"I guess that explains why the number wasn't working." I step away from the window and glance over the rest of the building.

Red brick, four-stories, and showing signs of age. It's about as unimpressive as they come, and the same could be said about the area—the fringe of the Dallas Arts District. The view through the window isn't exactly inspiring, either. There's a tiny, oddly shaped reception area, and an ordinary doorway leading out. It includes a few pieces of dismantled office furniture and carpeting that could use replacing. After the doorway, it's all shadow.

Bradford Ellis, Music Producer appears to be another dead end, but Taryn doesn't seem to think so. She's still peering into the window, her hands cupped over her eyes. "I say we go in. There's a lot more to it than just this."

"I'd say that sounds crazy."

While she strolls into the adjacent alley, I keep watch for her. There's not much going on around here on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, and that concerns me. The parked cars are abandoned. The pedestrian traffic is scant. If we're doing something illegal, something Taryn is obviously not opposed to, the gray of the afternoon is our only coverage.

I look up. The sky is getting darker, and the breeze is picking up as well. We heard the first rumbles of thunder on the drive over here. It's hard to believe it isn't pouring already.

"Taryn," I hiss when she starts fussing with a window. I turn away and grunt when she acts like she didn't hear me.

She leaves me there, watching and waiting.

Before long, the corner of my eye catches a skinny man, not much older than I am, J-walking across the street. He's in "business-casual" clothing, the opposite of what I'd expect right now, and I'm almost disappointed. I can't just growl at him and crack my knuckles. Instead, I'll have to put on a smile and try.

"Hi there," the man says cheerily, sidling right up next to me. "Are you looking for some rental space? This right here is just days away from going on the market."   

"Is that so?" I say loudly so that Taryn might hear me, too. "Are you the property owner?"

"Indeed I am." He reaches out a hand. "Justin Odell. It's nice to meet you."

I say the first basic name that comes to mind, and we shake hands. "John Baker."

Taryn peers back at me, and with every fiber of my being—eyes, expression, posture, forceful subliminal messaging—I call her back to the front of the building.

It appears the message is received. She's shuffling closer just as the man leans over to see what I'm seeing. A pretty girl with long legs, in her nicest summer clothing, looking embarrassed and contrite, something she wouldn't have to fake.

She may be trespassing, but judging by the shock, delight, and greed that passes through the guy's unremarkable features, he's slimy enough to let that slide.  

"My girlfriend," I overemphasize. "Is a dancer. Isn't that right, hun?" I put a hand on her hip when she arrives and pull it to mine. "You're a dancer, looking for a studio?"

"That's right," she plays along only half a beat late. And she leans into my embrace with an ease that almost feels natural. It allows me to relax a little.

Justin Odell's gaze wobbles away from my hand placement, and up the size and length of my arm, which he finally seems to notice. "This would be great for that," he lies with a salesman's enthusiasm.

The ceilings are low, the rooms seem cramped. If I'm being honest, I don't get dancer vibes at all.

Nonetheless, he's meeting Taryn's gaze with a smile. 

If he can't have her, he'd be more than happy to take her money for something that would need renovations up the wazoo.

"Would you mind if we take a look inside?" Taryn pours on the southern charm. "I really think this might be the one. I apologize if I seem a bit overeager."

"I'm glad I caught you." He winks at her and the next thing we know, he's unlocking the entrance for us. "The last guy left some junk, but it should be all tidied up by the end of the month."

He joins us in the vestibule. Taryn immediately passes through the reception area, goes through the doorway, and starts poking around in the next room—flipping switches, swiping at windowsills, and so forth.

"If you don't mind me asking," I interrupt his obvious intent to traipse after her. "What was here before?"

I set the pace for the two of us, and it's slow. Knowing Taryn, she's already two rooms ahead.

"Some music studio," he informs me. "The guy was a real piece of work, too," he offers on top of that, finding no reason to hold back. "Flaming red hair. Had quite the chip on his shoulder that didn't agree with my constitution, if you know what I mean. Never seemed to work very hard or show up all that often. Drove this red Corvette, hot off the lot, but then never paid his rent on time. Then he just vanished one day and left me with all his crap. You should have seen this place a couple weeks ago!"

"That's funny. I think I've heard of this guy. Bradford Something," I throw in.

"That's right," he replies, the wariness slight. "Brad Ellis. I'm sure a lot of people in this town have heard of him," he grumbles and then goes silent.

His eyes flick toward the front window, and there's this natural drift toward closure that I'm not sure I should interrupt, not about Bradford Ellis anyway. I've probably pushed it one step too far as it is.

Justin checks the bulky athletic watch he probably paid too much for and clears his throat. "Well, I abandoned a project. I should probably get back."

