Henry woke the next morning with another pounding headache and another strange smell -- although this one significantly less harsh and chemical-y than the last. Sitting bolt upright far faster than he should have, Henry surveyed his living room and let out a long, frustrated moan. Just like the morning before, the place was an absolute wreck. Chairs and tables lay on the ground, and books scattered the living room carpet. Henry wondered in amazement how he managed to sleep through what must have been a horrible racket as his eyes finished surveying the damage and lingered up to the walls around him, where the red spray paint had been partially and sloppily covered by splattery strokes of pale blue paint. What in the world? Henry thought. Perhaps the vandals had felt bad and returned to try and fix things? They had certainly done a poor job of it. And how had he not woken up? They had obviously made no effort to be cautious when walking around the apartment. Hadn't they seen him laying on the couch? Could they possibly be stupid enough to just let him sleep in the hopes that he wouldn't wake up on his own while they trashed his apartment? Perhaps they were drunk? Or high? Probably both. This was only further proof that those idiot Nelsons were behind every worldly evil.
Henry forced himself off of the sofa and began tidying things, but stopped himself; he'd have to call Patrick Maloy, who would almost certainly want to investigate an untouched crime scene. He called the detective immediately, and was unsurprised to find his college buddy's interest piqued.
"So they trashed your apartment and tried to cover up what they'd done before?"
"Yeah. The weirdest thing is that I didn't even wake up." A new thought occurred to Henry. "Hey, you don't think they could've drugged me or anything? To keep me knocked out? Or maybe to make me forget seeing them?"
"I guess it's a possibility. How are you feeling?"
"I had a killer headache when I woke up, but it seems to have mostly gone away."
"And how long ago did you wake up?"
"I dunno, maybe fifteen minutes ago?"
"Chloroform will leave you with a nasty headache, but you would probably feel the effects for more than fifteen minutes after waking up, so I don't think it's likely. You were probably just so exhausted that you slept through everything. Yesterday was a really difficult day for you, it's not surprising that you should be so tired."
"I guess you're right."
"It sounds a lot like your vandal was completely hammered. I'm going to try and see if I can get those Nelson kids in here for questioning -- everything points to them. I'll send some officers and forensics guys over to your place in a bit to try and see if they can get any prints or anything. You haven't touched any part of the crime scene, have you?"
"Uhh," Henry remembered his flimsy and short-lived efforts towards tidying up. "I've touched some stuff. I started to clean up before I called you."
Detective Maloy sighed. "That's okay just try not to touch anything else, alright? It messes with our results. Oh--! Before I forget to ask, do you see the paint or brush the vandal used, or was he smart enough to take it with him this time?"
"Uh, I haven't seen any paint, but I'll keep my eyes peeled."
"Kay thanks. Don't worry about sticking around for the investigation, by the way. I had a hard enough time convincing that whack-o that runs your company not to fire you yesterday, so try not to be so late."
"Fine. Will you call me if you find anything?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Thanks, Patrick. I really appreciate it."
"No problem, man."
Henry eventually rushed into Carter Mattress Co. at 9:06, fashionably late and red in the face from running down crowded New York sidewalks in a vain attempt at punctuality. Slipping into his desk, he grinned at Millie, who sat at the desktop directly across from him.
"I like the hair."
Henry started. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Oh, nothing." Her eyes laughed at him, their warm brown glinting in the harsh overhead lighting, and that laugh soon reached her throat, like a bubble of joy bursting from deep within her. "It's just sticking up in every direction. And Carter's right, it does look kinda red. You're sure you didn't dye it?"
"Yes, I'm sure." Henry ran a hand through his curls -- which, by the way, were getting pretty greasy since he'd become too stressed to shower -- and tried to calm them.
"That's honestly just making it worse," Millie giggled, her cropped, mahogany-brown waves jiggling.
Henry scowled at her and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I don't even care at this point, honestly."
"What's this? Henry the Fashionisto not caring about his looks?" She teased.
"I have other things on my mind, is all."
"Oh, that's right. I'm sorry, I totally forgot about the break-in. Any further leads?"
"No. They did come back last night, though."
"No, really? That must've been so terrifying." Her eyes widened.
"Honestly--" Henry began, but was immediately interrupted by Carter, who was channeling his inner snapping turtle again.
"You know what else is terrifying?" Receiving no answer from his semi-startled and entirely unamused employees, he supplied the answer: "When you can't get your Excel spreadsheet to open, which is the precise problem Sully Regan from accounting has been having and has been trying to page you about for the past fifteen minutes while you two sit around and chit chat." He was breathing hard now, his neck rolls quivering.
"Sorry, sir." Henry mumbled his apology and wandered off to help stupid Sully Regan from accounting recover his spreadsheets. The endeavor took longer than expected, as Sully had numerous questions and concerns, several of which he had to ask multiple times before he fully understood the concept, and when Henry finally returned to his desk, he found that Millie was not alone.
"Hey, Kathleen." Henry managed to stammer.
Carter's young assistant glanced over at him. "Hey. Henry, right?" He nodded. "Carter sent me to get you. There's some detective on the phone for you?"
Henry nodded and sat down, raising the phone to his ear and trying to force his heart to beat normally again. She knew his name. He glanced up at her, sneakily, as she chatted with a very bored-looking Millie. Kathleen Fergusson. A beautiful, Irish name for a beautiful, Irish woman. She and Henry had barely spoken, but he saw her constantly, as she and her noisy high heels were almost always following Carter around with a notepad and a steaming caramel latte. Today, her red hair was pulled back into what Millie later informed him was called a chignon, and small fiery curls peaked out to frame her pale, smooth face.
Quickly, before she could turn around and catch him staring, Henry averted his eyes and called Patrick Maloy, who informed him that he had found the paint outside the Nelson boy's window. And while a search of their apartment didn't reveal anything else to connect them to the breakin and vandalism, did reveal a rather extensive collection of illicit drugs.
