Fairfax Cleaners

By Dan Melnick

Gus cleans up the bodies, he doesn't make them. Keep the Hidden City hidden. That's the job and deal he made with one of the fairy overlords of Chicago. It's another day dismembering troll, when Gus discovers Maureen hiding out in the back of his van. His boss is hunting humans with tremendous magical potential and Maureen has already gotten away from them once.

Most people who catch the fairy's interest typically wind up on the other end of Gus's bone saw. Gus knows he should turn her in, but can't bring himself to do it. Even a man who hides the dead has a conscience. So he helps her escape, earning the wrath of the Hidden City: evil fairies, a rampaging werewolf, and a spirit assassin powered by vengeance. And that's just the start of it. His boss has gone to a lot of trouble finding Maureen the first time and will do anything to get her back. There's no way he'd both forgive Gus's betrayal and let them escape the city alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Melnick
• Release date: Apr 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733909815

Dan Melnick

Dan Melnick is a science fiction and fantasy writer. He lives in the Midwest with his family and husky-shepherd, Lana. He collects comic books and enjoys running. He has lived in Chicago and Scotland, and as an adult still looks up to Spider-Man. You can find out more about Dan at his website www.danmelnickstories.com.

Book preview

Lucian was being a real dick. But then again the guy was named Lucian. Just the sound of it reeked of snobbery and money and well, dickishnes. Ashley was already regretting leaving the bar.

I do love a catholic girl, Lucian was saying. Good on her knees. He winked and poured more wine into her glass.

Ashley made sure a coy smile was plastered on her face -- she’d been practicing -- but inside, she was cringing. Already kind of tipsy, she took a sip to be polite. This better be worth it. I don’t wanna get too-

Don’t worry. It’ll just help you relax.

She bit her bottom lip. Okay.

It was forced, but Ashley played it up for Lucian. What good was a new body if she wasn’t going to use it? She had it on good authority that the whole school girl thing still worked. Her skirt barely covered her thighs and the long socks accentuated her new, shapely legs. She might be a piece of eye candy, but it was nice to be looked at for a change.

This apartment though …

It was just her and the three guys. Lucian, handsome, of course, with that beautiful smile. Frankie stood by the pool table, stiffly, annoyed. There was something off about that one. And the youngest guy, Duncan, hovered about the kitchen. The apartment was his place, she thought Lucian had said. By the looks of it, she was sincerely doubting that anyone here had any connection to the film industry. It was too bright. Everything looked like it had been scavenged from the sidewalk. Even the ambient techno on loop sounded cheap. Yes, she should have stayed at the bar.

She eyed the ratty furniture and the poster of some gangster movie on the wall. It’s getting late.

Oh? You know how it is, though. Lucian slid his arm around her shoulders and she felt an electric thrill at his touch. Most of the real shit takes place outside the meeting rooms. Curse of the movie business even in Chicago, sweetheart. Ain’t that right, Frankie?

The one by the pool table fingered the cue ball. The rack was down, but he hadn’t bothered filling it. Abe is on his way.

Something about the way he said it sent the hair on the back of her neck on end. She hated thinking about hair. Lucian was looking at her mouth. Ashley hadn’t realized she’d been frowning. So much for the fake smile.

See? Lucian pulled her closer. The boss is on his way.

Maybe we should have stayed-

Too loud. Lucian shook his head. Abe’s got this hearing thing. All that noise makes him grumpy. I wanted him to meet the real you and not get distracted you know? Lucian’s fingers traced lines down her arm. How long have you wanted to be an actress?

Her body betrayed her. She couldn’t help it. There was something weird going on, but Ashley would be damned if she didn’t love the attention. No one had ever touched her like that. Besides, if things got ugly, she’d show them what real ugly looked like.

My whole life. How could someone as beautiful as Lucian know what it was like to be her? He could probably have any girl he wanted and yet he’d picked her. She admired her own legs. They really were pretty stunning. God, this had been worth every penny. Ever since I saw The Wizard of Oz. I can’t sing, but that story! I used to dream about my own Wizard.

