Page 91 of The Cinderella Secret
The smell reached them before they reached the front of the warehouse where the cold fall sunlight filtered through grimy windows.
“Yup,” said Garcia, covering his nose and mouth with his scarf. “Sucking.”
The four bodies were sitting each in a chair facing each other as if marking out the points on a square. Each of their belongings was behind them in neat bags. None of them had been shot. Jackson crouched down and scrutinized the scene.
Each of the four had a shot glass or a cup near their chairs. He looked around and spotted dead rats a few feet away.
“What the hell killed them?” asked Garcia.
“Poison,” said Jackson. “Then the rats licked up the drinks.”
“There’s a bottle of scotch over there,” said Garcia, pointing to a banged-up metal desk. Jackson nodded. It was an eighteen-year-old bottle of single malt Oban. He could read the label from where he was standing. He could also see that the top had been dipped in red wax.
“Do you see any phones?”
“No,” said Garcia. He walked closer to one of the bodies. “Could be in a pocket? Hmm.”
“What?” asked Jackson.
“This one actually has his jacket pocket inside out. Like he pulled something out of it.”
“Don’t think it was him,” said Jackson, circling to check out another body.
“You think whoever killed them took the phones.”
“I would,” said Jackson.
“How would someone get these guys to drink something?” asked Garcia, inching closer and holding his scarf tighter.
“He faked the bottle.”
“What?”
“Oban doesn’t come sealed in wax. But it’s an expensive bottle so he took a chance on the fact that none of these guys would know that. He opened the bottle, poisoned the bottle dipped it in wax and then let one of them open it again and pour it.”
Garcia looked at the scene again. “And they’re all here, politely not shooting each other, getting everything divvied out. They’re ready to split town. They waited to talk to this guy, and then he offed them.”
“Yeah,” agreed Jackson. The smell was starting to get to him. He wished he’d worn a scarf like Garcia.
“Then he took the phones,” said Garcia. “Meaning we’ve got fuck all unless he kindly left fingerprints on the damn bottle.”
“Yeah,” agreed Jackson. And then a phone rang.
They both turned to look at the black duffle bag of the guy closest to the door. The phone rang again, and Jackson pulled on his gloves. Moving carefully, he unzipped the bag and carefully felt around the inside of the bag. He finally retrieved a black, boxy, distinctly utilitarian phone.
It rang for the final time, flashed a missed call message and went dark. Jackson attempted to flip it back on, but it came up as fingerprint locked. Trying not to think about what he was about to do, Jackson breathed on the screen of the phone leaving a warm mist on the screen. Due to the cold weather, rigor mortis hadn’t yet released, and the bodies were all still stiff. Gingerly, Jackson pushed the screen against the thumb of the dead body in front of him. The phone registered the fingerprint and unlocked.
“Come on,” said Jackson as he stood up and jerked his head at Garcia. “Let’s get out of here.”
They left through the front door this time. Once outside, Jackson inhaled deeply, enjoying the stink of fresh diesel and wet ground.
“God, that was gross,” said Garcia. “I do not know why I don’t go get a nine-to-five job in an office somewhere.”
“You don’t like to get up that early,” said Jackson, flipping through the phone settings. It took a moment or two of poking, but he found the security and turned off the screen lock.
“Get anything?” asked Garcia.
“No, that’s going to be your department. Take it back to Pete. Have him call Kerschel—see what she can get out of it. I’m going to call the cops and hope they don’t do something weird like try and pin this on me.”
