Private Investigation: A Lesbian Detective Romance by Echo R. Brooks

Author:Echo R. Brooks [R. Brooks, Echo]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2020-10-06T04:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

Danny leaves the abandoned bodega around the same time he left on the night he gave me a solid beating. You have to love a drug user who has a routine.

The lock on the iron grate over the door is broken, and the lock on the door has been picked. It’s still breaking and entering to open the door and walk in, but it feels like less of a crime. Danny certainly didn’t make it difficult.

The inside of the building is dusty; the walls and the detritus of squatters past are all covered in brown grime. This place has been out of use for a long time. Rumpled-up sleeping bags, reeking of piss, and piles of old newspapers and grocery bags line the path to the stairs to the second floor. The wooden steps creak under my feet as I climb the staircase. I cringe when the first step squeaks, hoping no one’s upstairs.

My weapon rests at my hip, concealed, and its solid weight grounds me. I learn my lessons quick; the first beating Danny gave me is going to be the last.

I reach the top of the stairs and peek around the corner into a one-room apartment. The scuffed wooden planks of the floor buckle and twist in the light from the streetlamp that streams in through the window. The light illuminates dust motes floating and ebbing in the air. More piles of trash and torn, dirty sleeping bags and old clothing clutter the floor. The dingy, yellowing walls are covered in graffiti in different colors of spray paint and marker. Some of the spray paint dripped down like blood before it dried, giving an even grimmer meaning to names like GHOST and GRIEF.

No human lingers among the garbage. One bundle in particular looks more-recently lived-in than the others.

It has to be Danny’s.

It’s a long way for a rich kid to fall, from having everything he ever needed or wanted to living in squalor, with nothing but a backpack and a pile of newspapers to his name. At least it’s summer and he doesn’t have to worry about the cold weather on top of his next fix.

I put on a pair of latex gloves and poke through the dirty canvas backpack. Inside is a packet of syringes, their white caps still on the needles; a frayed leather belt, which he probably uses as a tourniquet; a few metal spoons; a few lighters; a cell phone charger; a sheaf of envelopes with letters inside; a few pairs of white tube socks; and a gray button-up shirt.

At the bottom is the package Allison gave him, a Priority Mail envelope wrapped in clear packing tape. It’s sliced open at the flap, but inside are only more packs of syringes.

At the bottom of the backpack is a brown paper bag, crumpled around bundles of money. There are thousands of dollars here. He left piles of cash in his unlocked hideout. I guess it’s not a great choice: bring it with you and risk getting rolled for it, or leave it and risk it walking off with some other addict.

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