#inmate38

As Dembe took the key out of the ignition, Red slipped on his blue fedora and got out of the car. On instinct, his eyes quickly scoured the street. Left. Right. In front of him. Up. He detected no threat.

Leaving a more thorough search to Dembe, Red crossed the street and approached the entryway to the apartment building. The front had been defaced with black spray paint, and Red felt his lip curl up with distaste. He would ask Dembe to make a few calls later, determine whose gang sign it was. He would need to inform them that certain buildings were off limits.

Red let himself in and paused at the bottom of the stairwell next to the tenants’ mailboxes. He found the box set aside for apartment number 315 with the name ‘R. Bortner.’ It was one of Red’s most secure aliases. One of his earliest.

“Is something wrong?” Dembe asked.

“Yeah.” Red felt the nostalgic melancholy this place always brought descend upon him, heavy and keen. “But there’s nothing to do about it.”

He headed up the stairs, Dembe close behind him.

They were halfway up the second flight of stairs when there was a crash, a clatter, and a curse. Red whipped his gun out of the holster at his lower back, and Dembe did the same.

“Hudson!” someone shouted right before a mangy mutt of a dog appeared, skittering down the stairs toward them, leash trailing behind.

Red quickly replaced his gun, and not a moment too soon before a woman came running after the dog. The first thing Red saw was her high ankle boots, dark and slightly rugged. Black skin-tight jeans rose from there, with a blue blouse and black suit jacket. She had shoulder-length dark brown hair, stunningly beautiful sea-blue eyes, pale skin, and a kiss of smokey eyeshadow. If the scraggly small dog hadn’t stopped right at Red’s feet and barked, he might have kept staring.

“Is this your dog?” Red asked, kneeling on the stairs and scratching under the dog’s chin. Its tongue lolled out, the picture of perfect satisfaction.

“Yes,” the woman said, slightly breathless as she ducked down to grab the leash. “I am so sorry to have bothered you!”

“Think nothing of it,” Red said with a smile. “He’s rather charming. If not unlike a mop head.”

The woman gave a small laugh, brushing a hand through her hair. “He is a hairy louse, isn’t he?”

Red patted the dog on the head one last time before standing. “Robert Bortner from 315,” he said, offering her his hand.

“315?” the woman repeated. “Looks like we’re neighbors. I’m in 312.”

That wasn’t right. Red had just had the building’s tenants vetted in preparation for his return, and apartment number 312 was leased out to a lazy, unemployed, middle-aged man who spent an inordinate amount of time watching terrible shows from the eighties and ate an alarming amount of frozen pizza. Red saw Dembe’s hand itch toward the gun hidden under his jacket, and he forced a laugh.

“What a coincidence!” he said. “When did you move in?”

“Only last week,” she said. “I’m sub-leasing it from the previous owner.”

That would explain why she hadn’t shown up before. But could it be merely a coincidence that she’d moved in right next door only days before Red returned?

Dembe’s hand did not relax.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you yet,” she said.

“That’s because you haven’t,” Red said. “I’ve been away on business.”

“Oh, well, it’s very nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Elizabeth Keen. And this—” she tugged on the leash “—is Hudson.”

“Hudson. Lovely name for a dog,” Red said, looking down at the dog who barked again, wagging his tail furiously. Red laughed again, light and low. Then he pointed to Dembe. “This is my work associate, Jata.”

As Elizabeth turned to Dembe, Red gave him a quick shake of his head. Dembe’s hand relaxed and slowly slid away from his jacket. His eyes, however, did not lighten.

“Nice to meet you as well, Jata,” Elizabeth said.

Dembe gave her a small nod.

She turned back to Red. “I guess we’ll bump into each other again someday,” Elizabeth said.

“Perhaps,” Red said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Keen.”

“And you, Mr. Bortner,” she said, giving him a final smile before dragging Hudson back up the stairs with her.

Red’s own smile disappeared as he watched her depart, and he didn’t need to turn to know that Dembe had already pulled out his cell phone and was making a call to find out who this Elizabeth Keen was.

When Red heard a muttered curse above them, he slowly made his way up the stairs, ducking his head around the corner to see Elizabeth on the ground surrounded by groceries and two ripped, brown paper bags.

“Need some help?” he asked.

Hudson gave a cheery bark to see that he’d returned.

“Hi again,” Elizabeth said with an embarrassed smile. “This—” she gestured to the mess around her “—is what made me let go of Hudson in the first place. One of the bags split, and when I tried to catch it, the other one split too. Just my luck.”

“No, it’s my luck,” Red said. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have met.”

