Boston Blues - BLACKBIRD book 2

3. gut feeling

Taylor flicked through old mail in the living area of the small, dirty apartment, while the Crime Lab techs packed up their stuff to leave. He didn't pay attention to the footsteps coming in until Banks spoke to him.

"Hey, Taylor, anything new?"

"Loads of filth?" He shrugged, turning around, and his lips pursed when he spotted Gillian behind Banks, talking to one of the Lab techs.

Banks tried to ignore that half of Taylor's focus was suddenly off the case. "D'we at least know which one lived here?"

Yet the detective managed to answer right away. "The long-haired guy, one Joe Gallagher."

"Hey, Reg, this isn't the snitch's place," said Banks to Gillian.

She nodded, checking her phone. "Yeah, Gale Smith lived in Roslindale." She joined him and glanced up at Taylor with a strictly-business smile. "Detective."

"Lieutenant." Taylor turned to Banks. "A snitch?"

Banks shrugged. "Kinda. Walk us through, Taylor."

The young man produced a memo book and took a look at his notes. "Whatever the reason, if not the meth, they start arguing past ten. Joe Gallagher attacks the other one—Gale Smith was his name? Gallagher stabs him twice in his belly, deadly but not instantly if you like adverbs. Then Smith shoots Joe Gallagher in his chest with a small gun like a twenty-two—we're still waiting on Ballistics. They both bleed out on the carpet before the ambulance gets here."

Banks nodded slowly as Taylor spoke, looking at the case file, while Gillian's eyes moved around, scanning the place.

"Anything else?" asked Banks.

"No. Obviously nobody saw or heard anything. Save the old man next door, who called 911 when he heard the gunshot. The landlord said he knew Gallagher wasn't clean, but he paid his rent on time and wasn't trouble."

Banks nodded again, going to the table near the window to inspect what was on it. Gillian joined him. Taylor closed his notebook to observe them.

"Looks like they had dinner together," Banks said.

"Then why did they start fighting?" she muttered. "Who was the smoker?"

Banks checked the folder. "Joe. So he was sitting here." He moved to the side of the table where the ashtray was.

Gillian went to the other side of the table. "They're having a friendly pizza with beer, maybe planning to smoke some crystal over desserts."

"Gale has it, and maybe Joe is a little paranoid on his comedown from his last fix."

"So Gale does something that startles Joe?"

"Or maybe Gallagher didn't have the money to pay Smith," said Taylor.

The other two shook their heads. "Gale didn't come here to sell, or he wouldn't have stayed for dinner," replied Banks.

Gillian took the folder from Banks' hands and turned around. "Something gets them started and Gale decides to bail."

"But Joe's not letting him go before he gets some," said Banks.

Gillian walked slowly from the table to one of the large stains of dried blood on the carpet. It was near a worn-out couch.

"He came here to grab his jacket from the couch," she muttered, studying the space limited by the blood, the couch and the wall. There was a shattered picture frame on the floor, and a cleaner square on the wallpaper. She faced the blood spot again. "Joe tries to stop him and pushes him."

Banks came to stand before her and mimicked it.

Gillian stepped back up to the wall. "Did I hit the frame mark?"

"Yep." Banks stepped back as well and reached out to the table. "And I just need to stretch out my arm to grab a knife."

Gillian tried a sideways step to the front door and Banks pretended to attack her and stab her. She pushed him back, pointed at him with two fingers and pretended to shoot him. Banks staggered back, up to the other blood spot on the carpet. They traded a look and a nod: things figured.

Then why did she feel that persistent sensation, that she was missing something? Banks frowned when she spun around slowly. Her eyes scanned the place again, that cold spot in her belly bugging her so much that she didn't even get distracted by Taylor's attentive stare. But there was nothing to suggest a different theory. Nothing at all. She sighed, looking down, and her eyes fell on the broken frame.

"Reg..." Banks said, almost like a warning.

A shattered frame. The nail on the wall showed where it'd been hung. Where the hell was the picture? But it didn't have to mean anything. She couldn't expect ordinary logic at a junkie's apartment. Maybe he'd taken out the picture and left the frame. Maybe the frame was there when he rented the apartment and he never bothered putting a picture in it or taking it down.

"Reg...?" insisted Banks.

She shrugged, but that only made Banks scowl.

Taylor frowned, puzzled. "What?" he asked. The other two might not need to say aloud whatever was going on, but he wanted to know what it was all about.

"Nothing," she quickly replied.

"She's having one of her gut feelings," grunted Banks, still studying Gillian. "Something doesn't quite figure but she can't tell what."

"You mean about what happened here?" asked Taylor, frowning deeper.

Gillian shook her head, frustrated. Banks saw where she was looking.

"The empty frame?" he ventured.

"Yeah... And the way everything apparently happened. So easy to follow..."

"Reg, meth addicts. Can't expect Shakespeare."

"Yeah, I know. Never mind. Just forget it."

"The one time you said so and I did so, I ended up with a bullet in my chest," replied Banks.

"No, I mean it. Coincidences do happen."

Banks turned to Taylor. "Keep an eye on any report of incidents involving meth addicts from now on. Go back two weeks."