Page 114 of Fire and Bones

“The book.”

One lifted eyebrow. Then Deery hit the door handle with his left elbow, swung his legs sideways, and levered himself out of the Durango.

Wordlessly, I did the same.

The sun was sinking below the horizon now, banding the pavement and the lawns along Willard with skeletal versions of trees and utility poles. A soft breeze had kicked up, causing the elongated shadows to shift and heave.

The yapping dog? The undulating gloom? The potentially threatening text? No idea what sent a chill running down my spine.

Refusing to grant credence to the strange sense of foreboding, I fell into step behind Deery. Who gave no indication he knew I was following.

Up the red-brick sidewalk. Down the rusted metal staircase.

There was a small window to our left. A trio of utility meters jutted from the brick beside its frame. An algae-green door lay straight ahead. On it, rusty digits identified the unit as 4B.

Flexing his right elbow to bring that hand to gun level, Deery reached out with his left thumb and pressed the bell.

Inside the unit, a buzzer sounded.

No one appeared or called out.

We waited, both of us spring-loaded and logging details.

The air in the well was moldy and dank, the window at my shoulder almost opaque with years of accreted gunk. Maybe decades.

Through the grimy glass I could see two potted cacti. What looked like a rubber snake. A figurine in a cowboy hat, sex indeterminate.

I was eyeballing the statue when, beyond the succulents, I caught a flicker of pink. There, then gone.

“Someone’s home,” I whispered, excited. Knew instantly the response my comment would elicit.

“I know.”

“These apartments usually have back entrances.” Defensive. Why was I constantly self-justifying with this jerk?

Sighing, Deery went another round with his thumb, this one longer and more insistent.

The buzzing was followed by a clamorous silence.

Head wagging, Deery curled his fingers and banged hard with the meaty side of his fist. “Police! I know you’re in there.”

Up the block, the invisible pooch began yapping again. Another dog joined in, this one more a baritone.

The duet was going well when a voice came through the door, high and reedy.

“You’re at the wrong address. We’re good, here.”

“Roy Stoll?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Detective Merle Deery, Metropolitan PD.”

“What do you want?”

“A moment of your time.”

“Your car isn’t official. How do I know you’re really police?”