Dead Ringer (15 page)

I sat back and waited for the detective's response, feeling quite pleased with myself.

Salnikova's bland expression didn't change. “Do you know Susannah's last name?”

I suppressed a growl of frustration. The detective obviously wasn't about to discuss the possibilities with me. I understood that and probably should have expected it, but it annoyed me nonetheless. I'd hoped she'd be more enthusiastic, if not impressed, with my ideas.

“No,” I said after swallowing my frustration. “But I have her cell number. And the officers that were at the scene of the fire probably have her contact information.”

“I'll get in touch with them.” The detective made another short notation with her pen. “What can you tell me about the person who started the fire? Anything?”

I slumped back in my seat. “No, nothing. I didn't see him. Or her. Not even a glimpse. No telltale scent of perfume or anything like that either.” A thought struck me. “And no smell of marijuana,” I said more to myself than the detective.

“Marijuana?” Salnikova's expertly plucked eyebrows rose slightly.

“Yes. Um. Hmm.” I tried to figure out how to explain. “Ray. He plays the oboe in the orchestra. The Point Grey Philharmonic, not the youth orchestra,” I clarified. “He often smells of marijuana, and I thought he could possibly be the arsonist too, but I didn't smell any marijuana when the fire was started. But I did smell it on him after he rescued us.” I paused for a second. “Then again, he could have set the fire and then gone out back to smoke. That's where he said he was before he realized there was something wrong. If he hadn't smoked any marijuana for a while before that, maybe I wouldn't have smelled anything, even if he was the one who started the fire.”

I was talking more to myself than Salnikova by then, and it took me a second to remember that I was sharing my thoughts. I hoped I hadn't rambled too much.

“Does that make sense?” I asked the detective.

Once again she didn't bother to answer my question. “Does this oboe player have any connection to Mr. Ralston that you know of?”

“Aside from the fact that they played in the same orchestra, at least temporarily?” I thought that over. “Not that I know of. Except . . .”

“Except?” Salnikova prompted.

My mind went back to the conversation I'd had with Ray before our last rehearsal. “I was talking to him the other night, and he asked me if I knew whether the police had searched Jeremy's place. It struck me as an odd question, and now I can't help but wonder if he had a sinister motivation for asking it.”

I watched the detective's face, but she still gave nothing away. I couldn't even tell if she was the least bit interested in what I'd said.

She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. “Excuse me one moment.”

I waited in my seat as she tapped out a text message. When she was done, she set the phone on the table and jotted down a quick line in her notebook. As she set down her pen, somebody knocked on the door. It opened, and Detective Bachman stuck his head in the room.

He nodded at me but said nothing.

Salnikova rose to her feet and joined him at the door. “I'll just be another moment,” she said to me, before following Bachman out into the hallway and closing the door behind her.

I couldn't help myself. I wanted to know what they were talking about. I wanted to know if Salnikova was more interested in what I'd told her than she'd let on.

As quietly as possible, I got up from my rickety chair and crept over to the door. I pressed my ear against the minuscule crack between the door and its frame and held still, listening. Fortunately for me, the detectives were conversing right on the other side of the door. What wasn't so fortunate was the fact that I could only make out the odd phrase.

“ . . . marijuana . . . searched Mr. Ralston's . . .” That was Salnikova's voice.

Bachman's deeper voice rumbled in response. “ . . . amount was only consistent with personal use . . . if the oboe player . . . dealer . . . possible connection.”

I wanted to pump my fist in the air but refrained. So they did think my information was valuable. Even though I couldn't hear everything said on the other side of the door, I could hear enough to get some new ideas to add to my theory.

Maybe the police had found some marijuana in Jeremy's basement suite, and maybe Ray had been Jeremy's drug dealer, or vice versa. That might explain Ray's concern about a potential search of Jeremy's quarters, especially if he believed there might be something in Jeremy's suite that would lead the police to him in the context of a drug investigation.

I didn't have time to think much more about it right then. Bachman said something unintelligible and then footsteps headed away from the room. I dashed back over to the table and plunked myself back down in the rickety wooden chair a mere second or two before Salnikova opened the door and came back inside.

“Sorry about that,” she said as she rejoined me at the table.

