Page 144 of Flint’s Strike

He waits for me on the second-floor landing, holding a small, steaming to-go cup. The stench that prompted the welfare check is everywhere. It’s seeping into my clothes, my hair, and my pores. It’s one of those scents you never get used to.

I don’t know how medical examiners do it.

Nate offers me the cup, but I shake my head. “God, no.”

“Fine. Handle the crime scene uncaffeinated. See if I care.”

I grimace, take the small coffee, and bring it to my lips. It’s cooled down enough I can drain it in four swallows. If nothing else, it’ll settle my stomach, which has been twisting itself into knots since last night.

An APD officer at the door takes down our names and checks ID. If he lasts another hour without losing his last meal all over the dirty carpet, it’ll be a miracle. Cortero greets us as soon as we step over the threshold. “Captain Elmore. Captain Hardison.”

He’s young. Barely thirty if I had to guess. He keeps his hands in his pockets, standing so straight, it’s clear he’s trying not to touch a damn thing.

Two guys in full Tyvek suits with official IDs from the ME’s office enter right behind us. I don’t follow them yet. Smelling the body is one thing. Seeing it after it’s been decomposing in the Texas heat for God knows how many days? That can wait another few minutes while Nate and I read the room.

The entertainment center is on its side, one drawer cracked down the middle and crushed, the other right side up but empty. Every cabinet in the kitchen is open. Small, sugary clusters of cereal litter the floor, and the ants discovered it at some point.

The TV’s still on the wall, an ultra-thin sixty-inch model that doesn’t have a scratch on it. The biggest tell, though, is sitting on the counter next to the overturned cereal box—Kessler’s wallet. I pull on a pair of gloves and open it. Two twenties and a ten. Four credit cards.

Nate crouches by the front door, running two fingers along the frame without touching the strike plate.

“Cortero?” he asks. “Did the uniforms check for forced entry?”

The detective flips through his notebook. “The door was locked when the manager got here. He let them in with his master key.”

Nate snaps a photo of the inside and outside of the lock, plus the strike plate. “There isn’t a single mark here. This door wasn’t forced open. No one kicked it down. The strike plate is pristine. Someone picked the lock.”

Cortero’s jaw ticks. “Burglars don’t normally bring lockpicks.”

"No. They don’t. They also don’t tend to leave cash, credit cards, and a brand new television behind.” I use two fingers to angle the TV away from the wall, take a picture of the model number, and look up the specs. “This television weighs thirty-two pounds. I could carry this down the stairs without breaking a sweat. This was never about Kessler’s shit.”

“The responding officer flagged some bruising on Kessler’s neck. But with the decomp, we can’t be sure what caused it. That’s for the ME to decide.”

“We’re gonna need time in here,” I say. “Unrestricted.”

“The crime scene techs have already processed everything,” Cortero says.

“They took prints and photos,” I say, shifting toward Nate at the same time he takes two steps closer to me. “They didn’t check for hidey holes. He might have hidden something here before he went missin’.”

Cortero doesn’t argue. He’s smart enough to know when he’s been beat.

As soon as the ME techs wheel Kessler out of the apartment in a body bag, we start in the bedroom. The odor is even worse in here. A sickly-sweet, rotten stench I’ll have to bleach out of my hair by the time we’re done here.

“Whoever tossed this place knew what they were doing,” Nate says, then clears his throat.

I don’t trust myself to talk without hurling. Clothes pulled off the hangers, mattress half off the box spring, the nightstand drawer left on the bed, empty.

Nate goes through the closet, while I take what’s on the floor. We search everything. Backs of drawers. Undersides of furniture. Anywhere someone in a hurry wouldn’t think to look.

My left hand cramps around the edge of the dresser when I try to pull it away from the wall. My last two fingers only curl halfway before I force them to behave. “Nate? Come help me with this.”

It kills me to ask. But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t raise a brow. Simply joins me so, side by side, we can slide it away from the wall together.

It’s the last piece of furniture in the room. Three drawers. Laminate over particle board. Probably took Kessler less than an hour to put together with a single Allen wrench and three extra screws.

The first drawer’s clean. Empty. Intact. The second is too. Crouching, careful not to let my knees touch carpet, I ease the bottom drawer from the tracks and turn it over.

A small, black square the size of my thumbnail is taped to the back right corner.