“It appears,” Dmitri purred to a rapidly paling Adele, “that the Made need to be reminded that the Tower never stops watching.”
Adele’s swallow was audible. “Who will die tonight?” she asked on a whisper of sound.
“All those who have forgotten that they are not the apex predators in this city.”
29
Felicity’s apartment building, blackened with the grit and smog of the city, had the downtrodden look of a woman who’d once been beautiful but had long since surrendered to the march of time. She didn’t even bother with makeup: window coverings were absent or hanging in a lopsided way, and at least a third of the dirty panes of glass had cracks running through them. Two had given in to the pull of gravity and were totally missing, the holes covered up with black plastic.
A tenant on the third floor had made an effort—Ashwini could see greenery against the window, what looked like the curling tendrils of a luxuriant fern. The attempt at beauty only threw the decrepitude of the rest of the building into sharp focus. That lack of care was visible inside as well. Graffiti crawled across the walls just inside the entranceway, and the scuff marks on the linoleum floor had worn through to the concrete.
“I understand why she wanted out.” The leaden despair soaked into the concrete and glass and wood of the building was powerful enough to brush against her senses, but far, far beneath, she could almost glimpse tiny, struggling seeds of hope.
Felicity had planted one of those seeds, would’ve given hope to her neighbors when she made it out. Seeing this, feeling the fragility that lay underneath the hardened surface, it made the cruelty of what had been done to the young woman even worse. Not only had the monster who’d killed her stolen her life, he’d made a mockery of her spirit. “The person responsible for Felicity’s torture and death deserves every circle of hell.”
“We will ensure he—or she—ends up roasting for a long, long time.” Janvier nodded to the left, to a sign that, judging from the richness of the ink, had been recently defaced by a blue marker that told the reader to “Fock of!” It’d be funny if it wasn’t so sad. Below the misspelled profanity was the word Office and an arrow pointing down the corridor.
“I do not have high hopes of anyone actually being in the office,” Janvier said, “but the world is full of surprises.”
“Most of them bloody and nasty and deadly.” Walking with him down the narrow corridor, Ashwini took the dimly lit stairs down to a basement level. In front of her was a closed door plastered with advertising flyers, neighborhood promos by people struggling to create a sense of community in this hopeless place, and small posters asking for help in finding lost pets. Raising her hand, she rapped on the door with her knuckles.
To her astonishment, it opened almost immediately to reveal a big, bearded guy with skin so sallow it was clear soaking up the sun wasn’t his favorite pastime.
“Yeah?” He scowled before Ashwini could identify herself and spoke again. “You’re a hunter. Which schmuck vamp is hiding out here?”
Perceptive, she thought. He might actually be of some help. “No vamp,” she said, “but we have questions about a former tenant.”
The man, who appeared to be in his early thirties, scratched his belly, the size of it hinting at a love of beer and fast food. “Right. Come in.” Backing away from the door, he waved them into an office that held a television set currently showing a rerun of a crime show, a sagging sofa with denim upholstery, a desk buried under paper, and several rickety chairs.
He switched off the TV and said, “You want to sit?”
Not sure the chairs would hold, Ashwini shook her head. “You’re the super?” she asked to make certain—for all she knew, he could be the owner.
Reaching up, he scratched his jaw this time, the frizzy black curls of his beard rasping against his skin. “Ah, yep, had the gig going on ten years now,” he said. “Name’s Seth. I’m a student—on my second doctorate, so this job’s great, especially since it comes with a room out back.” He made a face. “I do what I can, fix what I can, but the owners don’t give me much money, so I have to let the inessential stuff—like the endless fucking graffiti—go.” Rubbing his hands over his face, he blew out a breath. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me moan. Who’s the tenant?”
“Felicity Johnson.”
His animated face froze, then crumpled noticeably. “Aw, damn, something happened to her, didn’t it? I knew she’d never leave Taffy like that.”
“I’m afraid she was murdered.” Ashwini watched him for any signs of possible guilt as she delivered the news, saw only pain.
“Who’d do that?” A bewildered question. “She was no threat to anyone.”
“You remember her,” Janvier said, leaning against the door he’d closed.
“Yeah, she was sweet. Real nice.” His sallow face even more pale and his previously steady body swaying a fraction, he took a seat behind his desk. “You sure it’s her?”
“We haven’t yet been able to run DNA or find a fingerprint match,” Ashwini said more gently than she might have before witnessing his reaction, “but yes, we believe it’s her.” It was too much to hope that Felicity’s room remained untenanted, but if Seth had kept her tenancy application, then fingerprints might be a possibility.
“Most tenants in a place like this,” the super said, staring at his overflowing desk, “they get so hard, so angry with life that they just want someone to blame—I’m an easy target. But Felicity isn’t . . . wasn’t like that.” A shaky smile. “When I fixed her door after it threatened to fall off its hinges, she baked me muffins. I never had fresh-baked muffins before.”