“No problem.” I hoped the creaking of my chair hadn't given away the fact that I hadn't remained at the table while she was out of the room.

“Now, was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

I was so distracted by the new potential angle to the case that it took me a moment to be sure of my response. “No, I can't think of anything else.”

Salnikova shut her notebook, signaling the end of our meeting. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Bishop. We appreciate the information.”

She got to her feet and I did the same.

“If you catch whoever set the fire, will you let me know?”

The detective nodded. “You'll be informed.”

“Thank you.”

“Ms. Bishop,” Salnikova said, stopping me as I made for the door.

I turned back.

“I understand your interest in the recent events, but I must advise you to leave the investigating to the professionals.” She nodded at my bandaged hand. “We don't want you coming to any more harm.”

“Neither do I, believe me,” I said. “And I have every intention of leaving the investigating to you guys.”

“That's good to hear.” She walked with me out to the reception area, where we parted ways.

Once outside the station, I stood for a minute on the sidewalk, pondering everything that had happened inside.

I hadn't lied when I said I planned to leave the investigating to the police. Now that I'd imparted all my information and suspicions to them, I really did intend to keep my nose out of things. It wasn't that I was no longer curious or anxious to see the criminal or criminals brought to justice—­I simply didn't want my curiosity to get me killed.

 

Chapter 15

B
EFORE LEAVING MY
apartment earlier that day, I'd packed a bag with enough clothes and belongings to last me a few days. JT had taken it with him in his pickup truck, and when I arrived at his house, I found it waiting for me upstairs in the guest room. That night, I snuggled into bed and listened to the spring rain that had recently started tapping out a staccato rhythm against the roof.

Whenever I actually stopped to think about what had happened at the church, my nerves felt frazzled. If there really was someone out to get me, I didn't much like the idea of giving them an easy opportunity to do whatever they might want to try next. Just because my best friend happened to be a strong, six-­foot-­two guy didn't mean I was a damsel in distress for taking him up on his offer to stay with him. Independence was well and good when it didn't brush shoulders with foolishness, and I couldn't help but feel that staying at home alone would have been a foolish move.

Comforted by the sound of the falling rain and the knowledge that both JT and Finnegan were within shouting distance, I fell into a deep sleep. I didn't wake up until nearly eight in the morning, and when I rolled out of bed and opened the curtains, sunlight streamed in through the window.

The rain clouds had dispersed during the night, and the outside world looked green and fresh. I opened the window and stuck my head out, taking a deep breath. The air smelled springlike and delicious. I took another deep breath and smiled. Things would get better from here on out. No more foul play to deal with, no more brushes with danger. In that moment, I felt certain of it.

After closing the window, I took a quick shower, dressed, and brushed out my hair. I disposed of my old bandage and carefully rewrapped my hand with fresh gauze. The burn already looked incrementally better, and I hoped it wouldn't take too many days to heal completely. I didn't want it to interfere with my violin playing for long.

My throat was still scratchy and irritated from all the smoke I'd inhaled, but not as much as the day before. Things were definitely looking up.

I headed downstairs and into the kitchen. Finnegan was curled up on the floor by the back door, but he jumped up as soon as he saw me, his tail wagging with great enthusiasm.

“Morning, guys,” I said to both Finnegan and JT, who was seated at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee and reading news stories on his tablet. I crouched down to give Finnegan a hug.

“Morning,” JT replied.

Finnegan responded by giving me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Sleep well?” JT asked as I left Finnegan for the fancy coffeemaker.

“Very well.” I set about making myself a mocha latte.

“Help yourself to whatever you want for breakfast.”

I glanced around the kitchen and my eyes settled on a bowl of fruit. I grabbed a banana and peeled it. I paused before taking a bite. “Oh, shoot.”

JT looked up from his tablet. “What?”

“I should have brought some of the stuff from my fridge. I have milk and some vegetables I don't want to spoil.”

“I can drive you home to pick up whatever you want,” JT said.

“I can take the bus.”

“It's no bother.”

“All right, then. Thanks.” I took a bite of my banana and chewed.

“I was going to take Finnegan for a walk in Pacific Spirit Park. You want to come with us? We can go by your place a little later on.”

