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  At the sound of his name a dozen reporters began shouting questions at him, all addressing him like they were lifelong pals. With a sideways glare, Beckett pushed his way through the large glass doors of the lobby.

  The commotion of outside fell away as the doors swung closed behind them. A team of officers were at the front desk speaking to the man behind the counter. A couple sat beside the fountain reading a newspaper.

  Otherwise the lobby was deserted.

  Beckett walked to the front desk, drawing the attention of the two officers. The one on the right, a tall red head Beckett recognized nodded. “They’re expecting you upstairs detective.”

  Beckett ignored the statement, his attention on the man behind the counter. “How many ways are there upstairs?”

  The man extended his hand, a half smile on his face. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” her purred in a faux French accent. “I am Jack Hodges, manager here at the SkyLine.”

  Beckett shook the man’s hand and mumbled his own name and credentials. As he did, it was impossible not to notice the shake was weak and feminine, lacking any strength whatsoever.

  It made him squeeze a little harder, just for spite.

  Hodges pulled a map from behind the counter and outlined four different routes to the penthouse suite. There was a single elevator bank, the emergency stairwell, an old service elevator, and an outside fire escape that ran to the adjacent apartment.

  Once Hodges was done, Beckett snatched up the map and left the three men standing by the front desk. He could hear Meeks running to try and catch up as he studied the four possible routes, already moving for the first one.

  “We’ll start with the service elevator. The main bank would be too obvious, same with the stairs. Fire escape is something out of bad television, so it’s obvious for the same reasons.”

  “And we give a damn what route the killer took in getting up here why?” Meeks asked.

  “A lot of times a killer’s route of entry says a lot about the crime itself,” Beckett said, face still down towards the map. “If they used the main elevators, it can be reasoned they carried a small and easily concealed weapon. Service elevator’s often have weight limitations so we can get an idea of a maximum size.

  “Can also get a little insight into the mind of our killers. Someone that uses the main elevators is brazen, does this as much for the thrill as for the act itself. Someone using the stairwell is a little more paranoid, but within reason.”

  Meeks shook his head. “Or there’s always the fact that someone could be a whack job regardless of how they got up there.”

  Beckett smirked. “Yeah, there’s always that.”

  The two made their way through the lobby and past the main bank of elevators. They passed through the first floor of apartments and came out on the far side of the building, exiting out of the main corridor and into the parking garage.

  The service elevator was easy enough to find, tucked away beside the loading docks.

  The garage smelled of used oil and car exhaust as Beckett pulled a pair of latex gloves from the jacket pocket of his blazer and snapped them on. He pushed the call button to open the elevator and motioned for Meeks to wait outside while he did a quick scan for any useful information.

  There was none.

  Pulling the gloves off he signaled for Meeks to join him and pushed the button marked P to take them to the top floor.

  “Anything we can use?” Meeks asked, glancing around the space.

  “Yeah,” Beckett said. “Place doesn’t use cameras on the elevators. Could have been anybody coming up and down this thing.”

  Meeks snapped his head in all directions to inspect for himself as the doors parted and Beckett emerged onto the top floor. It was large and open, everything in light colors, scrubbed clean.

  Halfway down the corridor a team of crime scene examiners walked in and out of the only visible door, making direct routes between it and the main elevator.

  Beckett strode down the corridor towards them, Meeks catching up beside him.

  “What else have we noticed so far?” Meeks asked.

  “No other neighbors,” Beckett replied. “There’s not a single other door on this entire floor.”

  As they approached, a large man with close cropped hair and thick framed glasses emerged into the hallway. His tie was loose about his neck and shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He saw Beckett walking towards him and said, “Boy am I glad to see your ass.”

  Beckett shook his hand and said, “Meeks, this is Chief Medical Examiner Hank Pickerell. Hank, this is my new partner Devin Meeks.

  “The only time you’re ever glad to see me is when something’s really good or really bad. Please tell me it’s the former.”

  Pickerell opened his mouth to respond, but closed it a few seconds later. He raised his hand and ran it over his chin several times, a half-smirk tugging the corner of his mouth upward. “You better come in here and take a look at this for yourself.”

  Beckett didn’t try to decipher the statement. He shrugged at Meeks and followed the ME into the room.

  It took a single look for Beckett to ascertain that Pickerell was right.

  This was bad. Very bad.

  Chapter Five

  In his years on the force, Beckett had seen blood spattered walls. Mutilated corpses. Bodies left for dead days on end in the summer heat.

  Of all of them, this was the crime scene he detested the most.

  The non-existent one.

  Beckett stood in the middle of the living room and watched the crime scene techs around him. They should have been scurrying about gathering evidence. Instead they were subdued, pouring over the two inches in front of their face.

  “Talk to me Hank.”

  Pickerell stood beside him, his arms folded across his chest. “Far as we can tell, not a single thing in the place is out of order. Not so much as an overturned chair.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  Pickerell motioned Beckett towards the bedroom and together they made their way through the large open door, Meeks behind them.

