Eleventh Hour

There was wainscoting along the walls of the wide corridor, and well-executed watercolors of the Bay were hung along the walls.
    A woman in a lovely black kimono stood in the open doorway to 4C. She was young, with artfully mussed long black hair tossed over one shoulder. She wore almost no makeup. Delion looked at her, appreciated her, and guessed that five hundred bucks wasn’t out of the question.
    “Ms. . . . ?”
    “Elaine Books. What do you want? Hey, she isn’t a cop, she’s homeless. I know . . . Valerie told me about you, told me you sort of hid in the shadows whenever somebody came around, that you’d only talk to this priest. And you, you’re no local, just look at those wing tips; they’re a cut above what local guys wear. What are you, a lawyer? What’s going on here?”
    Delion said, “They’re with me, no problem. You really think his shoes look more expensive than mine? Nah, forget it. We need to speak to Valerie Striker, your neighbor in 4B, but she’s not answering her doorbell. You seen her this morning?”
    “No.” Ms. Books frowned, tapped her lovely French manicure against the door frame. “You know, I haven’t seen Valerie in a couple of days. What’s going on with her?”
    Dane said very slowly, “I really don’t like the sound of this, Delion.”
    Delion said, “Right. Ms. Books, we’d like you to come next door with us, watch us open the door, okay?”
    “Oh God, you think something’s happened to Valerie, don’t you?”
    “Hopefully not, but we’d like you to verify that we’re concerned, and that’s why we’re going in.”
    Delion knocked on 4B. There was no answer. He pressed his ear to the door. “Nothing,” he said.
    Delion put his shoulder to the door of 4B and pushed hard. Nothing happened. “Well made, solid wood, I should have guessed,” he said. Both he and Dane backed up, then slammed their shoulders into the door. It flew inward, crashing against the inside wall.
    A beautiful apartment, Nick thought, looking past them, all light and airy, so many windows, sunlight flooding in.
    Where was Valerie Striker?
    Dane stopped suddenly. He became very still. He turned, said very low, his voice urgent, “Ms. Jones, please stay right here. Thank you, Ms. Books. We’ll take it from here.”
    “Hey, what’s that smell?” Elaine Books jerked her head back. “Oh God, oh God.”
    “Stay back,” Delion said. He turned to Dane. “Keep them here, all right?”
    But it was too late. Before Dane could force Elaine Books and Nick Jones back out of the apartment, Nick saw two white legs sticking out from behind the living room sofa, a really pretty sofa, all white with even whiter pillows strewn across it. All over that white were dark stains, as if someone had dipped a hand into a paint can and just sprinkled the paint everywhere.
    “Oh no,” Nick said. “It’s not paint, is it?”
    “No,” Dane said, “it’s not. Don’t move from this spot, you understand me?”
    Delion went behind the sofa and knelt down. When he straightened, he looked hard, sad, and angry.
    “I think we’ve found Valerie Striker. She’s been garroted. I’d say she’s dead a couple of days at least.” He nodded to Dane, who herded the two women back into the hallway. He heard Delion on the phone, speaking to the paramedics.
    Elaine Books leaned against the corridor wall and started crying. “I’m so sorry,” Nick said. “She was your friend. I’m so very sorry. I liked her. She was kind to me, despite—despite how I look.” Very slowly, Nick drew the woman into her arms and let her cry on her shoulder.
    Nick looked up at Dane. “He killed her. He must have seen her, worried that when she found out about Father Michael Joseph’s murder, she’d remember seeing him. He either knew who she was or he found out, came here sometime during the night on Sunday and killed her. That’s exactly what happened, isn’t it?”
    Dane nodded. “Yes, that’s probably right.”
    Elaine Books continued to weep, softly now, her head still on Nick Jones’s shoulder.
    Valerie Striker was dead. Chances were that she hadn’t seen a thing, but that hadn’t mattered. She couldn’t tell them anything now. Nick closed her eyes as she rocked Elaine Books against her and thought, I’m the one who’s supposed to be dead, not her. If only she’d waited for the cops, she would have remembered to tell them about seeing Valerie Striker, and they would have come here, maybe before the killer