Page 46 of The Fragile Ones

“There’s an apartment building,” said McGaven. It was a small white building with two levels.

“That looks to be it,” she said, and parked across the street next to several other cars.

They got out of the Jeep and looked around. The building was in an older area of the neighborhood, and in need of repairs. No broken windows, just a bit of work to update the peeling paint and freshen up the front yards.

They walked across the street to the main entrance—apartment number 3 was on the ground floor to the left. Katie led them to a door with a gold number 3, knocked and waited. No answer. Knocking again, there was no noise from inside. Noticing that the doorknob wasn’t completely engaged, she pushed and it popped open.

Katie turned to McGaven to give the go-ahead, and then leaned forward and called out, “Mr. Rodriguez? Anybody home?” No answer, just a strong smell of cleaning products.

Katie pulled out her cell and looked again at the photo of Darren Rodriguez. He was in his early forties, long dark hair, medium build, scar on his left cheek, and a grim expression on his face.

“You looking for that good for nuthin’ Darren?” asked a feeble-sounding old woman. “I loved him like family, but he was good for nuthin’, leaving the way he did.”

Katie turned to see a very short, heavy-set woman wearing a long floral nightgown. She held a ginger and white cat clutched tightly against her breast. The crinkles on her face were mostly caused from frowning.

“Darren Rodriguez?” Katie asked.

“That’s him. He skipped out late last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“He left, moved out—well, not everything, there’s still some stuff left.”

“Did you talk to him last night?”

“Yeah. He owes me two hundred bucks. I’m the apartment manager, so I ain’t ever going to get it back.”

Katie moved closer to the woman. “Cute cat.” She scratched behind his ears, inducing a loud purr in response.

“His name is Arnie, after my late husband.”

“Hi, Arnie,” said Katie, hoping to get the woman to trust them.

“You cops?” she blurted out.

“Detectives,” said McGaven. “And you are?”

“Sissy. Everyone calls me Sissy.” She stepped forward and looked up at McGaven. “You’re a tall one.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Have you ever shot anyone?” she said, as she started her interrogation.

“Yes. And I’ve been shot at.”

“Did the bullet hit you?”

“Yep.”

“Does it hurt as bad as they say it does?”

“More.”

“You married?”

“I want to be.”

“Were you a tall kid?”