The Enemy In My Bed🔞

The victim's apartment smelled like strong bleach which did not completely hide the heavy scent of blood. The living room was bright and expensive, with large windows looking out over the city. Everything was perfectly in its place, except for the man sitting upright in the leather armchair by the desk. His head was tilted back, and his eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling.

Jeff Barr stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets. He wore a simple blue suit, his tie loosened just a little bit at the collar. He did not look at the body right away. Instead, he looked at the floor, then at the spotless glass coffee table, and finally at the kitchen counter across the room.

The front door clicked open. Peter walked into the apartment, carrying two paper cups that were steaming from the plastic lids. He looked tired, his trench coat hanging loosely off his shoulders. He walked over to Jeff and held out one of the cups.

"They call this coffee down at the corner shop, but it tastes like hot dirt," Peter said, shaking his head. "You want it anyway? It is freezing outside."

Jeff did not take his eyes off the floor. "Just leave it on the desk, Peter. Thanks."

Peter set both cups down on the edge of the wooden desk, making sure to avoid the small dark spot near the keyboard. He looked around the room, whistling quietly through his teeth. "Man. This place is cleaner than my kitchen. If the local police didn't call us, I would think the guy just fell asleep watching TV."

"That is exactly the point," Jeff said, stepping closer to the leather chair. "Look at the floor around his feet. The rug is damp. Someone scrubbed it."

Peter bent down, squinting at the dark wool rug. "You are kidding me. Who kills a guy and then stays behind to do the housework?"

"Someone who does not want to leave a trace," Jeff said. He pointed toward the kitchen counter. "Look at the sink. There is a single glass inside it. It has been washed, but it is still wet. The killer sat with him. They had a drink together. Then the killer stood up, used a very sharp blade, and ended his life in less than three seconds. After that, they wiped down the counter, washed the glass, and used a bottle of heavy cleaner on the floor."

Peter took a slow sip of his bad coffee. "So the killer is organized. They don't panic. Most people kill someone and run out the door like their pants are on fire. This person takes their time."

"The killer is not just organized," Jeff murmured, leaning down to look closely at the victim’s neck. "They are calm. Their heart rate probably didn’t even go up. Look at his hands, Peter. There are no marks on his fingers. No skin under his nails. He didn't fight back. He didn't even know he was in danger until it was over."

"Maybe he knew them," Peter suggested, leaning against the wall. "Maybe it was a friend. Or a business partner who wanted him gone."

"No," Jeff said, shaking his head. "Look at the desk. His wallet is right there. His watch is worth more than my car, and it is still on his wrist. This wasn't a fight about money or an argument. It was a professional job. And they wanted us to know it."

Jeff turned around and walked over to the opposite side of the desk. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and slid them onto his hands. He knelt down next to a small black printer sitting on a side table. Right next to the paper tray, something small and dark was resting on the wood.

"Hey," Jeff said, beckoning with his hand. "Come look at this."

Peter walked over, holding his coffee cup out of the way. "What did you find?"

"Look right here," Jeff said. He used the tip of a pen to slide the object out into the light.

It was a small card, about the size of a regular business card, but it was completely matte black. The paper was incredibly thick, almost like a piece of thin cardboard. Right in the dead center of the card, there was an embossed mark. It was a bright, crimson red hourglass shape.

Peter stared at it, his face going completely serious. The casual tone left his voice. "Oh, no. Not again."

"It is the Black Widow," Jeff said quietly. He picked up the card by the very edges, holding it up toward the desk lamp. "It is the exact same card from the murder in Chicago three months ago. Same paper. Same red mark."

"I thought the bosses said the killer was overseas," Peter muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "They told the papers the target fled to Europe after the hit in Denver."

"The bosses say a lot of things to make the public feel safe," Jeff said. He turned the card slowly under the bulb of the lamp. The light caught the very top corner of the black paper. Jeff froze, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute. Look at the edge."

Peter leaned in until his nose was almost touching Jeff’s glove. "I don't see anything. It just looks black."

"No, look at the very corner. See that tiny flash of gray?" Jeff tilted the card just a fraction of an inch. "It is not gray. It is silver. It is a tiny smear of lacquer. The heavy-duty kind they use in industrial shops to coat metal or seal luxury items. It is microscopic, but it is there."

"Maybe it is from the factory where the paper was made," Peter said.

"No, the card from Chicago didn't have this," Jeff replied, his voice growing tighter as his mind started working through the details. "This came from the killer. They are careful, but they are human. They made a tiny mistake."

Before Peter could answer, a loud, sharp buzzing sound broke the silence of the room.

Jeff started, dropping his hand. He reached into his pocket with his un-gloved hand and pulled out his personal phone. The screen was lit up with a new text message.

Peter glanced at the screen and let out a short laugh. "Don't tell me. Is that the Bureau director?"

Jeff sighed, looking down at the text.

Ma: Jeffrey. Your brother Andrew said you didn't answer his call this morning. He is at the courthouse and needs to ask you about a dinner plan. Are you eating enough? I made a massive pot of chicken soup today. You look thin in your office photo. Come by the house later and take some home.

Jeff rubbed his forehead with his thumb, completely feeling the sudden shift from a cold crime scene to his mother's kitchen. He quickly typed back a reply with one hand.

Jeff: Ma, I am working a scene right now. I am fine. I ate a sandwich two hours ago. Tell Andrew I will call him when I am back in the car.

"Your mom really has great timing," Peter said, pulling a chair over and sitting down. "We are looking at a card left by the most dangerous contract killer in the country, and your mother wants to know if you need more soup."

"If I don't text her back, she will call the office line," Jeff said, putting the phone away and focusing back on the black card. "Then Emily will have to answer, and Emily will call me, and it becomes a whole thing. It is easier to just answer right away."

"Andrew is still pushing about that Sunday dinner, huh?" Peter asked.

"Always," Jeff said. He carefully placed the black card into a small plastic evidence bag he pulled from his jacket. "He wants me to bring a date. Ma is on a warpath because I've been single for six months. She thinks if I don't get married soon, I'm going to spend the rest of my life living in a dark apartment eating takeout."

Peter laughed, taking another gulp of his coffee. "Well, she isn't entirely wrong. Look at you. It's nine o'clock at night on a Friday, and you are hanging out with a dead corporate guy and me. You need a hobby, Jeff. Or a partner."

"I have a hobby," Jeff said, sealing the plastic bag with a sharp click. "I'm catching this killer."

"Yeah, well, your hobby doesn't look very friendly," Peter said, pointing at the bag. "What are we doing with the card? Should I call Emily and have her trace the silver paint?"

"Yes," Jeff said, standing up and stretching his back. He looked down at the dead man one last time. "Tell Emily to look for any industrial suppliers in the tri-state area that sell this specific silver lacquer. It is a long shot, but it is the only real clue we have. The rest of this room is completely clean."

Peter stood up too, tossing his empty paper cup into a small trash can by the desk. "Alright. Let's get the local guys in here to move the body. I want to get out of here before the scent of bleach gives me a headache."

"Go ahead," Jeff said, walking toward the large windows. He looked out into the dark streets below, his fingers tightly holding the plastic bag in his pocket. "I will meet you in the car in five minutes. I just want to look at the entry point one more time."

Peter nodded, walking out of the apartment and leaving Jeff alone in the quiet, bright room. Jeff let out a long breath, his mind still spinning with the image of the red hourglass. The Black Widow was in his city now. He could feel it. He took out his phone one more time, checked a brief text from Andrew that simply said Save yourself, Ma is buying groceries, and slipped it away. It was time to go to work.