“Oh.” She straightens, and glances down. My gaze follows her to a stack of boxes and envelopes. “Ah, the rental office opens at nine.”
“I’m actually looking for a Jeri Masters. She’s an old friend, and I was in the neighborhood.”
“Oh. She moved.” She looks at a bin with mail and a small cardboard box. “I only know because I’ve had to start collecting her mail to return to sender.”
“That’s harsh,” I say with a casual grin. “You don’t forward it?”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding address. We would forward it if she had. You should tell her to call with the address…” She glances back at the basket. “But honestly, it looks like mostly junk mail.”
“I could give it to her?—”
“No, I can’t do that. Federal law.” She winces a little, like she wishes she could bend the rule, but not enough to risk it.
Still, she’s already given me what I came for.
Jeri Masters moved. Recently.
I tap my fingers lightly on the counter. “I’ll let her know she needs to update her address.” I pause, letting my gaze drift back to the bin. “Any chance I can take a quick look? Just so I can tell her what she’s missing.”
She hesitates, then lifts the basket and sets it in front of me.
I flip through the contents.
Her assessment matches mine—junk mail. A local coupon booklet, clothing catalog, bank logos on two return addresses, but they don’t look like bills. Then a small cardboard box catches my attention. Handwritten return address.
I pull out my phone and snap a quick photo.
The sender’s name reads Josephine Masters.
Family, most likely.
“I’ll let her know her grandmother sent something,” I say, by way of explanation.
“Yeah,” she says. “And tell her to get her mail forwarded. Otherwise, it all goes back.”
I nod, thank her, and step out into the November cold.
The air hits sharp, wind cutting between buildings. I forward the photo to Quinn, then dictate a message as I walk: “Jeri Masters moved. No forwarding address. Might be worth checking if her lease was up or if she broke it early.”
I reread it once, then send.
With one last assessing view of the apartment building, I take in the bikes on the balconies and the college flags and decide this isn’t the kind of place residents stay forever. A move doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But the timing? That’s what’s interesting.
By the time I’m back in my car, the wind’s sharp enough to whistle over the windshield. A message flashes across my phone.
* * *
Alicia: Lunch?
Me: Name the time and place.
Alicia: Montrose Café. 12:15?
Me: I’ll pick you up.
Alicia: No. I’ll meet you. I have a meeting across the street.
Me: Gabriel with you?