the detective. But it was more complicated than that.

She realized that Tom and Halden had continued talking. Shook herself, tuned back in.

“… an overdose,” Halden said. “That prescription? It was a drug called fentanyl, a very serious painkiller. It’s not normally available in pills like that, but this was re-cooked for the street.”

“So it was suicide?”

The cop shook his head. “No. He probably figured it was something he could handle, OxyContin. But the dosage was powerful enough to trigger a heart condition. Chances are he didn’t even know he had heart problems. People usually don’t, until it’s too late. But here’s the thing.” Halden sipped his coffee. “To get his hands on stuff like that, he would have known people. Dealers, other junkies. It’s very possible one of them knew where he lived.”

“And decided to see if Samuelson – I mean, Tuttle – if he had any drugs to steal,” Tom said.

“Exactly.” The detective nodded. “That’s my thinking.”

She crossed her arms, leaned back. Looked away. Hitting the body language hard, trying to get the detective to see it was time he left. But Tom kept talking, asking, “Is there anything you can do?”