The Eyes Have It (Part Two of Five)

In our last episode: I also knew The Skyline was another damned high-rise. Preparing myself for more vertigo-inducing aerial views, I climbed behind the wheel of a pale blue Ford Taurus Interceptor of the sort the department lavished on its detective officers and pointed it across town toward the Fillmore District.

Something I have learned, although not at the expense of the SFPD, is there are definitely different kinds of physical beauty. For example, the dead blonde I'd just left on the floor of an office at 460 Montgomery Street had been what I classify as the "flashy" sort.

The brunette now giving me a friendly, but questioning look through the doorway of unit 1218 at The Skyline was a different sort entirely. I would describe her as "smoldering." Her dark eyes flashed sparks keeping a blaze aglow just below the surface of the lithe, lean body she clothed in jeans and a black tank top.

Watch it, Bailey. This kind of gal doesn't play around. With her it's all or nothing at all.

I flashed the badge and ID the City of San Francisco gave me to prove I'm legit and said, "Good morning, Ms Bryant, I'm Detective Sergeant Bailey, SFPD."

Of course, Kristina Bryant already knew who I was. If she had not known at least that much about me, I never would have gotten past The Skyline's concierge in the lobby without a warrant.

Miss Bryant stared at me intently for what seemed a very long time—long enough to make me glance toward the unit number to be sure I'd knocked on the right door. Then, as if a switch was flipped somewhere behind those dark eyes, Kristina Bryant turned on a soft subtle smile that damned near sucked me right through the doorway.

"Good morning, Detective Bailey, although I can't think of much good about it right now. Please come in."

I knew that a homicide detective already told Ms Bryant about her roommate. It wasn't a formal notification because those are reserved for family members. He would have told her about Jessica Tomlin's death because it was difficult to ask questions about her dead roommate without first mentioning that her roommate was dead. Sensitivity in all things is the SFPD's motto.

"Thank you, Miss Bryant."

She led me into a large open living room area with the inevitable high-rise floor to ceiling windows. I was happy to see, however, they were covered by sheers so you couldn't see the twelve-story drop beyond them without deliberately going over and looking.

"Please sit down, Detective Bailey and call me Tina. I have to stop and remember you're talking to me every time you call me 'Miss Bryant.'"

With a natural grace of movement that put me in mind of a dancer, she slipped into an armchair upholstered in some sort off-white nubby fabric. I sat in a similar chair semi-facing hers. I looked at her face in the bright living room light and saw that something I thought I observed earlier was correct. There was no redness to her eyes or any other sign she'd been crying over the loss of her roommate.

"Tina, as you probably guessed, I'm here trying to learn a little more about Jessica Tomlin."

She tilted her head and put on her questioning look again. "Learn what, Detective Bailey?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Anything that will help me get a handle on who killed her and why."

"I'll gladly tell you anything I know about Jessie, but I'm afraid it won't be much help. Despite being roommates, we hardly knew each other and shared very few interests."

Now it was my turn to cock my head to one side with a questioning look. "Oh?"

If it's possible for a simple smile to express unbridled contempt, Tina's smile did so. "Why? Did you have us figured for nymphomaniac lesbian lovers or something? That's what most of the creeps in this town think when they encounter a woman living with another woman."

To Be Continued

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.