Santiago

I shepherded Mabel into the elevator, walking slightly behind her to make sure she didn’t try to bolt. Not that I took her for the running type, but I’d seen all kinds in my years as a detective. You could never tell what someone was like just by looking at them.

On the elevator, I tried to remind myself of that fact. I wasn’t oblivious to how beautiful she was. I’d always had a soft spot for redheads, and her dark auburn hair drew me in from first glance. She had those pretty brown eyes that made a woman look like they were capable of convincing you of anything. Dangerous, that’s what they were. I wasn’t going to stand there and objectify her, but yeah, she had the perfect amount of curves. In any other situation, I’d have asked for her number. Maybe used a stupid pick-up line and buy her a drink.

Or I would have, before I gave up women for good.

“Here we go,” I said as I pressed the button for the penthouse and the doors closed. Sure, she was an extremely attractive woman, but there was something else there. I clocked the nervous shake of her hands and how she kept bringing them to the hem of her shirt and skirt to adjust. She pushed her hair behind her ears once and then again without the need to. And her eyes never quite focused in that jumpy way, looking around her constantly as if searching for something.

I decided to ease into it. I cleared my throat, hands in the pockets of my pants, and lightly said, “Did anyone see you take the elevator up this morning? Or did you see anyone else get on or off?”

She looked at me and shook her head. No response other than that, and I wondered if it was me she objected to more so than just the questions. We didn’t start off on the best foot with me coming at her like a suspect first thing, but hey. It’s part of the jbo. I could almost hear my sister’s voice in my head laughing at me. Santi, she’d say, you’re supposed to be good at this. Why are you making it weird?

“Okay,” I continued. “Did Maurice often go to the penthouse first thing? Was that usual for him?”

She shook her head again and sighed. “No. He always stopped at the front desk first. He liked to make sure we’d set the lobby up exactly how he wanted it.”

I locked that bit of information away. “A stickler, huh?”

Mabel looked away again. “He had a way he wanted things done, that’s all.”

The facts were all starting to come together, and I could feel the case building. From Mr. Witherspoon’s description of Maurice, it was the same thing. He ran the building, got things done. Even more interestingly, he hadn’t seemed to mind at all who he pissed off in the process. I angled my head. “And what happened if you didn’t do things his way? Can you elaborate on that?”

I let her take her time answering as I watched for her reaction. You could learn a lot about a suspect by the way they took to questioning. I didn’t take Mabel for a murderer, and as far as I could tell she’d been honest. But my instincts told me she was still hiding something. And it was a little strange she’d gone into the bathroom just to scream.

I’d hoped that a few easy questions would get her to relax and let her guard down, but she didn’t answer me. There was something more going on there. I was going to have the switch tactics.

Stepping a little closer from the other side of the elevator, I pulled a frown. “I’m sorry to be asking you to return to the penthouse floor so soon. I promise I’ll be right by your side, and anything you see that upsets you, let me know. I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

I didn’t expect her to thank me, but I thought she’d have something to say to that. She didn’t strike me as shy. Mabel stared back at me. There was a serious depth there. Her dark lashes blinked heavily like she was sizing me up. I didn’t break the gaze. She was going to tell me something. Come clean about something important. I could feel a breakthrough coming.

“Mabel,” I said quietly, not wanting to break the moment, “what is it?”