Well, lucky for you, I got a little magic in me. But don’t go peeking behind the curtain. Lucian winked again. Here’s what worries me. His smile dropped. Abe don’t know you like we do. So, a good word from me goes a long way. Ain’t that right, Frankie?

Frankie was still fiddling with the cue ball. We’re supposed to watch her, not fu-

Exactly! See? The boss has good taste, but we’re kind of the screening process.

Duncan gave an encouraging laugh from the kitchen. This might be his place, but the way he looked at Lucian and Frankie, the guy would let them do anything they wanted there. By the sound of it, Lucian had similar ideas about her. It was obvious Lucian wanted more than just her company. Still, tolls had to be paid, didn’t they? Time to take this thing for a spin.

Ashley drained the rest of her glass in a couple large gulps. The dry liquid burned a little on the way down and she couldn’t help smacking her lips when she’d finished. What kind of movie did you say this was again? She’d left lipstick smudged on the glass

Lucian emptied his, catching up. Standard horror flick. Some screams. A little skin. Lots of nice close ups. Ashley put her hand on his thigh and batted her eyelash extensions. The music pulsed along with her. Lucian grinned. Not even the red wine could stain his white teeth. Frankie, hold the fort out front. Let me know when Abe gets here. Keep him company, Dunc.

I would have to advise against this, Frankie said.

Lucian ignored him. Where’s some place more private we can talk?

Bedroom’s back that way, Duncan said with a nod of his head. Ashley’s stomach lurched but she tried more than ever to keep the smile this time.

Better be clean. Lucian took her by the hand.

She’s not supposed to be out of our sight, Frankie said.

Lucian’s arm snaked around her waist. Don’t worry. I ain’t taking my eyes off her.

Wait. Hold on. She pulled back, pushing on his chest. This was getting weird. I think on second thought I should go.

Lucian put a hand on hers. His grip was strong. His smiled was plastered to his face too. This is your big chance, baby. Abe’s gonna be here any minute. Don’t listen to Frankie. See? Frankie, you’re scaring her.

Frankie’s weird mannerisms were a bit unnerving, that’s for sure. Everything was so monotone like whoever was driving him was asleep at the wheel. If anyone was starting to scare her, it was Lucian.

It’s getting late, she said, disentangling herself. Thanks for the opportunity, but I think I’m gonna take off.

Hey! Lucian’s hand clamped around her wrist. What about your dream? You wanted this.

She stopped cold. Her initial fear became shock. Became anger. You’re hurting me.

You hurt me first. Lucian sneered. Giving me those fuck me eyes. Ain’t right to play with a man’s emotions like that. Right, Frankie?

Frankie had positioned himself between her and the door. The slow techno music played on. I warned you this was a bad idea from the start.

Ashley pulled, but Lucian held her fast. She didn’t want to use her full strength and risk ruining this perfectly good body. This perfectly expensive body. Let go.

Duncan. Get the door. Lucian wrenched her around. And turn the fucking music up!

Stop it, Ashley growled.

Our conversation ain’t over.

Let go.

Lucian began dragging her back towards the bedroom. Feisty. I like that. Save some of that spirit or you’ll tire yourself out early.

"I said let go! Her voice dropped an octave. Too late. So much for her investment. Get off me!" Lucian just stared at her, too surprised at the rumbling coming out of her mouth. She hated that sound and hated Lucian more for making it happen.

The change came on without having to think about it. Her arm swelled and lengthened, easily outgrowing Lucian’s grip. One second he was standing there, the next, she batted him across the room with a flick of her wrist. Her body popped and lurched as it grew, sprouting coarse hair across her skin. She hadn’t expected the pain. There hadn’t been any before. Tree-trunk-thick thighs ripped through her unforgiving miniskirt. Twin tusks erupted out of her jutting lower jaw.

