From inside the office, the muffled sound of a television talk show filtered through the wood. I could hear the host’s voice rising and falling, followed by a burst of pre-recorded laughter.
I knocked on the heavy wooden door, the sound flat and loud in the courtyard.
The television volume did not drop immediately, but after my second knock, the sound died instantly.
We waited, the silence of the courtyard wrapping around us.
“Mr. Sterling,” I called out, my voice firm. “Oakhaven Police. We need to speak with you.”
The silence from inside the room was thick and heavy.
I knocked a third time, the metal casing of my heavy flashlight striking the wood with a sharp crack.
“He is definitely in there,” Carey said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe to listen. “I can hear someone breathing right on the other side of the panel.”
“Mr. Sterling, open the door,” I said.
There was no movement, no slide of a deadbolt, and no footsteps retreating.
I tapped my flashlight against my leather belt, the steady click-click-click of the metal against the leather matching the beat of my pulse.
“He is not going to open it,” I said.
“We cannot kick it in for a noise complaint,” Carey said.
“Let’s go back up,” I said. “I want to check the log with dispatch.”
We walked back up the stairs to apartment forty-two.
Lily was still sitting on the edge of the worn sofa, her small hands twisting the hem of her oversized gray sweatshirt.
Toby had fallen asleep with his head in her lap, his breathing shallow and even.
The apartment was freezing now, the cold from the hallway seeping under the door and pooling around our ankles.
My shoulder radio clicked to life, the flat, professional voice of Sarah Gable breaking the quiet.
“Vance, this is dispatch,” Sarah said.
I unclipped the hand-mic and held it to my collar. “Vance here. Go ahead, Sarah.”
“I just pulled the emergency line records for that address,” Sarah said. She was silent for a second, and I could hear the rhythmic drumming of her fingers on the edge of her keyboard.
“We received an incomplete call from apartment forty-two earlier tonight,” she continued.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, my eyes on Lily’s pale face. “What time did the call come in?”
“Midnight on the dot,” Sarah said. “The line was open for exactly four seconds before it went dead. No voice, just some rustling and then a sharp click.”
My grip tightened on the microphone.
“Did you try a callback?” I asked.
“I tried three times,” Sarah said, her voice flat. “It goes straight to an automated operator message. The line is dead.”
“Understood,” I said. “Keep trying to reach the building owner. Let me know the minute you get an address.”
I clipped the radio back to my shoulder and looked at Carey.
Clara Miller had gone downstairs to check the breakers at midnight, and the emergency call had been placed at exactly the same minute.
“This is not a runaway,” I said.
“You think someone was in here?” Carey asked.
“The breaker box was tampered with from the outside,” I said. “She went down to fix it, and she never came back up.”
I walked back out to the courtyard, Carey following close behind me.
The night air was still, the smell of damp concrete and rotting leaves hanging thick in the darkness between the two apartment wings.
As we walked past a stack of construction materials near the boiler room entrance, a movement caught my eye.
A shadow shifted behind a tall pile of green-treated plywood.
I raised my flashlight, the bright white beam cutting through the darkness to illuminate a tall man in a canvas work jacket.
