Quarantine

6. Noise from Upstairs

Steve's eyes flickered open as the morning light streamed into his bedroom. Glancing over, he couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of Natasha, her hair in disarray, peacefully asleep in her bed. With a mischievous grin, he gently covered her face with a blanket, leaving only a tuft of hair visible.

As Steve made his way out of the bedroom, ready to start the day, the persistent thudding noise from upstairs once again grated on his nerves. Determined to put an end to the disturbance, he ascended the stairs, finding Mr. Stuarts, his neighbor, already standing in front of Mr. Turners' apartment.

"Noise?" Steve inquired, sharing Mr. Stuarts' frustration. Mr. Stuarts nodded in agreement, expressing his exasperation. The door creaked open, and Mr. Turners cautiously peeked out.

Mr. Stuarts wasted no time in voicing his discontent. "Mr. Turners, what's going on? It's 6:30 in the morning!" 

Mr. Turners hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the confrontation. "Uh, sorry, it's a bit embarrassing. My wife and I were having an argument, and, uh, things got a bit heated. She, uh, threw some stuff at me. We'll be more careful, I promise."

Before Mr. Turners could retreat and shut the door, Steve grabbed his hand, his eyes fixated on the bloodstain at the edge of the sleeve of his sweatshirt. 

"What is this?" Steve's voice was edged with suspicion, his narrowed eyes adding weight to his question.

Mr. Turners, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, attempted to evade the question, stammering out a feeble excuse. But Steve wasn't about to let it slide. In one swift motion, he pushed the door open and stepped inside the apartment, determined to get to the bottom of things.

"Mrs. Turners, come out, please," Steve called out, his tone authoritative yet calm.

Mr. Turners, now visibly flustered and angered by Steve's intrusion, protested vehemently. "How can you barge into my place like this? I'll call the police!"

However, Steve remained unfazed, swiftly pulling out his wallet to reveal his NYPD ID, effectively silencing Mr. Turners' objections. " You don't need to call. Now where is your wife?"

Mr. Turners stammered, his attempt to explain the situation falling short. "She just went out. We were arguing, and she got upset and walked out."

Steve's gaze shifted to the bloodstain on Mr. Turners' sleeve. "Then what is this?" he questioned, pushing for a clearer explanation.

In response, Mr. Turners hesitated before showing the bandage on his left foot's first toe. "I hurt my toe, that's all," he claimed.

Steve, sighing in acknowledgment, assessed the situation. "Okay, keep it down next time," he advised, his suspicion still lingering. Without waiting for Mr. Turners' response, he walked out of the apartment, Mr. Stuarts following closely. The door shut behind them, leaving an uneasy feeling hanging in the air. 

As Steve and Mr. Stuarts made their way down the hallway, they encountered the building's cleaner, who was busy collecting dry and plastic waste from the apartments. 

A quick glance into the garbage tank revealed an unusual amount of empty water bottles. Steve's frown deepened as he questioned the cleaner about the origin of the plastic waste.

"Who throws this much plastics?" Steve inquired, his frustration evident.

The cleaner, with a resigned look, replied, "I picked it up from Mr. Turners' place."

Sharing a knowing look with Mr. Stuarts, Steve's detective instincts kicked in. He probed further, "Did you see Mrs. Turner just a few minutes back?"

The cleaner shook his head, checking his wristwatch. "No. I've been here for about 13 minutes, and I haven't seen her. In fact, Mr. Turners has been tossing out their plastic for the last few days. Haven't seen his wife lately. Why, what's the matter?"