It was empty. Not only in the sense that Ulrich wasn’t there but also in that the room itself was sparsely furnished and uninviting. She moved on, opening a door that led to a room with an unmade bed. A harsh smell of tobacco and sweat hung heavily in the air, even though an electric ceiling fan spun around and around above the bed.

Heloise pulled on the metal cord. The fan gradually slowed down until it came to a complete stop.

She glanced over at the nightstand, where there was a full ashtray and a pill container. She walked over and picked up the pill container and looked at the label. It was American and said, Dramamine Original Formula. The label said the pills prevented motion sickness and that a side effect was severe drowsiness. Heloise remembered Ulrich telling her he was having trouble sleeping, and since the pills were by his bed instead of in a toiletry bag, she assumed he was interested in the side effect rather than the medication’s primary effect.

Heloise walked through the kitchen, crossed the living room again, and ended up back in the front hall.

Why had Ulrich left his apartment without closing and locking his front door properly behind him? That didn’t make any sense, considering how paranoid he had seemed the day before.

Heloise pulled her phone out of her inside pocket and dialed his cell phone again. When the call went through, there was a slight delay between the sound of the ring tone she heard through her phone and the remixed version of Queen’s “We Will Rock You” she could hear from somewhere in the apartment.

Heloise held her phone away from her ear as she slowly followed the sound.

We will, we will rock you!

She walked through the kitchen, the sound growing louder, and stopped at the door to a bathroom she apparently had overlooked during her inspection of the apartment. She caught a glimpse of a sink behind the door, which was about a quarter of the way open, and a gray towel hanging on the far wall.

We will, we will rock you!

Heloise gave the door a push, and it opened slowly.

She didn’t scream. Her mouth was shaped like a perfect O for a moment, but no sound came out of it.

She silently scanned the room with her eyes as an icy sensation spread from the base of her neck up through the nerves in the back of her head.

The footstool was tipped over and lying on its side on the white marble bathroom floor. A thin stream of blood had trickled down and spread out in the grout channels between the tiles.

We will, we will rock you!

Ulrich Andersson’s lifeless body hung limply from a rope tied to a pipe near the ceiling as Freddie Mercury sang rhythmically in his pants pocket.

CHAPTER

17