Free The Mentor by Rita Carla Francesca Monticelli

table, and you’ve got five. Looks like the set’s missing a pair.”
    Now he understood what she was driving at. “The killer took everything he or she used so as not to leave any evidence behind.”
    “Or DNA,” concluded his second in command.
    “No fool, this one,” Miriam added.
    Eric crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said. “Not one bit.”

CHAPTER 5
    She pulled the yellow ribbon off the doorway and walked inside, leaving the door open behind her. The crime scene had already been picked over and sifted through down to the last square inch. The scientific investigations department had sequestered and catalogued everything that might have proven useful, photographing the minutest details in the room. Soon they would let the landlord back in to clean up, and then there wouldn’t be any signs left of what had happened here.
    Miriam paused to look at the bloodstains on the floor. It was no surprise no one in the building had heard anything. People were undoubtedly busy with their everyday lives and wouldn’t have been able to distinguish a muffled cry or the sound of a silenced shot from a thousand other sounds coming from nearby apartments, televisions, or traffic in the streets outside.
    But maybe someone had seen some detail, one that appeared unimportant but that might acquire new meaning when analyzed in the right context.
    A noise in the hallway outside made her spin around. She couldn’t see where it had come from, but it was followed by excited clatter.
    “Sayyid, quit it with that ball!” shouted a woman’s voice, echoing down the corridor. “And stop running on the stairs!”
    Detective Leroux stuck her head out of the victim’s apartment and nearly took a soccer ball to the face as it whipped past her. The ball bounced down the hall and a boy, roughly ten years old, shot past her like a streak of lightning, chasing the ball.
    “Hey, kid!” said Miriam instinctively, trying in vain to stop him. “Be careful!”
    She followed the boy. He’d come to a stop in front of a door. He was holding the ball in both hands, staring back at her, frightened.
    “Who are you? Leave my son alone.”
    Miriam turned around and faced the woman speaking. She was roughly forty years old, just now coming up the steps. She was wearing a long dress and a dark shirt that was tightly buttoned up her torso. She wore a veil on her head that hung down and covered her neck as well. She was carrying two large grocery bags, one in each hand. They seemed quite heavy, and the woman struggled to reach the top of the stairs. When she made it onto their floor, she had to stop and lean on the banister to catch her breath.
    “Good afternoon, ma’am,” said Miriam in a cordial tone, walking toward her. She took her badge out of her pocket and held it out to the woman. “Detective Miriam Leroux, Metropolitan Police.”
    This last phrase brought a grimace to the other woman’s face. “You again,” she said as she started walking again. “We didn’t see anything. We didn’t hear anything. I already told all of this to your colleague.” She reached Miriam and, without looking at the detective, pushed past her and headed for her son.
    “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind, but if I could just ask, Miss . . . ?”
    The woman sighed noisily, set the bags down on the floor, and started searching for something in the purse slung over one shoulder. “Jassim,” she said.
    Sayyid said nothing. As soon as his mother reached his side, he hid behind her and peeked out from time to time to see what the detective was doing. Now he was holding the ball under one arm, while the other hand gripped his mother’s side.
    “Miss Jassim, would you mind if I asked your son a few questions?”
    The woman, who had fished out her house keys in the meantime and stuck them into the lock, turned around and shot the detective a look of annoyance. “Why?”
    “As I’m sure you know, a man was murdered in the apartment next to yours.