Even hunched over, she was close to hitting the apartment ceiling. Ashley looked from Lucian on the floor to her clawed hands. Dammit. Her voice was back to the sound of breaking rocks. Look what you made me do! She knocked the table aside. I was pretty.

Duncan screamed. Troll! You brought a troll here?!

Something broke against her back. Ashley turned, more annoyed than hurt, to find Frankie there with the splintered end of a pool cue.

Don’t do that. Ashley lumbered on her knuckles and then backhand Frankie with a blow that shattered bone. I was pretty! I was gonna be a star.

She heard the cock of a shotgun. From behind the kitchen counter, Duncan had two barrels leveled at her chest.

No! Frankie wasn’t dead. He floundered like a marionette whose strings had been cut, limbs going every which way, but somehow got back to his feet. They need her alive.

Lucian was up now too. I don’t think Abe knew she was a troll.

It doesn’t matter.

Stop calling me that. Ashely growled, huffing and puffing like a locomotive and hating every agonizing second of it. You ruined it!

She charged Lucian like a rampaging gorilla. Lucian rolled to one side as she brought both fists down and slammed through the apartment’s floor, spraying splinters and dust everywhere.

No! Frankie said again. Her enormous head whipped around to find him looking at Lucian. Alive.

Lucian put the gun back in his pants and groaned. How are we supposed to do that? Knock her out? She’d like to see them try.

Ashley was on him before Lucian knew it. He’d barely scrambled out of the way, but her large hand clamped around his ankle and lifted him up like a dangling fish.

Her bulbous nose was only inches from his. Still wanna fuck me now?

Lucian recoiled at her stench. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m sure there’s a fetish for that. He caught his gun as it fell from the back of his pants, flipped it around and slammed the butt into her leg.

It barely hurt. She roared, spraying his face with flecks of spittle. I don’t like you.

The feeling’s mutu-

She flung him against the couch. Lucian collided with the backrest, the momentum taking him flying over the other side. Ashley roared again and grabbed the couch with both hands and tossed it across the room. Lucian crab walked backward. She relished watching him squirm.

His hand drifted back to his gun. Go ahead. She wanted him to take it. See how useless a couple of bullets would be. Then she’d take her time and break him. Snap those little limbs like twigs.

Her head snapped to the side with a crack.

Through the stars in her eyes, she saw Frankie with a bent golf club. He adjusted his grip and struck her again. Pain blossomed as her vision went red. Another lance of pain went through her head and the next thing Ashley knew, she was looking at the floor. Dark blood dribbled on the wooden boards.

She heard the three of them talking, scrambling, now that they had an opening. Feet shuffled past and the glint of light on metal. They’d brought out the whole golf bag. She’d take that toy away from them too if only she could reach it.

One of them drove a club into her kidney. Cheap shot. They had her ringed in. Each time she thought she was getting up, another club knocked her senseless. Her roars were becoming whimpers, but they didn’t let up.

Eventually, she stopped moving. Sometime after that, they stopped hitting her.

The pain was excruciating. It hurt just to breathe. Forget the money lost on the other body, her real one was just as broken. She tried moving but could barely flex her fingers.

A bent, blood spattered golf club clattered to the floor. The mood music thumped quicker than her dwindling pulse.

My apartment! That was Duncan.

The least of our worries. Frankie. Her head bobbed as he prodded it with his golf club. Something squished.

The anger was fading. Ashley wanted to cry but couldn’t. She’d been pretty. For a moment, she hadn’t been the hideous troll. They’d taken it all away.

We’re dead. Lucian.

Look at my apartment!

Duncan, shut up! We have bigger problems right now.

That’s easy for you to say.

Why were they talking like she wasn’t there? Things were getting fuzzy now. Some of the pain was sliding away with her anger. She barely heard her own breath anymore. It had slowed to a rasping bellows. Her remaining eye flickered closed.