  “Dr. Ambrosia Brockler,” Pickerell said. “PhD from Stanford in ’95, came here soon thereafter. Started as an assistant professor, fast became a tenured professor in the chemistry department. Did some brilliant work with botanicals to earn her doctorate, kind of been lying low ever since.”

  As he listened to the brief synopsis, Beckett surveyed the room in front of him. A pair of techs scrubbed away at the dresser and desk, two more combed the floors for any errant fibers.

  In the middle of the room was a large four post bed, Brockler lying atop it. Beckett left Pickerell and Meeks, approaching from the side to examine her.

  She was a beautiful woman, with thick dark hair and well defined cheekbones. Beckett imagined she had deep green eyes beneath her closed lids, not that he would ever have the chance to find out.

  She lay atop the covers of her lavish bed, a black silk nightgown clinging to her motionless form.

  “What have you found so far?” he asked.

  “Not a lot,” Pickerell responded. “I wanted you to see the scene before I did a full workup, but I gave her a quick once over and found she wasn’t a victim of any of the S’s.”

  “The S’s?” Meeks asked, the first time he spoke since entering the apartment.

  “Shot, stabbed or strangled,” Beckett said, letting a bit of agitation show in his voice. “What else you got?”

  “No bruising, nothing under her fingernails, no obvious sign of a struggle.”

  Beckett looked around the room and shook his head. “Looks like she died in her sleep last night. Who found the body? Why exactly are we here?”

  Pickerell held two fingers up, the beefy digits looking like a misshapen peace symbol. “Two reasons. First, because Brockler had her university physical last week and came back in perfect health.

  “Second, we got a call.”

  Beckett twisted his head at the neck to stare at Pickerell.
“When? From who?”

  “This morning a call was made to the front desk from a Carl Mecklin in apartment 6C. Told them he was hearing noises coming from up here and thought he heard a woman scream. Front desk sent a security guard to check and they found this.”

  Beckett processed the information, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Okay, so again I ask, why are we here?”

  Pickerell held his palms towards the ceiling and shrugged. “When the security guard found the body, he contacted the police. They got here and called me, I called you.”

  “And?”

  “For one, look at this place. She’s been dead since at least midnight. There’s no way anybody this morning heard noises or a woman scream.

  “Two, there is no Carl Mecklin in apartment 6C. It’s Carol Mecklin, an eighty year old widower that could barely hear a fog horn in bed beside her.

  “She swears she didn’t hear anything and hasn’t called anybody in over a week.”

  Chapter Six

  Beckett led Meeks out in the hallway, rattling off directions as he went.

  “Go downstairs and tell Jacky boy that we need to see whoever was working last night between 6pm and 6am. Also tell him we need to speak to whoever took the call this morning.”

  “Where you off to?” Meeks asked, standing by the elevators as Beckett moved towards the stairs.

  “6C,” Beckett said before disappearing into the stairwell.

  He took the stairs two at a time and swung on to the sixth floor. It was an identical copy of the one above it, the only difference being a few more wooden doors lining the hall.

  Walking to the middle of the floor Beckett found 6C and wrapped on it with the back of his knuckles. When several seconds passed without a response he remembered Pickerell’s earlier comment and pounded again, this time shaking the door on its hinges.

  A diminutive woman with white hair and a blue robe came to the door, an empty coffee pot in her hand. “May I help you young man?”

  Beckett smirked at anyone calling him, pushing his forty-second birthday, a young man, but let it pass.

  He flashed his badge and said, “Good morning Ms. Mecklin, my name is Dern Beckett and I am a detective with the Boston Police Department. Do you mind if I come in for a moment?”

  Mecklin paused for a second before stepping back. “Yes of course, come right on in. I was about to put on a pot of coffee, can I interest you in some?”

  “No, thank you ma’am, I won’t be but a minute here, I just had a few questions for you about this morning.”

  Mecklin sighed and turned to the sink, running water into the empty pot. “You’re more than welcome to ask, but like I told those nice gentlemen earlier I really don’t know anything.”

  “I understand ma’am, I was just hoping you might be able to clear up a few things for me.

  “First of all, do you know or are you related to anybody that uses the name Carl Mecklin? A name, a nickname, anything?”

  Mecklin turned the faucet off and placed the pot on the sink. “No, not that I know of. My husband’s name was Henry and both of our children were girls. He had a brother named Bruce and his father was named Heath. Those are about the only Mecklin’s I know.”

  “I see,” Beckett said. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy, but it was worth a shot.

  “You made mention of your husband ma’am, is he around?”

  Mecklin lowered her voice and said, “No, I am afraid he isn’t. My Henry died six years ago. Since then it’s just been me and Scruffy, the cat.”

  “I am very sorry ma’am. If I may ask, how did he pass?”

  “No need to be sorry,” Mecklin replied. “Cancer got him. He fought it for years; we all knew the end was coming.”

  “So no form of foul play of any kind? Nobody would have any reason to try and pull you folks into something? No residual ill will?”

  Mecklin’s eyes grew large and she said, “Oh no, nothing like that. Henry and I owned a floral shop a few blocks from here, ran it for almost fifty years.

