Page 88 of Stay Awake
Wednesday 7:55P.M.
Lavelle popped the trunk and removed a package containing disposable overalls, masks, and gloves, as well as a roll of giant extra-thick trash bags in case they needed to transport trash to the precinct to sort through.
“Are you seriously telling me you keep a trash collection kit in your car, just in case?” Halliday asked in amazement. “You must have been a boy scout as a kid.”
“If you’ve ever had to stand in a Dumpster with garbage up to your neck, ruining a brand-new five-hundred-dollar suit, then you’ll understand the value of being prepared.”
“So you do this a lot?” Halliday asked dryly.
“Garbage is a window to a person’s soul. A bit like their internet browsing history, but a whole lot smellier,” he said, ripping open the packaging and removing a white plastic set of coveralls. “It’s not the first time I’ve gone through trash and it won’t be the last. In fact, I’d say it’s an occupational hazard.”
He took off his shoes before stepping into the coveralls and pullingthem up over his charcoal suit. He put his shoes back on and donned a pair of thick rubber gloves. Halliday was ripping open her plastic pouch to get changed when they both heard high heels tapping purposefully along the street behind them.
A woman in an overcoat with extremely long dark hair was walking nonchalantly toward Liv Reese’s building. The woman bore more than a passing resemblance to their suspect.
“It’s not her. She’s too tall,” whispered Halliday, as the woman came closer. The woman took the stairs to the top of the stoop and rifled around in her purse for her keys to open the street door of the building.
“Follow behind her and go inside. Interview the neighbors. Ask if anyone saw anything. Tell them to call nine-one-one if Liv Reese turns up again.”
There were fourteen apartments on four floors. Halliday took the stairs down to the basement and worked her way up to each apartment floor by floor.
Only half the people living in the building were home. None recognized the photo she showed them of Liv Reese leaving the crime scene early that morning.
On her way back down the stairs, Halliday stopped at an apartment on the third floor where she’d heard a baby crying earlier. Nobody had answered when she’d knocked on her way up. She knocked again, three loud taps.
A woman carrying a sleeping infant in a baby sling opened the door. She held a spatula in her right hand. Halliday introduced herself and showed the woman the photo of Liv Reese.
“Have you seen this woman around recently?” she asked.
“Not recently,” said the woman.
“But you do know her?” Halliday pressed.
“Sure, she lived here with Amy a few years back. Her name’s Viv, or Liv. Something like that.”
“It’s Liv,” Halliday said. “You actually knew her?”
“I knew Amy better,” said the woman, inviting Halliday into her apartment. She returned to the stove and flipped an omelet she was in the middle of cooking.
“We used to have a block party once a year on the rooftop. Amy and I were on the committee. She was a great gal. Her roommate was more introspective. Don’t get me wrong, she seemed nice enough. I never thought it was right, all that stuff people said about her afterward.”
“What did people say about her?”
“That she killed Amy and that boyfriend of hers and then pretended she’d been attacked.”
“You don’t think that’s what happened?”
“I never thought she did it.”
“Why?” Halliday asked.
“She didn’t strike me as a killer.”
“Lots of killers don’t strike people as killers. Until they kill,” Halliday countered.
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “But I never thought she did it.”
“Have you seen Liv around lately?”