What are you doing?

Calling help.

Abe won’t answer.

I’m not calling Abe.

My apartment …

Then who the hell-

Gus.

Gus. Oh, shit. Gus?! Now we’re really fucking dead.

Quiet. It’s ringing.

She felt something cold and hard against her chin. Her eye opened a sliver, the lid couldn’t go anymore past the swelling. Lucian used a golf club to lift her head. He looked down at her, thoroughly disgusted, and she wilted under his gaze.

All this cause of one fucking troll. Lucian’s lips pulled back in a sneer. His white teeth weren’t smiling anymore.

She’d been pretty … so pretty …

The golf club slid away and her head thumped against the floor. There was only the slightest jolt of pain and then …

Nothing.

CHAPTER 2

Blood seeped through the bandages around Gus’s knuckles.

Whap. Whap.

He struck with two quick shots making the punching bag dance on the chain. It began to spin. The sounds echoed in the boxing gym. When he stopped for breath, he could hear the buzz of the overhead lights. Everything was old and faded now. Worn in. He remembered when it used to be new.

Two more from the left, a right cross and an uppercut finish sent the bag reeling on the suspension chain. Panting, Gus wiped his sweaty forehead with an equally sweaty forearm. He stopped the bag and caught his reflection in the wall of mirrors. He didn’t recognize the man looking back at him. Lean muscles. A body not carved, but chipped by flint. The crow’s feet made him look old. The gray hair so close to his scalp it looked more like fuzz didn’t help either.

Gus steadied the punching bag and unwrapped his hands, tossing the bloodied bandages in the metal garbage can. He took his time showering. The hot water wouldn’t help the insomnia but it was a small comfort.

He threw his workout clothes in the laundry. As long as you didn’t mind everything smelling of bleach, Max would put a load in every day.

Showered and shaved, Gus finished getting dressed. White shirt. Black suit. Black tie. Silver belt buckle. He unlocked his usual locker for the revolver -- a Smith & Wesson 637, the kind they called a .38 Special -- hanging in the shoulder holster off a metal hook.

It was 4 A.M. by the time he’d finished. That meant little. Sometimes that was early. Other times, late. Bleary-eyed, he stepped out into the chilly air of a Chicago night in October, locking the gym door behind him. Max had given him a key when he’d first opened the gym almost fifty years ago. All the regulars had one.

Traffic was light. Gus had the sidewalk to himself. He was parked out back, but didn’t feel much like going home. He sniffed against the cold and adjusted his suit jacket to hide the gun.

He used to walk the city a lot, enamored by the buildings and bustling industry. Sometimes he had a plan, but more often than not, he liked to disappear in the crowds and just wander, taking it all in. Now he walked out of habit. His footsteps were heavy on the cold pavement. Nowadays, it felt like he had concrete bones.

His stomach rumbled and he allowed himself the daydream of real eggs benedict. Hollandaise sauce made from scratch: butter, egg yolks and lemon juice simmering in a double boiler. Bacon crackling in an iron skillet. English muffin toasting. The methodical process of poaching two eggs.

He had the time, but the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner was closer.

Two urchins bundled in layers like ragged cocoons slept in the corner, using the dining room for its heat. The only other customers were a young mother feeding her daughter an egg sandwich on a bagel. The little girl’s legs swung back and forth under her chair like the punching bag, her tiny book bag hanging off the back, as she chomped noisily.

It was too early for her to be out. He should say something.

He ordered his own egg sandwich, a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and found a seat by the windows where he could keep an eye on the mother and her daughter. The October air leaked through the seams in the glass. The sandwich smelled like cardboard -- the furthest thing from hollandaise sauce -- but the bitter taste of the coffee helped. Pink and raw, his knuckles had stopped bleeding, but they complained every time he closed his hands.