  “Don’t really come across ill will when you’re selling roses for a living.”

  Beckett smiled. “No ma’am, I suppose you don’t.

  “Can you tell me about what happened this morning? Did you hear anything? Maybe mention it to someone? Would there be any reason for someone to call and gave this name?”

  “You know, I’ve been sitting here trying to think of something all morning and I honestly can’t think of a single thing. I awoke at six like I always do and took a shower. I walked out into the hall and got the morning paper, was sitting here checking the weather report when two officers knocked on my door and asked if I had placed a call this morning.

  “I wish I could be of more assistance detective, I really do, but I just don’t know anything.”

  Beckett paused for a moment and surveyed the woman.

  Without a doubt, she was telling the truth.

  Beckett stood and extended his card to her. “I am very sorry to have bothered you ma’am. If you remember anything at all, please feel free to give me a call directly.”

  Mecklin took the card and escorted him to the door. She waved him farewell as he turned back the way he had came and took the stairs back to the lobby.

  He found Meeks there sitting on a bench, yelling into a cell phone.

  “Dammit! Well where the heck is she?” Meeks demanded, pausing just a moment as the other side responded. Whatever they said only seemed to incense him even more.

  “She gets in, you call this number! You don’t wait for her to remove her coat or take a piss!”

  Meeks snapped the phone shut and scowled at it.

  “I am guessing that didn’t go well?” Beckett said.

  Meeks shook his head. “Not even close.

  “Your boy Hodges over there took the call this morning, says it came in just after six. Some guy with a very clear voice, not even a Boston accent. Said his name was Carl Mecklin and he was concerned about whoever lived above him. Claimed to have heard several loud noises that woke him up. Wasn’t until he heard a woman scream that he decided to call.”

  Beckett looked over at Hodges, who was pretending not to glance over at them every few seconds. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing. No background noise, no distinctive accent in the voice, nothing.”

  “Dammit,” Beckett muttered, pulling his phone from his pocket. He pressed the first speed dial button and waited for the precinct to pick up.

  It did after three rings.

  “Hey Suzy, it’s Dern. Can I get you to call Cambridge Power and Phone and get a trace log for the front desk of the SkyLine apartment complex for this morning, five to seven a.m.?” He paused a moment before adding, “Thank you Suzy, I appreciate it.”

  Turning to Meeks he said, “Odds are this guy was too smart to use a traceable number and if he did, I’m guessing it was a pay phone at a bus stop somewhere. Just the same, we can pull the records.”

  Meeks stood and together they walked towards the front entrance. “What makes you so sure this was a murder?”

  Beckett snorted. “You serious?”

  “Well, think about it. This guy went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make this as clean as possible. For Christ’s sake the victim’s lying in her nightgown in her bed without a mark on her.”

  As they walked through the front door Beckett stopped, motioning for Meeks to do the same. He tapped the bank of mailboxes lining the foyer between the outside door and the door to the lobby. “Look at this. 6C – C. Mecklin.”

  Meeks nodded. “So Mecklin was just a name this guy grabbed on the way out. If I lived in that apartment he’d have called and said his name was Dave Meeks.”

  “Looks like it. Chalk the Mecklin thing up to a dead end.”

  They stepped out the front doors and past the throng of encroaching reporters still jockeying for position. No effort was made to answer any questions as they climbed back into the Crown Vic and pulled away from the scene.

 
; “I don’t get it,” Meeks said, staring out over the steering wheel. “Why go to all that trouble making it look like she passed in her sleep, then call and tell us to go get the body?”

  Beckett let the question sit for a moment, mulling a response.

  “Could be one of two things. Either somebody wanted this particular woman dead and wanted everyone to know it, or they’re just damn good and wanted us to know it.”

  Dear Michael,

  Together, you and I used to go to church on Sundays and listen to the gospel of forgiveness. We would sit shoulder to shoulder and hear the preacher speak of how a person was to issue it time after time and thus will be granted the same treatment by our Lord in Heaven. That if a person were to withhold, were to harbor ill will in their heart, God Almighty would do the same to them. Do you remember?

  I ask you now Michael, what have I done that is so wicked you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me? I would have never thought there was a sin large enough to come between us and despite my best efforts I cannot think of one yet. I am sorry for whatever I have done, for whatever evil has caused you to do this to me.

  Please come home,

  Sarah Beth

  Chapter Seven

  “I am here at the SkyLine luxury apartment complex where early this morning a call came in notifying hotel officials that a woman’s scream had been heard. Upon going upstairs to check into the matter the hotel staff discovered the body of one Dr. Ambrosia Brockler, tenured professor of chemistry at MIT...”

  The pretty blonde news reporter rattled off the information, obviously reading it straight from a teleprompter. Her smile was plastic, her grip white-knuckled on the microphone in her hand.

  Still, it was the message she was delivering that I was interested in, not the way she was doing it.

  You have got to love the American media. All I had to do was make one phone call in the early morning hours. I fell straight back asleep and woke three hours later to this.

  I bet Mavetti’s doing back flips right now, assuming the fat bastard can get his ass off the ground.