"Right. Of course," I do my best to encourage him. "I'm sure if you're here on a Sunday, you have a lot going on. Do you mind if we hang here for a few more minutes? She said something about wanting to take some measurements," I say, trying to avoid giving her a name. She never offered one, and I'd rather not get caught in any lies.

I point out the next room with the side of my head and roll my eyes lightheartedly, letting him know I love her dearly, but this could take a while.

"Sure thing. Take your time." He strolls to the door, and I join him there. "The door will lock on your way out. I'll be in 10,604B across the street if you have any questions."

"Appreciate it." I take the door from him, and lean against it, to keep it open.

We shake hands, he gives me his business card, and when the light stream of traffic clears, he jogs across the street. I take a moment to confirm his destination, and then I go to find Taryn, fast and eager, pleased by this stroke of luck. We got in and got rid of him and didn't even have to break any laws. If we happen to find something, it might make up for our bad experience at the Hunt residence.

The deeper I go in, the more likely that seems. A lot of stuff was left behind. All computers and recording equipment are gone, though. There's just the dusty shadow of these things. Without them, it looks like any other outdated office suite. The industrial carpeting, the light fixtures, the battered white walls. It's certainly nothing special. I find this strange and a bit unnerving. Quinn would have known better...

There are a few filing cabinets in what would be the common area that are not empty, and there are boxes of personal items scattered throughout. Commemorative plaques, dying plants, picture frames, cables, and so forth. Nothing catches my eye in terms of relevance, though.

I go through another doorway. In the third and final section, there are a couple of cubicles and a few offices lining the back. They are broken into sides by a dark hallway, straight ahead.

Veering toward the sound of light movement, I find Taryn in what would probably be Bradford's corner office. It appears to be the most spacious, and it has a decent window, although there's not much of a view—just an alley and the backs of other buildings.

Taryn already has a bunch of things lined up and she's taking pictures with her phone.  

"I got rid of him," I let her know. "For now. He may be busy, but he's also pushy and uptight."

"You're amazing." She says that distractedly and with a bit of a delay, but I can't say I ever mind hearing it. "I think I have things under control in here. If there's anything else, out there...?"

I pick up one of the pictures she removed from the frame. There are two affluent-looking young men in tuxes at an event with Quinn, sandwiched in the middle. She's wearing a gold dress that's tailored to accentuate the full, natural curves that would make most men sick with lust without all the fuss.  

I stifle my own gag, and my focus moves to the next glaring thing, which is certainly pale by comparison...

"That's him." I turn the photo toward Taryn and point out Bradford. "Red hair," I inform her. "Got that out of the landlord."

She stops rummaging through the desk drawer to take another look. "Huh," she expresses, and then pats my shoulder to say good job. "And that's Tavis, on the other side of her," she tells me in return. "I've seen a few pictures, back when Quinn still used social media."

I nod and reevaluate. Bradford is irritatingly good-looking, even more than her husband, I'd say, despite the Ronald McDonald hair. They all look like they're having a great time. And they seem close. I see how that could get complicated. There are hints of that in just this picture. Hand placement. Body language. They both have this puffed-up posture, like Quinn is theirs. And Quinn is just glowing under the heat of their attention, but she's showing no obvious preference. She was like that. Having the knack to fuel an infatuation without truly reciprocating. To the wrong guy, I can see how that could be infuriating...

"I think he was obsessed with her." Taryn pulls from a drawer a framed 8x10 headshot of Quinn.

My eyebrows bob after just a glance. It's professionally done. Too perfect, if I'm being honest. Hair, skin tone, makeup, lighting, everything. If this Bradford guy was staring at that all day, then yeah, it probably drove him mad, especially if she was married to a friend of his.

"Nice work," I give the compliment back while I'm inserting the first photo between my button-up and undershirt. "We're keeping this one," I tell her, and she nods her assent. If nothing else, it proves that these three know each other, and at one point, they were friendly. I don't think Justin would realize it's gone, and if he did, I don't think he'd care. All of this stuff will probably hit the curb soon anyway. "All right. I'm off."

I leave her to it, and return to the front, to check the street-view through the main window. There's still no sign of Justin. The parked cars are vacant with no noticeable turnover. I spot a few pedestrians streaming by, trying to beat the storm, and no one seems to be taking much of an interest in this location. It has no sign, the lettering on the window has been scraped off, and there's not much to see inside, or enough light to see it with. No one even notices me standing here, and I'm not exactly trying to hide.

It was worth a check, but I'm otherwise wasting time in a room where there's nothing going on.

The filing cabinets come to mind, and I get a few steps closer to Taryn. I'm at least a section away from being able to hear her. That's what I assume, anyway. And yet the silence is broken. It's quite striking all of a sudden.

Shuffling, clattering. What is she doing back there?

When I hear a muffled scream and the sound of breaking glass, everything stops. Nothing else matters. I become a man with a deadly weapon strapped to his ankle who is seriously pissed off.