MAN FOUND IN ICE, the paper’s headline proclaimed. Gus bit into some egg and bagel and continued to read. "Himalayan hikers discovered the frozen remains of a man completely encased in ice in Myanmar yesterday. George and Ursula Copenhagen, a Swiss couple on their honeymoon, discovered the body in a cave on Hkakabo Razi, Myanmar’s highest mountain. The Copenhagens radioed for assistance upon the discovery.

Myanmar authorities have conducted a cursory examination and determined that the man was not a hiker frozen to death as initially suspected. Trinkets and artifacts dating back over two thousand years have also been found. Most of the cave has been encased in ice, effectively creating a frozen tomb for the man locals have dubbed The Merchant".

The excavation process is being overseen by Dr. Timothy Muldoon, an archeologist from the University of Chicago. After working out the details with the Myanmar government, it is expected that the entire block of ice containing The Merchant and all of the artifacts found in the cave will be shipped to the Field Museum in Chicago where a joint investigation will commence for further study.

The world had changed since he’d been away. Everything was so interconnected now. You never knew what you needed to know anymore. Gus finished off the bacon that fell from his sandwich. His eyes skipped from story to story, picking out key words.

LAKESHORE DRIVE POTHOLE PATCHING CAUSING FURTHER DELAYS. The great patching effort to repair the numerous potholes that litter Lakeshore Drive has fallen behind schedule. The asphalt … proving ineffective … oncoming cold … have already shown signs of cracking … estimated to cost the city another 10 million dollars.

The rest of the paper was filled with the usual celebrity gossip, political scandals and cat-rescued-from-tree stories. Nothing seemed to be changing internationally. Areas around Russia were still tense. The Middle East was as turbulent as ever. He skimmed the sports pages in case he had to make small talk with anyone later today, but found them even less interesting than pothole repairs on Lakeshore Drive. For the sake of completion, he flipped absentmindedly through the personals and obituaries.

There, on the right-most column sitting shoulder to shoulder with an ad for Morrison’s early bird specials were four little lines that hit him harder than a blow to the chest.

It is believed that Phyllis McDowell suffered cardiac arrest in her apartment on Thursday, October 8th. She was discovered by her landlord days later. She had no immediate family. She was 87 years old.

He dry swallowed the last of his floppy eggs. Gus read the blurb again. It barely counted as an article. There wasn’t a picture, not even a note about funeral arrangements, just four barely descriptive lines to be thrown away with the rest of today’s edition.

Why should he care? It’s not like he knew her. He could have, though. He could have met her -- met any of them -- a hundred times over, but he never did. It was always easier to stay away. Easier for him, maybe. Trying to explain how any of this made sense was hard enough and he’d lived it. But he could have tried. Now, he’d never get the chance.

It shouldn’t change anything, but it did. What would Mathilda think of all this? Honestly, he had no idea. The only things he remembered about her were the memories he’d created too many years too late. He barely thought about her anymore, the guilt had long since passed, but she always seemed to pop up when another one died. They’d been children when he left. Their lives were just getting started together. Who knows what could have been?

Gus’s phone went off. He’d been staring at the page long enough that his coffee was the same temperature as the cup. The mother and daughter had left.

He dropped the page and rubbed his eyes, massaging coherent thoughts back into place. Fairfax Cleaners, he answered. No … that’s right. Stop talking … yes. Just the address … I’ll be right there. The phone still warbled, but he hung up.

His coffee and Phyllis McDowell done, Gus balled the remains of his breakfast up and threw them away with the newspaper. It was three minutes to five. The sun wouldn’t even begin to show itself for at least another hour yet.

Straightening his jacket, he stepped back out into the night. It was going to be a long day.

***

Gus parked his van at the curb and switched the permit sticker in the window for the new neighborhood. The morning light did little to alleviate the cold. Instead, it just made everything look pale as he unloaded two black suitcases and a garment bag. He’d be back for more once he knew that he was working with.

Gus rolled the bags across the uneven sidewalk and hit the building’s buzzer for 4E. The name on the box read Meyers.

