CHAPTER TWO: Curiouser and Curiouser
She hadn't exactly left Danny standing in the hall wearing nothing but his socks, boxers and motorcycle boots, but the look on his face as she chased him out the next morning, reminding him if he didn't leave Mac would fire him, sure seemed like she had. Until Lindsay promised him dinner again for helping put her place in proper order later that night. Then he kissed her forehead and said "I'll see you later, then, Montana," as he headed for the stairs.
Lindsay closed the door and looked around the apartment, wondering where exactly to start. There was a stack of boxes in the living room and in her bedroom that needed to be put away. Lucky that she had some leave stored so she could put the place together, and not have the only time she was available to work on it be off a midnight shift. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, not bothering to shower. Then she located the box marked "Cleaning Supplies." She tuned her stereo in the living room to a country station that played the Top 40. Then she set about cleaning the living room windows. The last people who'd lived there hadn't done a good job, they were streaked and cloudy.
She was singing along with the song on the radio until she heard a hiss and static. Setting down the Windex, she looked back at the stereo, which was no longer tuned to the country station. Instead, classical strains wafted through the apartment. Lindsay frowned. She went over to the stereo and crouched down, eye level with the machine. Sure enough, the dial had changed. Must have gotten a loose screw or something during the move, Lindsay thought. She changed it back to the country station and returned to the window. She picked up the Windex again, turned to the window...and cried out in surprise.
A perfect handprint glittered in the sunlight. She could see ridge detail, five fingers, a full palm... She studied it. Not even at a crime scene had she ever seen such a perfect specimen. "Cool," she said. Then she realized, as she looked down the window, that she could see more, in almost a straight line, down the area she hadn't cleaned yet.
She shook her head. "The people that lived here before me were absolutely terrible housekeepers," she groused. She attacked the palm print with the window cleaner, scrubbing it into oblivion.
It took her nearly an hour to do just the living room windows, and by then, she had thought up a list of a million other things she needed for the place. The walls, the walls were bare, for example. They needed some color. She also knew there was a little hole-in-the-wall shop down the street that might have some cool furniture for cheap.
She turned the radio off, which had slipped back to the classical station again, and headed for the bathroom to shower. She let the water get nice and hot as she grabbed clothes from her bedroom and a towel. She closed the bathroom door behind her and stepped into the shower. It felt good, considering the workout of the day before. She mulled over dinner ideas as she showered. Finally, though, she stepped out. Toweling herself off, she headed for the vanity where she'd left her clothes. The mirror was steamed over, and it sort of hung in the air as well. "Hmm. Good hot water," Lindsay said aloud as she dressed. She leaned forward and untucked the towel from around her body so she could wipe down the mirror. She took the towel to the mirror, going in a slow circle, just enough so she could see her face. But as she cleared the space...she didn't see only her face!
Someone was standing behind her.
Lindsay screamed, grabbing the towel back and wrapping it around herself. She whirled around...but she was alone in the room. She struggled to control her breathing as she stepped out into the hall. The apartment was silent. She moved into her bedroom, reaching for her issued pistol, which was tucked inside a drawer.
She searched the entire apartment. As she searched the kitchen, even going so far as to open the fridge-and then put her gun down and rolled her eyes. "For crying out loud, Lindsay, I seriously doubt he's in there." Even though you can fit a man inside a fridge, she thought to herself, thinking of a very boring night shift a couple years ago and a very bored Marty Pino... "That movie must have gotten to me more than I thought," Lindsay said as she returned her gun to the bedroom and finished getting dressed. She grabbed her purse and her keys and locked the door behind her, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator to the ground floor. Passing the small apartment that also doubled as the landlord's office downstairs, she could hear strains of a conversation through the half-cracked door.
"...no, she moved in yesterday. Yeah, I finally filled the place. I told her it was a six-month lease, even though everyone else left inside of a couple days...oh, yeah, they took off like the hounds of Hades were after them...I dunno, we'll see if she stays in there or not. I'm half-tempted to just kick everyone out and raze the building...Hey, it doesn't do me any good to try to rent it out if nobody'll stay there 'cause they think the place is haunted or something..."
She'd heard enough. So that's why she'd gotten such a good deal on the place. He couldn't get anyone else to stay there...why, because they thought it was haunted? She shook her head as she checked her mail and stepped outside into the New York City morning. Ghosts. Please. The only monsters are the people I deal with on a daily basis, Lindsay thought to herself. She headed down the street, waiting at a crosswalk. As she waited, she started thinking about the events of that morning. First, the radio station, then the handprints...the person in the bathroom...Oh, come on Monroe! she chastised herself as she crossed the street with the crowd. Ridiculous.
Lindsay Monroe believed that some people were capable of evil acts. She did not believe in ghosts.
All the same, though...maybe some research into her building would be a good idea. She found the little antiques shop she'd been looking for and stepped inside. Right away she spied an end table that would match her couch. She stepped over to it to check the price tag and grinned when she saw it was within her price range. As she stood to go ask for some help (and maybe haggle it down a little), another item caught her from the corner of her eye.
It was a painting of a white horse, its' reflection in the water of the small stream it was drinking out of. Behind it was an old-looking early East Coast settlement, clearly British in origin. The contrast in the tranquility of the animal in the foreground was the smoke and flame coming from the settlement in the background. It was an interesting piece, and Lindsay felt herself drawn to it. She couldn't understand the meaning behind it, and she thought everything in US History up until World War I was kind of pointless, anyway. Yay for the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and all that, but...maybe it was the wigs. The powdered wigs. Or the pointy shoes. Something. But looking at the painting...she suddenly wished she'd paid more attention in history.
