Page 10 of Under the Radar
4
Mo blew out a shaky breath and rested her cheek against the cool window of Jason’s Cadillac as he drove toward the Canton neighborhood she called home. She adored her vintage brick house with its three apartments, old-fashioned dormers, and colorful overflowing petunia baskets on the front porch. Her elderly, almost deaf landlord lived on the first floor.
Mo cursed the fact that she’d needed Jason’s help tonight. Not so very long ago, she’d sworn to never need him again. Since the day they’d first become a couple, he’d tried to manage her life, not to mention her trust fund. Talk about learning the hard way. A gold-digger with a tie was a very dangerous man. Mo was still untangling her accounts from his long-reaching, legal tentacles.
Jason had barely put the vehicle in park when Mo leapt out and grabbed her briefcase.
“Let me walk you up to your apartment, Maureen. You’ve had a long day.” He scrutinized her over the roof of his car.
“No, I’ve got it.” She placed her briefcase by the stairs and walked back to the curb. “Keep my name out of the newspapers, Jason. For my parents’ sake. I don’t care how many hands you need to shake or grease. Thanks for your help this evening.” She’d started up the front stairs when he called out to her.
“Remember, stay close-by. They want to interview you again in a day or two. Call me when they notify you with the where and when.”
“I remember. I’ll call you.” Mo entered the front door code, dragged her briefcase over the worn marble threshold into the small foyer, and sat on a varnished stair. She placed a shaky hand over her mouth and choked out a sob.
At least she hadn’t embarrassed herself by crying in Jason’s car. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her vulnerable. Jason sensed vulnerable like a shark scented blood.
Mo heaved a resigned breath, grabbed her mail from the lobby, and climbed the stairs to her apartment on the second floor. She unlocked the door and backed in, pulling the briefcase with her. The stifling heat in the living room slammed her like a sauna. Oh-geez, yeah. She’d unplugged every appliance in the place because the plan was to be at the beach for six weeks. It was dark as a tunnel, and her fingers fumbled against the stippled wall for the switch to the overhead light that she rarely used. Gotcha. Mo turned around.
Oh, dear Lord.
Her usually neat, cozy living room was a war zone of upended furniture, pictures thrown on the floor, books strewn about and ripped out of their bindings. Huge slits gutted her couch cushions and smashed plants covered the floor.
What the hell?She rushed back toward the kitchen and bedroom, turning on overhead lights and stepping over broken pottery and glass. The floral ceramic-top bistro table in the kitchen that she’d purchased at the flea market was shattered to pieces on the floor, while every cabinet hung open. Ice from the freezer dripped on the linoleum and dishes, glasses, and casserole dishes lay broken everywhere. A moan tore from her throat. Why?
Mo ran for the bedroom and cried aloud when she flicked on the light. It looked like a hen-house brawl had taken place with every down pillow emptied of their feathers and no, oh no. Her great-grandmother’s art deco vanity from the 1920s was cracked and the gorgeous, ornate mirror lay in a scattered heap near the window. Mo slumped against the bedroom door with a hand to her heart as she fought back a howl of pure sorrow.
She stepped through the mess to her closet and opened the door. Her eyes grew wide. Most of her clothes were still hanging. But the shoeboxes were empty. Where are all my shoes? Mo shook her head in confusion.
She backtracked down the hallway to inspect the bathroom, and a humid breeze stroked her face. The white eyelet curtain swayed against the broken window as a thunderstorm gathered outside. She glanced down into the alley, a street light illuminating her view. Bastards! The fire escape was down. That must’ve been how they’d gotten into her little sanctuary.
Mo flipped on the bathroom light and screamed.
Twice.
Scrawled on the mirror was a message. YOU OWE US $$$ BITCH
She wobbled backward and wheeled around when the reflection in the mirror caught her attention. Her beloved Jimmy Choos floated like dead fish in the tub, and her favorite red pumps were humiliated toes-first in the toilet water.
Mo stumbled into the kitchen and sank down on one of the wrought-iron bistro chairs. As far as she could tell, they didn’t take anything, just ransacked the place. Her apartment wasn’t full of priceless things to steal. There were only three material possessions on this earth that she loved. Her Escalade—which her father had given her when she graduated with her master’s degree. Her great-grandmother’s dresser—which was the first item her Nana had purchased as a young woman when she immigrated to America after World War I. And her Jimmy Choos—which Mo’d purchased over the past few years by religiously setting aside fifty-dollars a paycheck to indulge her high-end obsession. All three things were stripped from her in the last; she glanced at her watch, six hours.
A humid chill ran the length of her spine. Who wrote that message on the bathroom mirror?
This made no sense. She didn’t owe anyone money and couldn’t think of anyone she’d call an enemy.
Unless this had something to do with the drugs in her Escalade? Had she pissed someone off by calling the cops?
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She couldn’t sleep here tonight. They’d sifted through her underwear drawer, hung undergarments on every door handle, and used her lipstick to write hate on her bathroom mirror. Mo rocked back and forth on the chair. Her insides knotted in a dirty, violated tangle of emotions.
Should she call the police? Hell, no! She’d spent enough time with cops and detectives today to last a decade. They wouldn’t believe her anyway. They’d probably say she did it herself for some insane reason. Plus, it was 11:00 pm. They’d be combing this crime scene all night.
Terror tore through her on the wings of fresh adrenaline. What if the people who did this came back?
Mo bolted for the hall closet and eyed her rarely used small suitcases. She yanked two of them from the closet, wheeled one to her bedroom, and plopped it on the bed. In a matter of minutes, she filled it with bathing suits and cover-ups, flip flops, sundresses, work-out clothes, and an old pair of running shoes. All of her new stuff was in the Escalade. She retrieved her tablet and her work laptop and shoved them in the middle of the suitcase. Her arms could only handle two suitcases, so the work briefcase would have to stay.
Mo navigated the slippery black and white checked kitchen linoleum, grabbed a screwdriver and a gallon zip bag and returned to the living room where she partially rolled up the rug. There it was. Heat exhaustion and nervous energy shook her hands as she unscrewed the three floorboards hiding her scrupulously saved emergency fund. Eight screws later, the spring hinge lifted slightly. She pulled out the metal box filled with cash and stuffed the wads of tens and twenties in her bra and pockets. The smaller denominations she tossed into the gallon bag. It barely zipped shut.
After reattaching the floorboards, Mo rolled the rug into place. Wrapping the bag of money in an old beach towel, she dropped it into the second suitcase with her mail, some favored comfort items, and two romance books.
Every horror movie she’d ever watched played reruns in her mind.
Mo rushed into the kitchen to put the screwdriver back in the drawer, slipped on the wet floor and face-planted onto a small, round terra cotta planter. Ooff, that hurt. Having landed in broken glass, the blood flowed freely from her hand. She picked pieces out of her skin and clothes, pressing the cuts with her fingers to staunch the blood. This was no time to fuss. Get out of here.Now.
Within twenty minutes, Mo flipped off the overhead lights, stood at the front door and looked back at the apocalypse of trashed rooms she used to call home. She’d bandaged her hand and packed everything with monetary value—the sentimental part she’d tuck into her heart and memory. Her trembling, bandage covered hand closed the door. She slipped a note through her neighbor’s mail slot explaining there was no need to water the plants and hauled her two small suitcases down the stairs.
The cab she’d called was waiting for her, and she tossed her things into the back seat.
“Where to, miss?”
“Pratt Street. Drop me off at the Galleria, please.” Mo focused her eyes forward as the cab rolled away. Looking back would only make her cry, and she didn’t cry in front of anyone.