Duncan Meyers? That didn’t bode well.

Duncan was young and young people did stupid things. In his case, the shine of Manse Oristellian was still pretty new and the kid was desperate to do anything to get in the family’s good graces.

The speaker box buzzed as someone on the other end hit the receive button.

It’s me.

The door buzzed open and Gus found his way up the stairs.

Abe Fincher greeted him at the door in dark jeans, a black t-shirt and a long black coat. His hair was ruffled as usual and his face was covered in perpetual stubble. His eyes were bright, almost luminescent. Gus.

Abe.

Abe held the door open. These idiots shouldn’t have called you.

It’s all right. Gus wheeled the bags inside. Idiots pay the bills.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what those idiots were up to. The troll’s corpse still stank of musk and shit, but the odor mingled with the shroud of blood. The place was a wreck. Most of the furniture had been reduced to splinters. Scuffs and scrapes marred the walls. Some of the floor had been broken through. The old blown insulation littered the apartment like ash. A lamp still flickered where it had been knocked over.

Dusted with shattered glass, Gus found one of the only level surfaces left in the apartment. Brushing the broken chips aside, he set down the garment bag and removed his suit jacket.

I think I’m gonna need another suitcase.

Even with the open floor plan, the apartment was crowded with the body, Gus, Abe and his men. Duncan was there, but kept out of the way in the kitchenette. Short and squat with a gray pallor to his skin, Frankie -- or Frankie Twenty-Two as he was not so affectionately called behind his back -- stood, a silent sentry, above the corpse. In counter behavior, Lucian couldn’t stand still.

Things got a little out of hand, Lucian said, pacing. Duncan was desperate to impress, but in a way, Lucian was worse. Being a lust demon, he wasn’t exactly known for his patience. On top of which, a tailored suit and California-quaffed blond hair didn’t make him nearly as invincible as he thought he was. How he managed to work his way this far up the Oristellian food chain was a wonder. She wasn’t supposed to be a troll for starters and we-

Abe shot him a meaningful look, but Gus cut them both off.

Just stop. I can’t know the details. He fished the rubber apron out of the garment bag and began rolling up his sleeves. Also? I don’t care. Once the apron was on, he donned a matching pair of rubber gloves and slipped plastic booties over his shoes. "What you can do though is get out of here and let me do my job."

You heard him, Abe said. Out.

Frankie obeyed without hesitation. Lucian shrugged on his way past as if to say 'These things happen, eh?'

Only Duncan lingered. My apartment…

Gus rubbed at a brownish-red fleck on his hacksaw. The rubber glove did little to scrape it off the blade. Consider moving.

Abe jerked a thumb at the door and Duncan got the message. Once it was just the two of them, Abe turned back. You should know Lord Oristellian’s taken special interest in this.

Troll fishing?

Abe glowered. Something like that. He seemed more annoyed than usual. We’re looking into if she had a roommate or someone who’d care if she went missing. The two of them scanned the wreckage. How long will this take?

Gus found himself frowning. Jobs like this were always a rush. I’ll have to prep with plastic then bleach, spackle and paint for the obvious. That’s the cosmetic stuff. Then there’s the drywall damage and the broken window. I haven’t even gotten to structural yet and what it’ll take to fix that floor. He blew out a breath. And of course, our friend here … Gus squatted and unzipped both large suitcases. They were empty and lined in plastic. Definitely going to need another bag. He rubbed his chin with a gloved hand. She’s too big to take care of here … I don’t know, tell Castil it’ll take most of the day, but come back in three hours. You can help me move the couch.

Abe didn’t look happy about it, but knew enough not to press. Understood. Once I kill those morons, I have to take care of a few things anyway. Abe gave Gus a slight nod and left him to it.

He’d done his fair share in front of an audience, but Gus did his best work by himself. The solitude was comforting. Other people were just noise. A good cleaning was a work of art.

