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“His girlfriend. Who else?”
Mike glanced around. There was a single photo of a couple on the coffee table. She pointed at it.
“Do you have her name?”
“It’s Isabella Marin. She’s a doctor of some kind. I didn’t ask. Why? Mr. Brooks was very nice, a lovely man.”
A cop stuck his head in the door. “DC Scott? Landlord is here, finally, says he has the rental contract. He told us about the security camera in the stairwell and the lift. It’s concealed, and he’s pulling the tape for us. Five minutes.”
Mike said, “There’s luck. Ms. Chance, did you see anyone as you came in the building? Did Mr. Brooks ring you in, or did you come in yourself?”
“As I’ve already said to DC Scott here, the apartment building front doors were open. I let myself in the foyer and came up the stairs, and no, I didn’t see anyone. It felt strange, though. I remember feeling the hair stand up on the back of my neck right before I knocked. It felt like someone was watching me.”
Mike said, “We’ll see what the cameras show. One last thing. When was this gig booked?”
“Over a month ago. I’d have to check my calendar for the exact date.”
“Thank you for being so clear and concise. I appreciate your coming back to speak to me. I’m very sorry you had to be here. This is all very difficult.”
She and Gareth moved to the door together, and the cop standing there led them to the first floor. “Landlord has the video queued.” He took her arm. “Mike, the falcon seen on the windowsill, why is this so important that Penderley asked you specifically to come here?”
“As soon as I can, Gareth, I’ll tell you all about it. Please, be patient.”
The landlord was older, midsixties, no-nonsense, and short on words, something Mike appreciated.
He nodded to her, and all he said was, “Here,” and pushed the small television toward Mike and Gareth.
Mike could see the camera footage was black and white, the angle geared for the stairwell, but the elevator foyer was visible.
They watched for a few minutes—empty hallway, empty elevator—then a man’s head came into view. She could see sandy-brown hair but not his face. He turned to step into the elevator, and she caught a glimpse of glasses. The video went blank when the elevator doors closed.
Mike asked, “Wait, Gareth, did you see a beard?”
“Yes—dark brown, darker than his hair.” Gareth said to the landlord, “Is there a full frontal shot of his face on this?”
“Keep watching. I’m gonna speed it up.”
Twenty minutes later, according to the time stamp, the elevator door dinged, and Mike saw the man exit, still without a good shot of his face, but now, there was a girl on his arm. She was walking slowly, heavily. The man was almost dragging her along.
“Oh my, that’s Dr. Marin,” the landlord said, rising out of his seat. “What’s he doing to her?”
Mike watched them walk out of the shot, and almost right away, Becca Chance, the photographer, appeared in the foyer.
The killer had been in and out in less than twenty minutes.
Gareth said, “Doesn’t look like Dr. Marin murdered her fiancé. She looks drunk, or drugged.”
Gareth said, “The garage is beneath the building, so he lucked out that no one was around to see anything.”
Mike turned to the landlord. “Can you give us all the information you have on Dr. Marin?”
“Already did, to this gentleman here.” He shook his head. “Poor lady, whatever happened—well, sure, she’s been a good tenant, her boyfriend, too, both on the lease.”
“Here, Mike,” Gareth said, and handed her a file.
Mike said, “I see Isabella is American, from Florida, works at the British Museum.”
The landlord was shaking his head. “Both of them, nice kids, quiet, rent’s on time, paid in full. Mr. Brooks travels. He’s a photographer for the Globe. Nature, war, that kind of stuff. What’s wrong with people?”
