Page 4 of Long Way Down

“The media called him–”

“The Invisible Man,” she finished, stomach tightening all over again. “Because no one ever remembered seeing him before.”

Contreras nodded. “That’s the one. We’ll do some digging, and I’ll see if we can talk to Larry tomorrow, but if our guy’s leaving notes to a Davey, I’m betting it’s one that was all over the news.”

~*~

Lana Preston lived in a dim building that stank of pot smoke. The apartment was on the third floor, the only one with the door standing open save a single line of crime scene tape, a uniform stationed in the hall in front of it. Melissa could hear the shuffle and murmur and shutter-clicks of the small, industrious crowd inside, processing.

A young, bony guy in a crime scene windbreaker ducked under the tape to meet them, ID swinging on the lanyard around his neck, white, nitrile gloves smudged with fingerprint dust. “Detectives,” he greeted, voice bright with terrier-levels of energy, despite the late hour. Melissa had a mental image of lab guys swilling Red Bull, living off Cheetos, and playing too-loud music down in their brightly-lit evidence dungeons – so far, Deming, as his ID read, wasn’t disproving that stereotype.

“Jeff,” Contreras said with a wave. “This is my new partner, Melissa Dixon.”

Melissa nodded.

“Cool,” Deming said, and there was something reassuring about the way he didn’t leer or size her up. It softened a little of her lab-guy prejudice; sparked a twinge of guilt, even. He offered out two cardboard boxes. “If you’ll suit up, I’ll walk you through the scene. Your witness is inside. Pretty shook up, but talkative. We told her to wait for you guys.”

“Good call. Did you get her name?” Contreras asked, as Melissa dipped into the boxes for gloves and little paper booties to go over their shoes.

“Hannah Searcy.”

“Great. Lead the way, then.”

This was, Melissa realized as she ducked under the tape, the first crime scene she and Contreras would work as partners. She decided to hang back and let Contreras take the lead.Better to learn a thing or two before you start running your mouth, Granddad always used to say. With a wistful inner smile on his behalf, she followed Contreras down a short, carpeted hall into a combination living room/kitchen.

It was probably a cute space, on a normal day. Small, with inexpensive furniture, but there was a couch, a coffee table, and TV stand. Candy-colored plates filled open shelves above the stove in the kitchen. There was a plethora of framed artwork and movie posters on the walls.

But beyond the crush of too many people in too cramped a space, the air was charged with the electro-static hum of violence. The aftereffects of an attack, like an imprint of a camera flash that lingered after every blink.

The coffee table lay on its side against the wall, where two framed pictures had fallen, their glass in glittering shards across the carpet. A throw had most likely been draped somewhere along the sofa, and lay twisted now in the center of the floor, amid scuffed carpet, more glass, and blood droplets spread like tossed confetti. The couch itself sat cockeyed, likely bumped in the struggle.

A tech squatted down low, raking the carpet with a hair comb, gathering fibers and hairs into a little paper envelope. Another had a camera pressed to his face, snapping shots of the throw, the glass, the fallen pictures.

Another pair was working through the kitchen, dusting for prints, taking samples.

Melissa had worked with Forensics before, as a beat cop and on Vice. But it was different, now: this scene, this level of somber attention to detail. It left her vaguely sick-feeling, and she asked herself why on earth this transfer had seemed like such a good idea a few weeks ago. Her next breath brought with it the scent of stagnant water and honeysuckle. They’d only just begun investigating, and her mind was already playing tricks on her.

Contreras touched her arm, and she turned to find a young woman sitting in a chair by the window, knees drawn up to her chest, wad of crumpled tissues pressed to her nose. Her eyes were red and puffy, but dry for the moment; someone had left a water bottle on the table beside her, and a jacket lay draped over her shoulders, trembling faintly as she shivered.

Contreras’s hand was still on her arm, and to Melissa’s surprise, he urged her forward. She glanced over.Really?

Go on, his look said.

She took a deep breath and tried to school her features, aiming for inviting, non-threatening.You’re the scariest pint-sized woman I’ve ever met, Pongo had said, once, and the words returned to her now, much to her annoyance. Of all the people who wouldn’t be helpful in this situation…

She shoved him firmly out of her thoughts and stepped forward. Spoke in a low, what she hoped was soothing voice. “Hannah?”

The girl snuffled, wiped her nose once more, and lowered her hand from her face. She looked exhausted. “Yeah.” Her voice was a raw croak. “That’s me.” She attempted a smile that became a grimace. “You the detective?”

“Yes. I’m Detective Dixon, and this is my partner, Detective Contreras.” She gestured over her shoulder at him. “Can you tell us what happened tonight?”

Hannah’s gaze darted to Contreras, and her hand tightened on the wadded-up tissue. A telling gesture that Contreras didn’t miss.

“Why don’t I go see how things are going in the kitchen?” he said, and moved to do so.

Hannah’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

There was a small ottoman shaped like a flower at her feet, and Melissa tapped its base with her toe. “Mind if I sit?” When Hannah shook her head, she dragged it over and settled down onto it, which put her head and shoulders below Hannah – a boon, she hoped, and had the satisfaction of watching a little more tension bleed out of the girl.