My grandmother and I moved into Apartment 3B at the historic Fenwick Building three weeks ago, adopting a stray hound named Buster who roamed the alley.
Grandma Martha was frantic. We managed to convince Inspector Pendelton to give us 24 hours before seizing Buster, promising to get a vet’s clean bill of health. He grudgingly agreed, but his hurried departure felt off.
He still wouldn’t step fully inside the apartment.
I watched him from my living room window as he strode across the small, paved rear courtyard towards his city-issued truck. The vehicle was parked slightly crooked, one wheel up on the curb near the building’s old rosebushes.
Just as he reached the driver’s side, Marcus Gable emerged from the back door of the Fenwick Building, his phone pressed to his ear. He wasn’t talking, though. He was just looking around, his eyes scanning the courtyard.
He spotted Pendelton. Marcus ended the fake call and hurried over, a smirk on his face.
They stood close, talking in low voices, their backs mostly to me. I couldn’t make out the words, but Marcus kept glancing up at our windows, a predatory glint in his eye.
Then, I saw Marcus slip something into Pendelton’s hand. It was a flat, Manila-colored envelope. Pendelton quickly tucked it inside his jacket pocket.
A cold dread settled over me. This wasn’t just about a dog. This was a payoff.
I grabbed my phone and slipped out of the apartment, taking the back staircase down to the courtyard. My heart pounded. I had to know what was in that envelope.
Pendelton was still talking to Marcus, who was now leaning casually against the inspector’s city truck. They were engrossed in their conversation.
I knew my window of opportunity was tiny.
I crept along the side of the building, keeping low behind a line of overgrown rhododendrons. The air smelled of damp earth and exhaust fumes.
As I neared the truck, I saw Pendelton lean into the passenger side, reaching for something on the seat. He paused, then pulled his hand back, leaving the envelope clearly visible.
It was tucked neatly onto the passenger seat, not completely hidden. Almost like he wanted it to be found.
My fingers trembled as I reached through the slightly ajar window. I snatched the envelope, pulling it quickly back out.
Inside, crisp hundred-dollar bills were stacked neatly. A lot of them. I counted quickly, my breath catching in my throat.
Six thousand five hundred dollars.
And they weren’t just any bills. Across the top bill, a small, almost invisible “MG” was scrawled in faint blue ink near Franklin’s portrait. Marcus Gable.
I snapped a picture with my phone, the flash barely a whisper in the afternoon light. Then, I carefully, silently, returned the envelope exactly where I found it.
I retreated as quickly as I had come, my mind racing. Marcus was bribing a city official. This was way bigger than I had imagined.
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