“A walk sounds good.” I looked down at Finnegan. “Right, Finn?”

He gave a sharp, happy bark in response.

After I finished off my banana and my latte, the three of us walked a few blocks to Pacific Spirit Park, a large tract of forest that sat between JT's neighborhood and the University of British Columbia. A network of walking trails traversed the forest, and we met several other ­people out enjoying the spring morning, most with dogs accompanying them.

We walked for over an hour before returning to JT's place. I grabbed my purse from the guest room and then the two of us headed off to my apartment in JT's truck. When we arrived, he parked in a free space at the curb outside my building, and moments later we were up on the third floor.

“This shouldn't take long,” I said as we approached the door to my apartment. “I —­” I cut myself off when I saw my apartment door.

It stood open a crack.

I froze. “JT,” I said in a strangled voice.

JT's whole body went tense when he saw what had frightened me. “Stay here.” He brushed past me and approached the door, pushing it open slowly.

Despite his instruction, I followed him and stood on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. My heart hammered in my chest and my already irritated throat went dry. I swallowed in an attempt to quell a threatening coughing fit.

When JT had the door fully open, I gasped, which allowed my coughing fit to win out. Several seconds passed before I could focus on what lay inside.

Through the open door, most of my living room was visible. Except I barely recognized it as my living room. Picture frames had been ripped from the walls and shattered on the floor. The lamps had also been smashed, including the beautiful art glass lamp I'd picked up at an antiques fair a few weeks earlier.

The destruction didn't end there.

My couch and armchair had been attacked with a sharp implement of some sort, the backs slashed and oozing stuffing, the cushions shredded on the floor along with more foam filling.

My stunned eyes moved from the floor to the far wall.

Someone had taken the squeeze bottle of ketchup from my fridge and used it to scrawl in big letters:
Back Off!

The ketchup had dribbled down the wall like trickling blood. The messy, dripping letters only made the message seem more vicious.

At first I was at a loss for words, my mouth gaping open in shock. A wave of nausea swept over me, quickly replaced with burning anger.

“Who would do such a thing?” I demanded.

Fury bubbling in my bloodstream, I stepped inside my apartment.

JT grabbed my arm and pulled me back out into the hallway. “I don't think you should go in there.”

“JT!” I was too angry to get any more words out.

He produced his phone from his pocket. “You're not going inside until the police have been in there.”

I knew he was right, but I wanted nothing more than to march inside and scrub away the ugly letters, to clean up the terrible mess. I couldn't stand the thought that someone had broken into my private space, had destroyed my home, but the evidence was right there in front of me. It had happened. There was no doubt about that.

As JT spoke with an emergency dispatcher over the phone, a prick of fear wormed its way into my anger. Who had done this? The same person who set the fire? The same person who killed Jeremy?

What if I'd been home at the time? Would I have been harmed?

I shivered and retreated two steps down the hallway so I could no longer see the disarray. Staying with JT had clearly been a wise decision. I didn't have a shred of doubt about that. But I didn't want the threat of danger hanging over my head forever. I wanted to reclaim my home, my security.

That wouldn't happen until the guilty party had been identified and apprehended.

I returned to JT and put a hand on his arm to get his attention. “I'll go downstairs and let the police in when they arrive.”

He nodded and walked with me down the hall, his phone still to his ear.

“You're coming too?” I asked.

He stopped at the top of the stairwell and lowered his phone for a second. “They don't want us waiting right outside the door, in case someone's still inside.”

My eyes widened at the thought of somebody lurking in my apartment, waiting to . . . do what? Nothing good, that was certain.

I hesitated, no longer wanting to leave JT alone.

He must have read the concern on my face. “You go on,” he said with a nod at the stairway. “I'll be fine here.”

I jogged down the stairs, only a hint of fear creeping up on me whenever I turned a corner. I didn't really expect somebody to be waiting to jump out and attack me, but my nerves were frazzled. The thought of someone breaking into a place where I'd always felt safe and secure had rattled me. That was my home. My sanctuary. I didn't like the idea of somebody with bad intentions getting inside uninvited, standing amidst all my belongings and leaving me a threatening message.

Back Off!

