Dial Emmy for Murder by Eileen Davidson

back. I barely registered his green T-shirt and jeans before I caught the door and went inside. The tag next to the doorbell said Henri was in 2B. I went up to the second floor and found 2B. The door was ajar.
    I knocked. “Henri?”
    No answer. Had he forgotten I was coming?
    The smart thing for me to do would have been not to go inside but to pull out my cell phone and dial 911. I never said I was smart.
    I could feel that old familiar feeling. Adrenaline. Here I was, déjà vu all over again.
    “Henri,” I called. This time I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The apartment was a mess. Somebody had been fighting or maybe looking for something. I listened but couldn’t hear anyone moving around. It looked to me like a three-room apartment. I was in the living room, and I could see a small kitchen. There was one other doorway, possibly to a bedroom. There were also French doors opening to a small balcony. No one was out there. I walked to it and found it locked.
    Okay, I thought, the bathroom.
    I moved to the other doorway and looked inside. The bed was made, dresser drawers were hanging out, no laundry in sight. I moved inside and crossed to a closed door I felt sure led to the bathroom.
    “Hello? Henri?” I knocked on the bathroom door. No answer. “Henri?”
    That was when I started to become concerned. I had three choices: Get out, call 911 or open the bathroom door.
    I opened the door.
    Of course.
     
    When Jakes walked in, he stopped to talk to the two cops before coming over to me. I was sitting on Henri Marceau’s sofa. He was dead in the bathtub, where I had found him about an hour before.
    “Let’s go out on the balcony,” Jakes said.
    “Okay.”
    He slid the door open for me, stepped out after me and closed it. The balcony overlooked the front of the building.
    “What the hell, Alex?”
    “What? You asked me to help.”
    “Don’t play stupid. What are you doing here?”
    “Henri does—did—my hair on the show.”
    “So you came to his apartment for . . . what? A haircut?”
    I gave him a look.
    “Okay,” he said, “why don’t you just tell me what you were doing here.”
    “Henri wanted to talk to me,” I said, “only he said he couldn’t talk at the studio. He wanted to talk in private, so he asked me to come here.”
    “Talk to you about what?”
    “Jackson Masters.”
    His eyebrows went up. “He knew somethin’ about Jackson Masters?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “And he wanted to tell you?”
    “He wanted to tell somebody.”
    “Did you think to recommend the police?”
    “He didn’t want to talk to the police.”
    “He might have a record,” he said. “I’ll check on it. So you came here and . . . what? How’d you get in?”
    “His door was ajar.”
    “No, I mean how’d you get into the building?”
    “Oh, uh, well, I rang the bell, and while I was waiting for him to answer, another man came running out. I realized after the fact that he could be the killer. . . .”
    “Or he could be just another tenant. I’ll find out who they are.”
    I grabbed his arm and then realized what I was doing and released it like it was hot.
    “How was he killed?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t been in there yet. Look, stay here and wait for me. I just want to go inside and get the lay of the land.”
    I looked down at the street, filled now with vehicles with flashing lights. I could see my car, blocked in by the others.
    “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
    “Okay, then. I’ll be a few minutes.”
    He slid the door open and then stopped and looked at me.
    “What?” I asked.
    “You know,” he said, “you find more bodies than any civilian I know.”
    “I didn’t find Jackson,” I reminded him. “He fell on me . . . almost.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Okay, I’ll be right back.”
    “I’ll be right here,” I assured him as he went back inside.
    I meant it when I said it, but then I got bored so I walked down to