Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I heard the click of the keyboard before he spoke again. “No. It was a black Range Rover SUV registered to August Bailey Stiel with a Hobie address. According to the police report, the incident happened in a parking garage attached to the Stiel building downtown at 11:00 p.m. the night before last. I think I saw this car at the garage in Hobie as a matter of fact. Shattered passenger-side window.”
I remembered his mother requesting his presence that night and Augie telling me he wasn’t going to go. Most likely, he’d changed his mind out of guilt. But why hadn’t he told me about the vehicle B&E? It certainly explained why he had a rental car.
“Does the report say what was taken?” I asked.
“That’s the weird thing. There was a messenger bag inside with an iPad and e-reader. But they were still there. The only thing missing, according to the vic, was a box of antique keys.”
“Keys,” I muttered, remembering the box we’d put the spilled keys in. “Why the hell would someone in a downtown parking garage break in to steal a box of random old keys and leave the electronics inside? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the keys go to something important.”
“They don’t though. He simply collects old mismatched keys for fun.”
Rex continued. “There were old keys missing from the home invasion too in addition to other more expected items. Seems like your client has had a pretty fucking bad month.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, letting out a breath. “The old keys don’t go to anything though. And who gets their house and car broken into in the same month? It’s not like he lives in the slums. I’ve been to his—” I stopped talking the minute I realized what I was saying.
I heard the sharp intake of Rex’s breath and could have kicked myself.
“Start talking,” he said with a tone of amusement.
“Nothing. I thought he was being followed by a weirdo last night, so I made sure he got home safely. That’s all.”
“Thereby confirming that he was, in fact, being followed by a weirdo.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m hanging up.” I pulled the phone away from my ear.
“Be careful Saint-Michel-Devs-Saints,” he said loudly in his best French accent, invoking my given name to get my attention.
“Sure thing, Reginald Xavier,” I replied as I tapped the red button to end the call.
On my way to the truck, I was surprised by a text from Augie.
Augie: Hypothetically speaking, how does one get blood out of carpet?
Me: Ah… Augie, are you okay?
Augie: I’m asking for a friend.
Me: Is your friend covering up a homicide?
Augie: It’s probably better if you don’t ask too many questions.
Me: Why are you asking me about blood?
Augie: You seem like the type to know these things.
Me: Is the blood wet or dry?
Augie: Wet.
Me: Augie… what’s going on?
Augie: Never mind. I’ll google it.
After what Rex had just told me, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or worry, so I tried calling Augie. There was no answer. After fifteen minutes of no response, I decided to stop by his house and check on him just to be sure he was okay. It was probably nothing, in which case I’d be embarrassed about going to all the trouble of stopping by. But on the off chance something was going on he needed help with, there was no harm in stopping by on my way home from the gym.
After ringing the doorbell, I stepped back on the porch and waited. The longer it took for someone to come to the door, the more I felt like an idiot for coming over there unannounced. Would he think I was crazy?
Augie opened the door hesitantly until he saw it was me. His eyes grew wide, and his face paled. “Saint? What are you doing here?” he asked.
“You texted me about fresh blood and then didn’t answer my calls. I was worried about you.”
“Jesus, I was kidding. I’m fine,” he said, but I caught sight of the edge of a gauze bandage peeking out from behind the door where his left hand was.
“You’re not fine,” I said, stepping forward and reaching for the bandaged hand he held behind the door. One look at the state of his foyer and I found myself pushing my way into the house to inspect the bandaged hand. There was furniture shoved every which way, and blood seeped through the bandage. My heart began to hammer as I wondered what was going on.
“What the hell happened here?”
He seemed startled, whether by my appearance or question, or both, was unclear.
“I… I just cut myself on some glass. That’s all,” he stammered. “I was trying to clean up.”
I continued to hold his arm gently as I took in my surroundings. His house was completely out of order. Large pieces of furniture were crowded and stacked in the foyer, and the rooms to either side looked empty by comparison. Surely this wasn’t still from the home invasion over a week ago. Was it?