The call goes dead.
Daisy stares at her phone. Her blood pounds.
Who in the hell is “Kit”?
MAL
November 1, 2019. Friday.
Mal and Benoit climb the stairs to Kit Darling’s apartment. It’s 8:43 p.m., and rain clatters loudly on the roof of the stairwell.
Lula and the rest of the team are still working to locate the Norths while Mal and Benoit check the maid’s residence for clues of her whereabouts. Mal also wants to obtain something that will provide a DNA sample to compare against blood evidence at the crime scene.
As they reach the second floor of the old building on Vancouver’s east side, Benoit says, “Daisy Rittenberg not recognizing that photo of Darling—do you buy it?”
“I’m not buying anything yet,” Mal says as they walk along the corridor, checking apartment unit numbers. The hallway is dimly lit, and it smells of curry from an Indian restaurant downstairs.
“And Vanessa North not calling after Daisy and Jon Rittenberg allegedly dropped flowers and pie and left in medical distress?”
“Daisy claims she met pregnant Vanessa at prenatal yoga classes. Ty Binty also said Daisy came into the bistro with her pregnant friend. We can check in with the yoga people tomorrow. Maybe they can shed some light on where Vanessa and Haruto North might be.”
As they reach Darling’s unit, Benoit freezes. His hand shoots up, stopping Mal. He puts a finger to his lips and points.
There’s a light on inside Darling’s apartment. The door is slightly ajar. A silhouette moves inside.
Mal and Benoit exchange a hot glance. Benoit motions to Mal, and without a word, they move in unison into positions on either side of the apartment door. They hear a crash inside, followed by a groan.
They withdraw their weapons.
Standing to the side of the door, weapon drawn, Mal reaches forward, knocks. “Hello? Anyone in there? This is the police.”
Silence.
“Hello?” Benoit yells. “Police. We’re coming in!”
Mal shoves the door. It swings open wide. Benoit pivots into the entryway, giving Mal cover as she follows.
They see a man bending over a table near the window, his back to them.
“Police.” Benoit’s voice booms through the small apartment. “Step away from that table, sir. Identify yourself.”
The man spins around, sees them, gasps. His hands shoot up into the air, and he drops the glass jar he was holding. It crashes to the floor. The glass shatters, and the contents explode across the apartment.
“Stop!” the man yells with his hands in the air. “Please. I—I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“Identify yourself, sir,” Benoit demands.
“Excuse me?” The man cocks his head to the side and leans slightly forward, like he can’t hear.
“Your name, sir,” Benoit booms. “What is your name?”
“S-Samuel Berkowitz. I-I live next door.” He’s stuttering, shaking in fear.
“What are you doing in this apartment?” Benoit asks. “Why did you not respond?”
“Pardon me. I can’t hear.”
Louder, Benoit says, “What are you doing in this apartment, sir? Why did you not respond?”
