Sixty-Three

‘OK, this is it,’ Garcia said as he parked his car right in front of an old three-storey construction located halfway down a relatively busy road. The building looked tired and in serious need of some attention. Most of the windows looked like they’d never been cleaned, at least not on the outside, and what should’ve been a front lawn looked more like the remains of an old battlefield.

It didn’t get any better on the inside.

The wooden door at the entry lobby creaked loudly as Hunter pushed it open, revealing a small and poorly lit room that smelled of a thousand ashtrays. Water infiltration stains marked the ceiling like freckles on a face. Some of that water had lazily traveled down one of the walls, pushing itself behind the wallpaper and creating blisters that looked ready to pop at any minute. Cigarette burn marks formed an interesting pattern on the old and dirty rug that centered the room.

‘Nice. Classy,’ Garcia said as he and Hunter stepped inside.

It seemed like the creepy sound generated by the hinges on the old front door was used as a shop bell, because as soon as the noise came to a stop, an overweight Hispanic-looking man promptly appeared behind the counter on the south wall. He smelled of spiced refried beans and Taco sauce, and his greasy hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead as if he’d just finished the toughest exercise session ever known to man.

‘What can I do for you gentle—’ He paused midsentence, before his shoulders slumped down as if all of a sudden he’d become fed up with life. ‘Aww, cbinga tu madre! Cops.’

Hunter had had a suspicion that this wouldn’t be a regular apartment building. From the outside it looked like one of those places that rented their apartments by the hour, day, week, month, or whatever arrangement better suited the customer – no questions asked, just as long as they could make the payments.

‘Are we that obvious?’ Garcia asked Hunter, looking at him from head to toe.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘What? Are you joking, ese?’ the man said from behind the counter. His Mexican accent wasn’t nearly as heavy as he was. ‘Your badges are practically tattooed on your foreheads. Yes, you are that obvious. Why do you guys like to bust my balls so much, huh? I’m just trying to earn an honest living here.’

‘Yeah, that is a wonder,’ Garcia said, emphasizing the way he was looking around the entry lobby and bringing his right hand to his face to cover his nose. ‘Everything around here looks to be right on the money, and that includes the attitude.’

The man began to murmur something inaudible but Hunter cut him short.

‘We’re not here to bust your balls,’ he said, approaching the counter and displaying his credentials.

‘Or to criticize your fine establishment,’ Garcia said, coming up behind Hunter. ‘And yes, we are cops.’

‘I take it that you are the building’s superintendent, Mr.?’ Hunter said, returning his ID to his pocket.

‘Moreno,’ the man replied with a sullen face. ‘Arturo Moreno and, yes, I am the building’s superintendent.’

The sweat stains on his shirt, directly under his armpits, looked like they were growing larger.

‘OK,’ Hunter said, being careful to place Mathew Hade’s portrait photograph, not his mugshot, on the counter. ‘We have information that this man lives here. Apartment two-eleven?’

Moreno eyeballed the picture for a little while.

‘Um-hum.’ He nodded, looking bored. ‘But I’d say that “lives” is a very strong word to describe his relationship with apartment two-eleven.’

Hunter’s eyebrows lifted inquisitively. ‘All right, so how would you describe it?’

‘He comes and goes,’ Moreno replied. ‘Like most people here. Sometimes he’ll stay for a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. And sometimes he’ll disappear for the same amount of time. Even longer. He’s got no schedule. No one here does.’

‘Is he in now?’ Garcia asked, his eyes moving to the staircase to the left of the counter. The severely worn-out red and black carpet that lined the stairs was ripped at the edge of every step, some of it so badly Garcia was certain it would constitute a health hazard.

Moreno shook his head. ‘No, he isn’t. I haven’t seen him for . . .’ He paused and looked up at the cobwebs on the ceiling, as if the answer was up there with all the dust. ‘Five, six days, maybe? Maybe less, I’m not sure. Last time I saw him he was only here for a couple of days. If I remember right, he had a friend with him then.’

‘A friend?’

‘Well,’ Moreno shrugged carelessly. ‘They came in together, chatting like they were friends, so I guess that that’s what they were.’

‘Was this friend male or female?’ Hunter queried.

‘Hombre,’ Moreno answered. ‘Male.’

‘Have you ever seen this friend before?’

Moreno thought about it for just a couple of seconds. ‘No. I can’t say I have.’ He began scratching the back of his neck as if his life depended on it.

Garcia frowned at him before taking a step back. He wouldn’t be surprised if the place had a flea or bedbug problem.

‘But in this place, ese,’ Moreno continued. ‘A lot of new people come and go with the guests.’ He stopped with the scratching and checked his nails, before rubbing them against the front of his shirt. ‘You know how it goes, right? What the guests do in their apartments is their own business, comprendes? I just take care of the place.’

And you’re doing a fine job, Garcia thought, but kept his mouth shut.

‘Have you ever seen him bring any women back here?’ Hunter asked.

Moreno coughed a laugh. ‘Are you for real, ese? Yeah, I’ve seen him bring women here and, before you ask, as far as I am concerned they were all of legal age.’

‘Have you seen either of these two women around here?’ Hunter asked, now showing the building super a photo of Nicole Wilson and one of Sharon Barnard.

While studying the photographs, Moreno kept his mouth closed and ran his tongue against his upper front teeth. His top lip bulged with the movement.

‘Umm . . . nope, they don’t look familiar to me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Garcia insisted.

Moreno kept his gaze on the pictures for a while longer. ‘Yep. Positive, ese’

‘Who else works here? Like, who takes your place on your day off, or on your once-a-week shower day.’

Garcia’s joke was completely missed by Moreno.

‘My cousin, ese, but he’s not around till the end of the week. You can come back then and speak to him, if you like?’

‘Maybe we will,’ Garcia said.

‘You do have the keys to apartment two-eleven, right?’ Hunter asked.

Moreno looked at him, then at Garcia, then back at Hunter. ‘Yes, of course I do, but don’t you need some sort of warrant to go up in there? This place might be a dump, but it’s not a free-for-all, ese.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Garcia replied. ‘We can go get a warrant if you like, and maybe we’ll come back here with more than just a warrant for apartment two-eleven, ese. We’ll have a warrant for this whole building, including your office back there.’ He pointed at the closed door just behind Moreno. ‘And while we’re at it, we’ll bring a few health inspectors and immigration officers with us too. Sound good?’

‘Aw, pincbe culero.’ Moreno rubbed his greasy forehead while looking down at the floor.

‘Usted sabe que hablamos español también, ¿no?’ Garcia said, reminding Moreno that he and Hunter both understood Spanish.

Moreno didn’t look back at him. Instead, he simply opened one of the drawers behind the counter and picked up a set of keys.

‘OK, ese, but the only way you’re going up there is if I go with you.’