All the employer needed was an annihilation of evidence. Barring that, the certainty that any recovered from the scene would be so badly diluted it wouldn’t stand a chance in even the cleanest court room on the planet. That was setting the bar low. Gus’s best jobs did the impossible, making it as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. He didn’t just clean up the mess, he erased it.

Gus clenched a fist, rubber glove squeaking, and took stock. This was not going to be one of those times. Even the best chef in the world could only do so much with a handful of spices. They could save a meal, sure, but it wouldn’t show up at a five star restaurant.

Gus wrinkled his nose. The troll was starting to stink. More so than usual anyway.

He expected this type of thing out of Lucian. Even Duncan made some kind of sense, but Frankie was too careful. The homunculus carried orders out to the letter. He didn’t slip up. Something had gone royally sideways.

Up close, she smelled even worse. Wet dog, BO and the inside of a train station bathroom. Grimacing, he heaved and managed to roll her over. Beady eyes, flat nose and slack jaw jutting with tusks. Ugly as she was heavy. You never realized how unwieldy a body really was until it stopped moving.

The latest batch of lye was potent enough to eat through an average 160-pound man in about three hours. Judging by her size, it would take twice that to make troll soup, maybe longer depending on how well the alkali reacted to her unique physiology. They were called Heavy Mother Fuckers for a reason. Thanks to the abundance of iron in their skeletal structure and the fact that they could take a beating, trolls were renowned for being resistant.

The last thing Gus wanted was to find her half-gelatinized corpse still soaking in the bathtub after spending the day working. Not even taking into account the hell she’d play on the pipes or the nasty surprises the ooze would leave behind, the only thing worse than transporting troll parts is transporting squishy troll parts.

No, she’d have to be dismembered and taken to the warehouse for a lengthier, albeit safer, disposal. Gus turned on some instrumental rhythm and blues and began to saw.

He kept the hacksaw sharp enough to cut through a battery, but the metal teeth had a hard time getting through that reinforced bone. Severing her at the joints proved easier and created smaller, more manageable chunks, which he wrapped up and stored in the plastic lined suitcases for transport.

Once she was stowed away, he set about sweeping up the splinters of wood and broken glass. After that he took down the pictures and framed posters Duncan considered art. He had to wipe it all down. Everything. The floor, the walls, the ceiling. If there was surface, it got a healthy dose of solvents, cleaning chemicals and bleach. Congealed blood could end up in the most unlikely places.

The walls would need to be repainted. The ceiling too, just to be on the safe side. If he started now, he could work on the floor and replacement furniture while the paint dried. That hole was going to be a problem, though. With enough time he could doctor the new wood to match the old planks in Duncan’s apartment, but Abe made it pretty clear he didn’t have it. The whole thing would have to be redone. Small favor Duncan couldn’t afford a big place.

Before he could mop, Gus picked up the left-over odds and ends. A coaster, bobby pin, rubber band, crumpled paper and other debris.

Some writing on the paper caught his eye. It was a name. Frowning, he unfolded the wad. No, a list of names.

Ben Michaels

Stephen Thompson

Rachel Taylor

Ashley Emmerson.

There could have been more, but the page had been torn off halfway through. The first three names had been crossed out.

Curiosity got the better of him and Gus went through his evidence bags for the one containing the hair and clothing he’d taken from the body. Checking what was left of her purse, he discovered her ID in side pocket.

Ashley Emmerson. The last name on the list.

His fingers drummed on the side of the suitcase in thought. Everything was considerably tidier than when he’d first arrived, but there was still a lot of work to do. The blood pools and smudge marks were gone. Parts of the floor gleamed, probably cleaned for the first time in years. The furniture that hadn’t broken he’d piled together making the place look open. Almost new.

This wasn’t random at all. Castil’s special interest … a hit list?

No.

It wasn’t his problem. That broken floor and those battered walls, those were his problems. If he wanted to get this done today, he’d have to