Page 112 of Carter

The hot water stings at first, my skin icy cold, but eventually it warms me. As I wash, I contemplate the day. Nash may have the guy in custody. He’s going to spend the night in jail. Maybe he will confess and this will all be easy.

Or maybe he isn’t the right guy at all.

Or maybe he is but he won’t admit it and they won’t have enough evidence to keep him. There are so many ways this could go, and I can’t begin to guess. So again, I shut my brain off and focus it on something else.

On the upcoming spring, and all the nights Nash and I are going to spend at the fire pit he set up at the house. We talked about him buying a grill so we can upgrade to something other than the stove and oven. I love the idea—all of the ideas we come up with when we’re lying in bed together, naked and sated. We talk for hours. Other nights we say nothing but everything all at once. I miss him right now. I do wish I could be with him during this time, but more so, I’m glad he’s the one handling it. Because I trust him to do it right.

I dress in sweats and Nash’s t-shirt that he forgot here the other day. It’s a CPD shirt from when he was working in Chicago, and it’s so comfortable. Soft and faded from years of use. A little too big for me, making it the perfect shirt to sleep in.

I crawl into bed, make sure my volume is on for when he calls, and I get comfortable looking for something to watch and fall asleep to.

Chapter thirty-seven

Nash

I bang on the door of apartment 4E later than I’d have liked. I wanted to get this done early, but everything takes so damn long. I bang again.

“Mercer!” I shout, but no one answers.

“Probably better this way,” Gendreau says.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Open it up.”

I step back and two officers jam the door open.

“Jason Mercer, it’s the NYPD!” I call out. “We have a warrant to search the premises. If you are here, make yourself known.”

I listen but I don’t hear a thing. It’s possible he’s at work or out doing something else. Committing more crimes, maybe.

“Let’s go,” I say, gesturing for everyone to get inside and start doing their job. We’re all gloved up and prepared to be here forhours. Depending how much space and stuff someone has, it could take all day.

This is a small apartment, but there is a lot of stuff, so it’ll take some time. Especially because most of it looks like junk, so I doubt there is any organization to it.

“I want officers posted outside the door here and downstairs. If you see Mercer, take him, and let me know immediately,” I order loud enough for people to hear.

We spread out, taking different areas of the rooms. This isn’t a high-profile case, so there aren’t as many people on it as I’d like, but that’s my own feelings on it and not protocol. We have enough people here to get through everything in time.

The place is a mess, with piles of boxes and papers and who knows what in every corner. Dust clings to the baseboards while cobwebs hang from the corners. The bedroom isn’t any different, and along with the junk, there’s a funky smell in here. Sweat mixed with body odor mixed with… something that I probably don’t want to think about.

The mattress sits crooked on a cheap metal frame with no sheet on it, just a ratty blanket thrown across it with two pillows that look like they’re older than me, stained with sweat. I lift it and shove it against the wall to stand on its side while I look beneath. I check it to make sure nothing was cut open to hide stuff inside, and it doesn’t seem so, but I’ll have someone look deeper after. For now, I kick the boxes out from under the bed so I can go through them.

Nothing but old shoes.

I dig through the drawers but find nothing hiding and nothing obvious either.

Someone better find something.

I move to the closet that has no door on it. On the floor are more shoes, hanging on the rack are clothes, and on the shelf above are more boxes. One of them is taped up good, but Itake them all down to look through. Old bills. Expired insurance cards. His old IDs with different names—we’ll need those.

“Merrick!” I call out.

“Yeah?”

“Come take a look at this.”

He comes over with his camera strapped around his neck, and I show him what’s in the box. He takes the IDs, photographs them and bags them. We’ve got him on fraud if nothing else. It’s a start.

I keep digging through the box to find nothing else but old birthday cards and a few photographs, all that include someone who looks like a younger version of him, so I don’t think we can get him on stalking… again. But we bag them just in case they’re someone else.