Unknown Means by Elizabeth Becka Page A

Marissa’s building before the overhanging clouds could drop their rain. Sometimes she thought clouds viewed the city of Cleveland the way pigeons saw people’s heads, as an attractive target.
    “Morning, Justin,” she said to the doorman—or deskman, since he spent most of the time behind the front desk. He seemed to leave it only to dart out like a gunshot to open the door for any tenant, whether young, old, male, or female, carrying a heavy package or nothing more burdensome than a stock report, like the nicely dressed man she’d passed on the way in.
    “Hi, Mrs. James.”
    It amazed her when people remembered her name, a trick she couldn’t pull off to save her life. She knew his face, of course, but got the name only because it had been embroidered onto his shirt.
    He marked his place in a pharmacology textbook on the counter and gave her his full attention.
    “Are you in college, Justin?”
    “Graduate school. The detectives are in there.” He nodded toward the closed office door behind him. She heard a woman’s raised voice.

E L I Z A B E T H B E C K A
48
    “I won’t disturb them, then. I just need to collect samples from around the building and then get one more from the Markham apartment.”
    “Sure.” Unlike the building manager, Frank, Justin didn’t care if she referred to the suites as apartments rather than penthouses. “I think there’s a cop up there guarding the place. If you call up, he’ll come down. He’s the keeper of the code.”
    “The what?”
    The younger man flushed a bit. “I guess Mr. Markham raised a stink about the cops knowing his code. He said they have to keep it to a minimum, so they only tell the guy who’s the sentry or whatever that day.”
    “The contamination officer? He’s the one who notes everybody that goes in and out of the scene.”
    “I guess. I don’t know why he bothers.”
    “As long as we might have to examine something else or collect more evidence from it, we have to keep it under our constant custody, so to speak. Otherwise, if we wanted to come back later, we’d have to get a search warrant or a second consent from the owner.”
    “No, I mean I don’t know why Mr. Markham bothers. He’s going to move out in a week or two anyway. I guess he just wants his stuff safe in the meantime.”
    Evelyn leaned her arms on the marble countertop, feeling the weariness flow through her body. “Had they been planning to move?”
    “No, it’s just because of the murder. He told Frank not to renew the lease—it’s up at the end of the month—because he never wants to come back to where Grace was killed. Can’t blame him, really. It would make my skin crawl.”
    Evelyn pictured Grace’s body at their kitchen table. “I don’t blame him either. Do the officers know about that?”
    “I guess so. Frank probably told them. It’s lucky for Mr.
    Markham that the lease is almost up—we rent in five-year incre-

U N K N O W N M E A N S
49
    ments, so he’d lose a bundle if he moved out prior to that without at least a six-month notice.”
    Enough about Grace. Evelyn wanted to learn more about Marissa’s attack. “How long has Robert Tenneyson lived here?”
    “He was here when I started, and that was two years ago. I can look it up for you if you like.” When she deferred, he went on to tell her that the doctor seemed like a nice guy, worked irregular hours, and always gave him a Christmas bonus. The phone rang, cutting him off, and Evelyn stayed quiet while he took the call.
    The woman’s voice still filtered, nonstop, out of the manager’s office. Justin transferred the phone call. Evelyn zoned out for a moment, lulled by the warm lobby, trying to remember the last time she’d seen her daughter. She hadn’t been home for dinner and had collapsed in bed by the time Angel entered the house, giggling after her date. The late-night phone call had dragged her out long before Angel had to get up for school, so it had been about thirty hours. No