“Oh.” She looked torn between further embarrassment and pleasure, the start of a blush on her cheeks. “Right.”

Red came closer and slipped off his blue Loro Piana jacket. He’d have to be careful not to turn his back on Elizabeth lest she catch the outline of his holster under his vest. “Here, let me help you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he said, laying his two-thousand-dollar jacket on the dirty ground and stacking the groceries inside, creating a makeshift bag. A very expensive makeshift bag. “This is what neighbors do, isn’t it?”

“All right, well, thank you,” Elizabeth said, helping him. After they’d gathered everything up into Red’s coat or their arms, she added, “Nice jacket.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I am rather partial to it myself.”

She directed him to her apartment door—only a few doors down from his own—and opened it. Red glanced behind at Dembe before following her inside.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” she said, skirting around the boxes piled up in the front hall as Hudson raced inside, disappearing somewhere. “I’m still getting unpacked.”

“Quite all right,” he said.  

She led him to the kitchen where he laid all the groceries on the counter. “Cooking something special?” he asked, placing a bundle of collard greens next to a box of pasta.

“I’m going to try,” she said as she put the milk into the fridge. “But I’m a terrible cook. Take-out from the closest Asian restaurant is my usual fare.”

“I once knew a man who had a passion for cooking but was simply horrific at it,” Red said. “He tried French cuisine, Italian cuisine, Scandinavian cuisine, German cuisine—all, terrible. Finally, he even tried those little boxes of food with seasoning and pasta in it—Hamburger Helper, I think it was.” Red shook his head, laughing lightly. “It was a disaster. He nearly burnt down the kitchen, poor fellow. He just couldn’t get anything to work, no matter what. It was hopeless. And then he tried baking.”

Elizabeth had stopped putting away groceries, facing him with a small, curious smile. “What happened?”

“He was a natural. He’s now one of the world’s foremost experts on cupcakes. Can you imagine that? Something about the slower pace of baking versus cooking or something worked for him, I don’t know. But you take one bite of his Red Velvet, and you simply melt through the floor. It’s transcendental. What I wouldn’t give to have one more of Jeff’s cupcakes.” Red paused at the thought.

“Maybe I should try baking,” Elizabeth said.

“Maybe so,” Red said, pulling his jacket back on. “Well, I don’t wish to take any more of your time. Once again, it was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Keen.”

“Yes, very,” she said.

Red tilted his hat up an inch in acknowledgment and turned to leave the kitchen. As he did so, his eyes caught a stack of folders on the table. The top one had the words ‘Federal Bureau of Investigation’ printed on the front. He froze. Then swallowed.

“I never did ask,” he said, turning toward her once more, forcing a smile. “What is it you do for work?”

“I work for the government,” she said.

“IRS?” Red asked.

“Not exactly. More…FBI actually,” she admitted.

“How fascinating!” Red said. “I’m sure you have loads of stories, catching bad guys and bringing them to justice. All that jazz.”

“Oh, no, it’s more of a desk job. Not exactly what I’d been hoping for, but we’ll see where it leads.” She smiled nervously. “And I don’t know why I just told you all that. I mean, I’m allowed to tell people I work for the FBI, of course. I just normally…don’t.”

“What can we say,” Red said, “the bond of neighbors is sacred and profound.”

The nervous smile relaxed into something else. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She followed him to the door, thanking him yet again for his help.

“It was nothing,” he said. “Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Bortner.”

And Elizabeth closed the door behind Red.

Dembe was waiting for him in the hall, his face rigid.

“Raymond, she—”

“Works for the FBI, yes, I know,” Red said, frowning as he joined Dembe. “Check with our sources to see if there is any way her moving here is connected with me. I want to know everything about her.”

“I’ve already made the calls.”

“Good. And in the meantime, see what you can do to get her to move out of the apartment building. Nothing obvious. Broken water heater, that sort of thing. I don’t want to draw attention.”

“Of course.”

“It’s a pity, seeing as how she just moved in.” Red sighed. “At least she hasn’t fully unpacked yet.”

They were standing in front of apartment number 315 now. Red reached for his keys and Dembe put a hand on his arm.

“Are you sure you want to stay here?” he asked.

There was someone working for the FBI who lived only a few doors down. Anywhere else, Red would have left and never returned. But this place was different. He needed this place.

“You know as well as I what the answer to that question is,” Red said.

Dembe pulled back, and Red inserted the key. He unlocked the door. Put his hand on the knob. Turned it.

Yes, Red thought as he took his first step inside. It had been far, far too long since he’d been here last.