The Monster Within by Jeremy Laszlo Page B

eyes look me over and I can see his soul withering in the depths of his heart. I don’t like Evans, I never did, but at least he knows how to do the job semi-successfully.
    “Thanks, Officer Ramsey will take your statement.” Evans passes off the property manager to a man I don’t recognize from Owens’s cabal of conspirators, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the entire force was in on this with him. He was that kind of a social butterfly that wouldn’t make me surprised. When the property manager was a reasonable distance away, Evans turns back to me and looks at me with a mix of annoyance and frustration. “What are you doing here? Did Waters call you?”
    What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did Evans and Waters now have the loving relationship that everyone pictured them having? Hell, I never suspected that the two got along. Waters was too by the book, and prone to wanting things to be bigger and stranger than reality permitted. She was determined to find that one case that was going to bring the whole corrupt city down around them. As for Evans, he was all about blending in, putting in fifteen more years and then retiring with a pension.
    “I was in the area,” I shrug. “Figured I’d stop by and see what was up.”
    “I heard you weren’t catching no more,” Evans nods, buying the lie.
    “Not unless I want to,” I shrug at him. “It sounded good yesterday, but I’m already itching to find something to do. Mind if I take a look?”
    “Be my guest,” Evans shakes his head, holding his notepad like it might give him some sort of clue how to interact with me. He won’t find it in there. I turn to make my way up the stairs to where a uniform is standing at the entrance of one of the apartments, monitoring the traffic in and out. He’s the sentinel that stands at attention when you die. I start to head that way when Evans calls me back. “Did one of these assholes call you?” Evans looks at me with a studious, discerning look. He’s trying to read me.
    I don’t give him anything. “Like I said,” I say perfectly flatly, “I was in the area.”

 
6
    Everything is off with this place. I look around the moment I show my ID and stand in the doorway, looking at the little foyer. It’s a nice apartment, everything is painted in a soft hue of baby blue and the carpet is a speckled beige that seems to be in every apartment. Nothing is out of place, nothing is torn down, there isn’t trash everywhere, and there’s nothing that smells like a depressed person’s house. The depressed give up and this house is not the kind of place that has given up. This is a home that definitely doesn’t have a depressed creature lurking within.
    Before ever seeing the victim or knowing a thing about what I’m stepping into, I know that this house belongs to a woman. I don’t care if it’s sexist or if I’m not being socially acceptable, but women do things differently than men. There’s a style to the house, a sort of beautiful medley of expression that all makes sense. It’s not a conglomeration of junk, trinkets, souvenirs, and cool shit that someone found, stuffed on the walls or in the corners. The entryway has the washer and dryer which aren’t full of dirty clothes. Everything is nice and folded. There’s a gym bag sitting next to the door and I feel the tickle in the back of my mind that suggests that Owens definitely is right about this one.
    The living room only offers more shades of doubt as I step into the room and look at the set up. There’s a dining area near the kitchen entrance, but the majority of the living room has been cleared out especially for working out. There’s a yoga mat in front of the TV with some free weights and a bosu ball tucked in the corner of the TV stand. There’s an elliptical machine and a bench with a full line of free weights against the wall. This woman was someone who knew how to work out. The floor isn’t dirty. There’s nothing stuffed in the corners.