"Can I help you, miss?"
The voice of the old guy that ran the store made her jump. "I-what?" she said, shaking her head. "Uh...how much for this?"
A few moments later, she left Gunther's Antiques with the painting under one arm, and a small lamp in the other. People looked at her funny. This was New York City-who actually carried stuff like that?
She got back to her building and realized she had to pull the door open. She set down the painting, gently, next to her and reached for the handle.
A hand beat her to it. "Here, I got it," someone offered. She looked up to see a good-looking guy-mid-20s, about six foot even, 170, maybe 180 pounds...Quit profiling the guy, Lindsay!- standing there, holding the door open. He had dark hair and glasses, and vaguely reminded Lindsay of the computer nerd in the National Treasure movies.
"Thanks," Lindsay said, picking up the painting again. She brushed past him and sighed when she saw the OUT OF ORDER sign on the elevator. "Can I give you a hand?" the guy asked her.
Lindsay debated. "Sure, why not," she said. She handed him the lamp. He seemed slightly miffed by receiving the smaller object, but shrugged it off as he followed her upstairs. "My name's McLaren," he said.
"First or last name?" Lindsay questioned from above him.
He chuckled. "Last name," he said. "My first name is Franklin."
"Ah. I would've gone with McLaren, too," Lindsay said. "Do you live here?"
"On thirteen," McLaren replied.
"I'm Lindsay. I live on fifteen."
He rolled his eyes. "At least it ain't the top floor," he said as he stopped for a breather on the landing on five. "You're not from New York."
"Montana," she replied. "Are you coming?"
McLaren started up the stairs after her. "Why are you here?" he asked her.
She chuckled. "I live here," she said. "What's your excuse?"
"No, I get that. I mean, why are you in New York?"
"I work for the Crime Lab," Lindsay explained, pausing on the seventh floor for a rest.
"Sweet!" McLaren pronounced. "That's awesome."
She had to admire his enthusiasm. She also had to admire that he was being persistently nice...expecting to get something out of it. She hit the tenth floor and stopped and looked at him. "McLaren, I have a boyfriend," she said.
He shrugged. "It's cool. I'm not here to invade," he said. "Just helping you get your stuff upstairs. Hey," he said, finally getting his first good look at the painting in her hands. "Wow. That's really rare," he said.
She looked at it. "Really? Guy at the antique store gave it to me for a hundred bucks."
He whistled. "Seriously? Old man didn't know what he had, then."
"What do I have, exactly?"
"There's not really many great American painters," McLaren explained. "Least, not in my opinion. But one of the best was this guy, Defoe."
"Really," Lindsay said, picking up the painting again and starting for the stairs. Five more to go...
"Yeah. He lived right here in New York City, too."
"What's so special about him?"
"Early American history is sort of documented, but it's all by paintings. Defoe was one of the premiere guys," McLaren explained. His tone picked up, he sounded excited. He's a history geek, Lindsay grinned inwardly. "Defoe painted a lot of early New York, even before it was the capital of the United States. You did know it was the capital city for a while, right?"
She nodded. "Amazingly, I do remember that part."
"Anyway, Defoe painted a bunch of early New York. What you have in your hand, for example, was probably during the British occupation after they kicked out the Dutch. There was a military fort here for a while."
"Finally!" Lindsay breathed as she stood in front of her door. She looked back. The look on McLaren's face was a little sober. "Not you, I'm enjoying the history lesson," she said. "We should talk more about it sometime-"
"Montana!"
Lindsay looked up to see Danny coming down the hall. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, happy to see him, but concerned. She knew he was supposed to be at work.
"One o' the new techs started a fire in the DNA lab," Danny explained. "They evacuated the building. So while they decide what to do with everybody, I figured I'd come visit." It was then that he realized they weren't alone in the hall. "Or am I interrupting something?"
"It's cool," McLaren said. He set down the lamp. "I'm McLaren. I live downstairs," he said. "I was just helpin' her with her stuff. You must be the boyfriend."
"Danny," Danny said by way of introduction.
Awkward silence.
"Yeah, okay. McLaren, thanks for the help. And we really should talk again sometime. Maybe I can resell this sucker for rent money," Lindsay said easily.
He looked horrified by the thought. "Kidding," Lindsay grinned. "Thanks for the help."
McLaren visibly relaxed. "Yeah, not a problem. Nice to meet you both," he said. With a wave, he headed back down the hall for the stairs.
Danny turned to Lindsay.. "All right. Who's the geek?" he demanded.
"He carried my stuff upstairs!" Lindsay said as she pushed open her apartment door. "He lives on thirteen."
"Fine," Danny said, holding his hands up in defeat. "If that's all you say it was."
"It was," Lindsay said as she slid the painting into the living room. "Chill out," she said. She turned around and tugged on his black jacket. "Besides...he's not my type."
"Really...what exactly is your type, Mon-tan-a?" Danny drawled the last three syllables in a low voice, laying his accent on thick.
She slid her hands up the jacket and around his shoulders, flicking his jacket off. It slumped to the tile behind him. "What do you want to do with your free time, Messer?" she asked him.
He grinned. "Long as I get to spend it here...doesn't matter."
She grinned back. "Good." She gently pushed him away and headed to her refrigerator. "Heat up the leftovers. I'm hungry."
Author's Note: I'm in awe by the response to this story. Thanks so much to all who reviewed and put me on alert! Drop me a line, let me know if you're still liking it.