Elysia methodically checked the pockets of the trousers and shirts and blazers. A.J. moved off to the bathroom and found the glass shelves packed with a variety of name-brand grooming products. Dicky also had more hair products than she did. A.J. counted shampoos and conditioners from L’Occitane, Calvin Klein, and The Salon.
Returning to the bedroom, she noticed a snapshot tucked in the corner of the framed mirror over the dresser. The family grouped in front of the neutral background appeared to be Egyptian: a dignified older man, a plump, comfortable middle-aged woman, two self-conscious teenaged girls, and a little boy. Judging by clothes and haircuts, the photograph seemed quite recent. Was this Dicky’s family? She couldn’t think of another reason for such a group portrait.
As she studied the photo, A.J. viewed Dakarai Massri for the first time as something more than a threat to her mother. She recalled how young he had been; she recognized that whatever his faults, he had been someone with hopes and fears, dreams and ambitions, disappointments and sorrows. He had a family somewhere and they had probably loved him and would soon be, if they were not already, grieving for him.
“What about this bookie of his?” A.J. called. “Do you think Dicky might have had gambling debts he couldn’t pay?”
“He liked to gamble,” Elysia replied absently.
“What did he gamble on?”
“Horses, mostly. But he spends-spent-a fair amount of time in Atlantic City.”
A.J. sat down gingerly on the side of the bed. “I don’t begin to know how we would locate a bookie or investigate Dicky’s gambling habits.”
“Hmm. I admit it’ll take some thought.” Elysia stepped out of the closet and looked around. “I don’t see his laptop anywhere.”
“Did he have a laptop?” A.J. asked sharply.
“One of those cute little notebook thingies.”
“The police must have it. Did you write him e-mails?” A.J. braced herself for the answer.
“You know I don’t use e-mail unless I have to.”
That was true, and it was one bright spot. At least Elysia would not have left an electronic trail.
They went through all the drawers in Dicky’s bureau and dressing table but turned up nothing more interesting than an overabundance of dress socks.
A.J. sifted through her share of the dresser drawers quickly. She wanted out of this apartment as soon as possible. All they needed was a nosy neighbor or a prospective tenant and they’d be trying to explain themselves to the local law-and good luck with that. “What about his friends? Did he have any?”
“I met his upstairs neighbor once,” Elysia said. “They seemed to get on well enough.”
“It’s so weird. He’s like the Man Who Never Was.”
“I assure you, pumpkin, he most definitely was.”
As A.J. slid the drawer back it seemed to stick. She pulled it out, tried again, and heard something tear.
“There’s something here.”
A.J. pulled the drawer all the way out and Elysia rushed to take it from her.
“You’re not supposed to lift!”
Letting Elysia take the drawer, A.J. reached inside. Jammed into the wooden track was a crumpled greeting card. She freed it carefully, drew it out, and smoothed the stiff paper, examining it curiously.
Elaborate gold script on embossed white stock read Happy Birthday to My Husband.
Heart pounding in hope, A.J. opened the card. Beneath the usual lavish and saccharine sentiments was scrawled xo and a name: Medea.
“Hey, take a look at this.” She held the card out to her mother.
Elysia took the card and opened it. She seemed to go very still.
“He was married,” A.J. said.
Elysia said nothing.
“He was already married to someone else. Married to someone named Medea. If we could find this woman, this Medea, we would probably have the answer to who killed Dicky.”
Still Elysia did not speak-and that was so odd that A.J. fell silent, too.
And in that profound silence she heard a key scrape in the front door lock and the sound of the front door opening.
“Hide!” gasped Elysia, attempting to shove the drawer soundlessly back in its track.
“Hide where?” squeaked A.J.
There was no more time than that. Elysia dove beneath the bed. Her arm poked from beneath the bed skirt, beckoning wildly to A.J., but A.J. knew there was no way her back would permit her to climb under the bed-not if she planned on ever climbing out again. She backed into the crowded walk-in closet, ducking behind the suits and silk shirts, listening tensely. Yes, someone had definitely entered the apartment.
The scent of Dicky’s aftershave was disconcerting. A.J. tried to blank it out and concentrate on the voices. Blanketed in sport coats and shirts, she could see nothing, and though she could hear voices, they were too low to discern more than that there were two more people in the apartment and that one was-possibly-female.
Her first panicked thought had been that she and Elysia had been discovered by the apartment complex manager, but she realized now that that was probably incorrect. The intruders sounded as though they might be arguing. Then A.J. heard the distinct slide of blinds across the front window.
Perhaps these were the hitherto unknown friends or family of the dead man? Oh God. What if they had arrived to pack all his things?
She heard the floor creak. A male voice close to the bedroom door said, “I still don’t see the point of this.”
The answer was indistinct.
“Well, we better make this fast. That gardener is coming down this way.”
A muffled response.
“How do I know? I don’t want to take the chance of being spotted walking out of here.”
Over the pounding of blood in her ears A.J. could just make out the hurried swing and bang of the kitchen cupboard doors. What were they looking for?
This was very bad. Unless they found what they were looking for in the kitchen-and given how bare the cupboards were, that was unlikely-they would undoubtedly search the bedroom and the closet.
“I think you’re giving him too much credit,” said the same voice irritably.
And then, very distinctly, a female voice said, “His answering machine is missing.”
“The cops will have grabbed it.” The man’s voice was moving away from the bedroom doorway. A temporary reprieve, A.J. knew.
“A.J.” hissed a frantic whisper.
A.J. poked a cautious head out of the closet and saw Elysia at the far wall with the window open. She beckoned frantically and A.J., ignoring the pain in her back, tiptoed as quickly and as silently as she could manage across the room.
Elysia shoved the window screen out of its track and into the shrubbery beneath. “Can you climb?” she mouthed.
A.J. had no idea if she could climb or not, but she was not about to be caught in that room. It had already occurred to her that if the intruders were not the apartment management or Massri’s family, one or both of them might have had something to do with his death.
From down the hall the woman said, “Stop complaining. The faster we do this, the faster we get it over with.”
“You should have been a philosopher.”
The philosopher said something very rude. A kitchen drawer banged hard.
Elysia made a cup with her hands, and A.J., biting her lip against the flare of pain shooting down her hip and leg, stepped into the makeshift step and boosted herself up. Even though she was braced for it, the pain caught her by surprise. She closed her mind to it, and hauled herself out through the wide sliding window and lowered herself to the hedge below. It made for a prickly but reasonably sturdy landing, and she half-rolled, half-wriggled off, landing gracelessly on the walkway in a shower of leaves.