I couldn't see how the message could be related to anything other than Jeremy's murder, or the fire, or both. I wasn't in the habit of hanging out with questionable characters or making enemies. No, it was definitely related to at least one of the other events, and I was more convinced than ever that
all
of the events were related.

When I reached the lobby, I stood by the glass front door, shifting from foot to foot as I waited for the cops to arrive. Within minutes a police car pulled up outside the building, without a siren or flashing lights. Two uniformed officers climbed out and approached the building. I opened the door for them.

“We received a report of a break-­in,” the taller of the two said, his name tag revealing his name to be Jones.

“My apartment, up on the third floor.”

“Your name?”

“Midori Bishop,” I said as I led the way to the elevator, deciding to bypass the stairs this time.

When we stepped off the elevator, JT stuck his phone in the pocket of his jeans and greeted the officers.

I pointed down the hall at the door to my apartment. “That's my unit there. The door was open a crack when we arrived.”

“Remain here, please,” Jones said.

He and his partner proceeded down the hallway and cautiously entered my apartment.

I leaned against the wall, my muscles taut, and glanced at JT. He was more relaxed, but I detected some tension in his jaw and shoulders. We didn't speak, instead waiting in silence, our eyes focused on the open door to my apartment.

After several minutes the two officers emerged from my unit.

“You said this is your apartment, ma'am?” the shorter, stockier officer asked me.

I glanced at his name tag. His last name was Chong.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Would you mind coming inside? I'll have to ask you not to touch anything quite yet, but if you could take a look around and see if anything is missing or out of place or otherwise disturbed, we'd appreciate that.”

“Aside from the fact that someone decided to redecorate my living room?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I followed Officer Chong into my apartment and made a slow circuit of the kitchen and living room. Aside from the threatening ketchup paint job and the destroyed furniture and decorations, nothing seemed different. I moved on to the bedroom and bathroom, but nothing had been disturbed in either room.

I returned to the living room and shook my head. “It doesn't look like anything else was touched.”

I angled my back to the ketchup message so I didn't have to see it and glanced through the still-­open door of my apartment. The other officer was in conversation with JT out in the hallway.

“You arrived home shortly before your friend called 911?” Chong asked.

“Yes. He made the call as soon as we saw the state of things.”

“And did you enter the apartment or touch anything before we arrived?”

“No,” I said. “Well, JT pushed open the door but that's it. And he didn't touch the doorknob. Only the middle of the door.”

“When was the last time you were home?”

“Yesterday, in the middle of the afternoon. I think I left around three o'clock.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual around the building of late? Strangers loitering about or anything like that?”

“No.”

Officer Chong's eyes went straight to the ketchup lettering, and I knew what was coming next. “Do you have any idea why someone would leave such a message for you?” His dark eyes studied me sharply as he waited for a response.

“Kind of. Maybe.” I sighed and tried to figure out how to explain. “I think someone believes I've been too involved in a murder investigation. Or that I know too much. Or something along those lines.”

“And what murder investigation would that be?”

“Jeremy Ralston was the victim. He was killed on Tuesday evening. Detectives Bachman and Salnikova have been investigating.”

Chong continued to study me for a moment before saying anything more. “All right, Ms. Bishop. I'll inform the detectives of what occurred here. They may wish to speak with you at some point.”

“Yes,” I said, resigned to the thought of spending even more of my time with the police. “But for the moment?”

“We'll dust the door and a few other places for fingerprints and have a chat with your neighbors to see if anyone heard any sort of disturbance.” He paused. “I didn't notice any security cameras in the building.”

“No, we don't have any.” That had never bothered me before, but right then I wished there were cameras. An image of the intruder could have helped to crack the case. I gestured at my kitchen chairs, thankfully left untouched. “Do I have to wait outside, or can I sit down?”

“You can take a seat. Excuse me.” Officer Chong retreated out into the hallway and conversed with his partner while JT came inside and joined me at the table.

“I guess I should call Harry,” I said, referring to the manager of my building.

“Probably a good idea,” JT agreed.

I placed the call and explained the situation. After Harry assured me that he was on his way over, I disconnected the call and sat back, letting out a deep breath.

“What a mess. I hope Harry doesn't think I'm a bad tenant now.”

“I doubt he will,” JT said. “This is only one incident and . . .” He didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have to.