Page 23 of Her Last Doubt

"You're not throwing anyone under anything. You're answering a question that’s been asked by a federal agent."

Pruitt crossed his arms, not defensively but more like a man bracing himself for the sound of his own words. "There's a resident on the eighth floor by the name of Warren Shelf. He's in his mid-fifties, and he’s been here about six years. He does handyman work on the side, including a few for me when I've been backed up or when something needed more time than I could give it. Small stuff mostly…things like cabinet hinges, caulking, light fixture work." He paused and sat with the next statement for a moment; Novak could tell he was struggling to reveal it. "He has keys to a few of the units. Residents gave them to him directly, for jobs he did for them. I don't know exactly which units."

Novak kept his voice even when he asked: "How many keys are we talking about?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm saying. The residents arranged it with him directly. It wasn't through me or through Hale. So I have no way to know the full count."

For Novak, the frustration of it was immediate and specific. Here was a man who had been cooperative since the beginning, who had pulled the security footage and answered every question readily. But Pruitt had been sitting on this for the duration of the day. He was about to say something to that effect when the front door opened and Rachel came in, cheeks faintly flushed from the cold.

“Hold on,” he told Pruitt. “I’ll be right back.”

He crossed the lobby to meet her before she'd gotten three steps inside. He got to the point right away, telling her about Warren Shelf, the handyman work, and the keys.

Rachel listened without interrupting. When he finished, she was already pulling the resident list up on her phone. She found the name quickly, nodding. “Shelf, Warren. Unit 8-B,” she said. “He’s been in the building for six years. Age 57. Interviewed by Purcell's team, no flags noted.”

“But I think this thing with the keys…that just came up, changes that.”

“Same here.”

Novak glanced back at Pruitt, who was watching them from across the lobby. He didn’t look scared or ashamed, but he did have the look of a man hoping he'd done the right thing by speaking up.

Novak and Rachel shared a brief glance, nodded in unison, and headed for the elevators.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Shelf's eighth-floor apartment was dark under the door and quiet when Rachel knocked. They waited for several seconds, to no answer. She knocked again, harder, and the hallway gave back nothing. A television murmured somewhere further down the corridor but nothing moved behind Warren Shelf’s door.

Shortly after Rachel knocked a third time—much louder, almost abrasive this time—the door to 8-D opened just a few yards down the hall. A man in his early forties came out pulling an earbud free. He was dressed in running tights and a long-sleeved thermal top. As he stepped into the hallway, he looked at them with mild curiosity.

"You looking for Warren?" he said.

"We are," Rachel said. "And you are?"

"Tim Escher. I'm right next door." He nodded back at 8-D, tugging the other earbud free now that it was clear this wasn't a quick exchange.

“Do you know Mr. Shelf?”

"We're not close, but we talk in the hallway sometimes,” Escher said with a shrug. “I had him water y plants one time when I was out of town for a week. That’s about it.”

"How well do you know his schedule?" Novak asked.

"Well enough to notice when it changes." Escher shrugged. "He's been getting in late this past week or so. Mentioned a contracting job going, some conversion project downtown."

"Do you know which building?" Novak asked.

Escher eyed them a bit closer, as if making sure he wasn’t giving up this information to a couple of creeps. Apparently, they must have passed his test because before Rachel could pull out her ID to reassure him, he answered.

"He said it was near Quirk Hotel. That's all I've got. Like I said, it’s not like we’re buddies or anything."

“That should be enough,” Rachel said politely. “Thanks.”

He nodded and headed for the stairwell, earbuds back in before he'd reached the door. Rachel pulled out her phone and looked up the Quirk Hotel. When she zoomed in, it wasn’t clear which property might be in the midst of being converted.

Novak was already on his phone, too. "I'll call the field office and have them look into records for any recent commercial conversion projects in that area,” he said. He stepped a few feet down the hallway and Rachel heard him introduce himself, badge number and all. Novak leaned against the wall and looked at the ceiling. The wait stretched to nearly four minutes, long enough that Rachel had walked to the end of the hallway and back before he straightened up and reached for his own phone to take down the address.

He came back. "West Broad Street. Between Foushee and Belvidere. The permit was pulled six weeks ago for interior demolition and renovation, commercial to entertainment use. I even got a company name: Lockdown Richmond."

"Good work," Rachel said.