Chapter Four

Legally, I couldn’t go into Sergio’s apartment without permission, and I could lose my license if I was caught. So the trick, I figured, was not to get caught. Besides, I was new at this gig—and I could bullshit with the best of them.

What I wanted was a sense of who Sergio was. If I didn’t take anything from his place, then technically I was only trespassing.

And if my PI license was pulled, then that was that and I could find something else to do with the rest of my life.

Sometimes, I wondered if being a PI was what I really wanted. But I also didn’t consider being a bartender for the long-term a viable career option, even though I enjoyed working at Flannigan’s. Being an Angelhart added weight to every decision I made. I didn’t want to be the one who couldn’t make up her mind, who flitted in and out of jobs with no direction.

Maybe it was the uncertainty about my decisions of late that had me taking risks by breaking into Sergio’s apartment; I didn’t know. What I did know was that there were questions that needed answers, and because Sergio had pled guilty, there was no incentive for the cops or prosecutor to find the answers.

Sergio lived on the ground floor of a surprisingly clean apartment building south of Missouri, off 17th and Denton. The dump across the street screamed trouble, but Sergio’s building was fully fenced with security cameras, new paint, and shade trees in the front. No lawn, but the common area was landscaped with bushes, benches, and a paved path to the rear buildings.

This was going to be trickier than I thought. When Adam told me where Sergio lived, I assumed a dive. Most of the apartments off 19th were sketchy and would be easy to access.

I parked on the street and put my gun under my seat. If I was caught, better not to be carrying. I walked up to the security door. Electronic lock. Dammit, why couldn’t they have an old-fashioned lock? I’d spent months learning how to pick locks. I was good at it and it was fun. But this electronic system was well above my skill set.

Maybe I needed a computer expert to teach me some new skills.

I observed the entrance. People either typed in a code or used a remote to get in.

Two teenagers left through the front gate. They eyed me suspiciously, but I gave them my best grown-up nod and half smile, and walked in before the gate closed. I clicked my car lock on my key fob so it would beep-beep behind me, giving me a bit more authority, I surmised. As if I was supposed to be here.

Looking at the complex map posted next to the mailboxes, I deduced there were a total of forty-eight apartments in six buildings of eight units each, four up and four down. Sergio’s apartment was in the southwest corner.

When I was putting in my mandatory hours for my PI license, I’d worked under the direction of semiretired PI Gene Russell. Gene cut a lot of corners and played loose with the rules, but he had a nose for the business like no one else. He had this sixth sense that guided him in how he investigated a case, and while I didn’t know if I would ever cultivate his instincts, I’d learned several key rules from him. The first? Always act like you have a purpose—especially when you are breaking rules. Gene called them “rules” not “laws” and I now preferred the term as well, even if it was merely semantics.

So I acted like I was supposed to be here. Walked straight through the complex and right to Sergio’s door. Standard lock and dead bolt. I knocked on the door—just in case he had a friend or girlfriend with a key. Like Faith Jones.

No one answered, and I heard no movement inside. I pulled my lock pick set out of my back pocket—a gift from Gene when I got my license—and in less than ten seconds, I’d popped the lock, impressing myself, even though my racing heart reminded me I really, really didn’t want to be caught.

I walked in and closed the door.

First, I listened. Just to make sure no one was inside. I didn’t hear anyone, not even upstairs or next door. The unit was long and narrow, with the front door facing the back of the property and the rear facing a small common area with trees and a couple picnic tables. The blinds were half-closed in the living room, covering a sliding glass door that led to a walled-off patio.

The apartment was mostly neat with little clutter, though it was clear the police had searched. Some drawers were partly opened, closet doors ajar, papers scattered. I saw a copy of the search warrant on the counter and an index card with instructions and a phone number if anything was damaged, plus a faded list of what they had taken—the bottom sheet of a form in triplicate. They listed clothing, shoes, and a laptop computer. Not much.

I looked at the date. They’d been here Saturday, the day after Sergio’s confession. Though the signature was sloppy, I noticed the large B in the last name and assumed Detective Barrios. Her badge number was written below. I took a picture of everything, just in case I needed it.

The kitchen was on the right, small but well designed for maximum counter space. A small round table in the dining area, the living room beyond. The living room was large for an apartment and had a sectional sofa that was worn but clean. A television was mounted on the wall with bookshelves on either side. Not a lot of books, but a few from the new and used bookstore in Sunnyslope, evidenced by the small stickers on the spine. A stereo and a few CDs. Most people streamed music these days.

I opened the refrigerator. Sparse. But no alcohol. I checked the freezer. No hidden drugs. The small pantry had staples—cereal, rice, bread, canned food. A bowl of bananas and apples were ripe on the counter, but hadn’t turned brown yet.

Two bedrooms and two bathrooms. The larger bedroom was masculine with two double beds, another television, and a gaming system. Posters of video game scenes. The second bedroom was painted light purple with a double bed, white dresser, plush purple comforter, lots of pictures filling a cork board. A few girls clothes in the closet and drawers. Maybe Sergio had been allowed to have sleepovers with his siblings? Or maybe they had keys and could come and go as they wanted?

I turned to the pictures. I recognized Sergio. A young, pretty dark-haired girl was in most of the pictures, likely Sophia. I noted that most were older photos from happier times. Sergio, Sophia, and probably Henry, as another boy about Sophia’s age was in many of the pictures. At the park. At birthday parties. One of Sophia in her First Holy Communion dress with Sergio and Henry in ill-fitting suits standing on either side of her. I took a picture of that, and one of what I felt was the most recent photo of the three, since Sergio looked so much like his mugshot. Not smiling, his arms protectively around his brother and sister. The photo had been taken at The Taco House. By whom? And why print it? Most young people just kept pictures on their phones.

I looked on the back, being nosy and curious.

Sergio, Henry and Me, Christmas Eve

That was a month ago.

I didn’t find anything incriminating, but had there been, the police would have taken it and I would have seen it on the receipt. Sergio was a neat young man with an apartment furnished with his family in mind.

He wanted his family together, yet hadn’t been able to make it happen.

Sergio had evidently used the dining table as his work station. A printer with hanging cords that had likely once plugged into his laptop was pushed up against the wall. Next to it was a neat stack of files. I went through them, feeling a tad guilty at invading his privacy. Every folder related to his efforts to gain custody of his siblings. One of the folders had a name of a case worker—I took a photo—and another had the addresses of the foster homes where Sophia and Henry were. I took another photo of that.

Did his brother and sister know he had confessed to murder? Had he told them before he went to the police station? Had they gone to visit since his arrest on Friday? Would they even be allowed to?

I left everything exactly as I’d found it, then drove by The Taco House on Dunlap and inquired about Faith Jones. She worked three to closing.

I didn’t leave a message, and headed to Andy’s office with a lot to think about.