Chapter 5 - THE APARTMENT HE THOUGHT HE OWNED
Harold Mercer had died thirteen years ago.
His apartment was 4B.
Trevor's apartment.
The tea-bag balcony above mine.
That was when everything finally made sense.
Trevor had not simply returned to the building.
He believed apartment 4B belonged to him.
Years earlier, Harold Mercer—a widower in his eighties—had apparently trusted Trevor with errands, groceries, and financial paperwork.
My mother noticed.
Then she discovered documents suggesting Trevor was trying to transfer Harold's apartment into his own name.
Harold died before the dispute went anywhere.
The estate sold the unit.
Trevor disappeared.
Fourteen years later, he came back and rented it from the current owner.
Why?
Detective Chen thought she knew.
“He may be trying to recover something.”
“From the apartment?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why bother me?”
“Because your mother had evidence.”
The cashbox.
The forged deed.
The photographs.
Maybe Trevor believed she had told me where more evidence was hidden.
Except she hadn't.
At least not directly.
The building management issued Trevor a notice terminating his lease for repeated violations and threatening conduct.
He had thirty days under the terms of his agreement.
I thought that might end it.
It didn't.
That night, an envelope slid beneath my door.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside was a photograph of me taken through the coffee shop window across the street.
On the back:
Give me Margaret's box and this ends.
I called police immediately.
Trevor denied delivering it.
Of course.
He also claimed the cashbox belonged to him.
That was new.
His attorney sent me a letter demanding return of “private family property unlawfully retained by Margaret Parker and her heir.”
His heir.
Me.
I read the letter twice.
Then laughed.
The man who had spent months throwing tea bags onto my balcony was now using an attorney.
Fine.
I hired one too.
My lawyer, Priya Shah, was forty, frighteningly calm, and clearly enjoyed people who made poor legal choices.
She read Trevor's demand.
“Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“He has now admitted the box exists.”
“Oh.”
“And he claims ownership.”
“Yes.”
“Which means if this goes to court, he has to explain why.”
I smiled.
“I like you.”
“So do most reasonable people.”
We responded.
We denied his claim.
We preserved all evidence.
We demanded no contact.
And then Priya discovered something strange.
The deed transferring Harold’s unit had been filed once.
Rejected.
Then filed again six months after my mother's death.
Accepted.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means someone used the forged document again after Margaret could no longer challenge it.”
“But Trevor doesn't own 4B.”
“Correct.”
“Then who does?”
Priya pulled the current property record.
A limited liability company.
Pine Street Residential LLC.
Trevor was renting the apartment from it.
“Who owns the LLC?”
“We're working on it.”
The answer arrived two days later.
Pine Street Residential belonged to one person.
Harold Mercer's daughter.
Rebecca Mercer.
She lived in Connecticut.
And when Priya called her, Rebecca said:
“Trevor Lang has no idea I'm the owner.”
May you like
Then she added:
“I've been waiting fourteen years for him to come back.”
