I glanced over the messages that had sprouted up in my email, as well as those popping up on my phone. Nope, no one was going to give me a call, to say, “hey, Mr. Smith I’m really enjoying my apartment this month”, “Its great all the elevators are working”, “The toilets are working fine, the heat’s great, my air conditioner didn’t miss a beat this month”. In fact they tend to run around the exact opposite. And nobody praises their air conditioning in Toronto in November. At least not anyone with a heartbeat.

This morning they ran to the worst, the petty and the repetitive. I forwarded the bulk of them to Teresa, worked on sending what I had to, to Emily. And I Let Vaclav know I was going to be seeing him real soon.

The others I sent to Arturo. He was after all the superintendent, even if but he was kind of busy today. We were both going to be. Emily doesn’t like it when complaints somehow reach all the way to her octogenarian eyes and ears, and she was even more unhappy when the building actually made the news, electronic or otherwise. Because, yeah, when it did, it was invariably bad.

On the plus side, she doesn’t do social networking.

Unfortunately there was a reason why Arturo wasn’t answering his phone or responding to my texts.

My cell vibrated. Yeah, it was Fingers. Impatient this morning aren’t you?

Too bad. I had things to do. Things I could do to put off going down to the second floor as long as still humanly possible.

Unfortunately, no such luck. Because just after ten Teresa knocked on my door, the expression on her face could best be described as aggravated.

“Is something wrong with your phone?” She wanted to know. “Fingers said he’s called you three times. You know he’ll send a uniform to get you.”

You’d think he’d at least let me finish my second coffee.

“Why don’t you call him back,” I asked. “And ask him to explain fully why he needs me down in 213 so damn urgently. It’s not like anyone’s going anywhere and I would just get in the way.”

“Maybe it’s about the news van,” she told me, nodding at the window that looked out over the front of the building. “Somebody sure got the scoop fast.”

Did someone sneak in and take some selfies? I checked online, but it didn’t seem so. Thank heavens for small mercies.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I pointed at the window. She nodded. I got up from the desk and crossed the office, looked out, and down. It was pretty much as I’d seen it earlier, although there were more people milling about. It looked like the media guys were prepping for a live broadcast and bloggers were maybe hoping for something juicy. As I watched, another van turned around the corner, from one of the national networks. Must have been a slow news cycle. As far as I could tell it wasn’t even confirmed it was more than just a freakish suicide.

I turned to look back at her.

“Domestic disturbance?” I asked hoping-against-hope. “The Willingham’s in 608 again. That would explain the CSI Van crammed in with the rest.

She returned a serious look, looked like she wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but decided not to.

“I can only imagine how Mrs. Fennity is reacting,” she told me. I looked over her face, her expression was still serious. “That’s probably another apartment that’s going to sit empty for a year. How many is that now?”

“Four, but maybe just maybe she’ll understand that sometimes you can’t manage full occupancy even in Toronto.”

“I sure hope it’s not something you missed in the application?” she tried in a sympathetic if somewhat worried tone. “That could get you in trouble, couldn’t it?”

“I don’t remember anything odd about the guy,” I replied. “But if you’re still so interested, why don’t you go down there instead of me. I’d see that as a favor.”

“I don’t think so,” she told me quickly. “I think I’ll stick to Twitter.”

“You do that,” I told her. “And while you’re watching their feed on your phone, why don’t you print out the filed I sent to you. We do have work, you know.”

“Yes sir,” she replied sarcastically.

She said it in a way that meant she was annoyed, offered that particular smile she did when she was supposed to accept being treated as a piece of furniture, showed off her two bright rows of white teeth. Her incisors were at least a half inch longer than they’d been yesterday. Here eyebrows had gotten a bit bushier as well.

“Oh, and apparently-,” she added, not leaving the doorway, put pausing in mid-sentence. “-Detective Fingers, has requested that you to come down to apartment Two Thirteen at your earliest convenience. He says are some questions he needs to ask you, and he wants to show you something. He told me he wants you down there before Ten.”

She looked at her smartwatch.

“That’s now, in case you didn’t know.”

“He didn’t suggest I call Vaclav?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t think you’re a suspect,” she told me. “Apparently they’ve been down there since Arturo called 911 last night. If they haven’t come up here with handcuffs, I think your safe.”

I sighed. I’d fought it as long as I could.

“I’ll leave it up to you to handle the live or mostly live tenants.”

Teresa waved at me, before I left. And I turned back.

“Oh and boss, can I book off work early today,” she asked smiling sweetly, thickening eyebrows raised.

“Anything I should know?” I asked her trying to maintain some level of humor.

“Do you want to know?” she told me.

I shook my head, and I pulled open the door that had only closed a few moments behind me, and said without looking back, “No. No, I don’t”