An Eye for Murder (7 page)

North fished out a camera and started taking pictures. When he had shot the office from every possible angle, he motioned to Fletcher. “All yours.” He went back downstairs, where I heard him moving around in the family room.

Fletcher took a small case out of the bag and extracted a brush and jar of what looked like dark powder. She put on a pair of latex gloves, then started to brush my keyboard and mouse. “Aren’t the evidence techs supposed to do that?” I asked.

“I swear, if one more person tells me I’m supposed to do it like they do on TV, they can have my job. Truth is, most cops do it themselves.”

“Really?”

“Unless you’re in a big city, there isn’t enough staff or budget.”

“Oh.” A thick coating clung to the keys. “Uh—that powder won’t screw up the computer, will it?”

The look on her face told me to back off. She worked her way around the room, methodically brushing the handles and edges of drawers, file cabinets, and doorknobs, then checking to see what surfaced. When she finished, she packed up her equipment. The office looked worse than before. “I lifted a lot of impressions. We’ll see who they belong to.” She straightened up, wiped her hands on her pants. “Now. What about that list?”

I dropped my bag on the chair and poked halfheartedly through the clutter. “I can’t tell. I think some of my silver downstairs might be missing. And maybe some jewelry. But I don’t know for sure.”

“You should write it down now, while everything’s fresh.”

She picked up her bag.

Panic rose in my throat. “You’re not leaving, are you?” They couldn’t leave me alone.

She ignored my distress as we headed down the steps. “We’ll hand this over to a detective. He’ll want your fingerprints, your daughter’s, too. To compare. There have been a string of breakins on the North Shore recently.”

“So this is just a random burglary?”

North joined us at the foot of the stairs. “Junkies. From the city. You were lucky. They didn’t get much.”

“Oh.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “So…so what do I do now?”

He considered it. “Might as well start cleaning up. I think we’ve got everything.”

“They…they won’t be coming back, will they?”

“No way.” He chuckled, shooting an imaginary hypodermic into his arm. “They’re a million miles away.”

I didn’t react.

His grin faded, and he awkwardly touched the brim of his cap. “You have someone who can stay with you tonight?” I couldn’t call Dad; he would worry himself into a heart attack. And I wouldn’t call Susan or Genna; they were probably out anyway. “No.”

“Well, you might want to check into a hotel. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

After they left, I picked my way through the kitchen, reached above the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, which, happily, hadn’t been ripped off. I poured an inch into a juice glass and tossed it down, trying to ignore how much it burned. Then I did it again.

After the third shot I decided not to take North’s advice. No faceless intruder was going to run me out of my own house. I managed to find the phone book under the mops in the kitchen and called a twenty-four-hour locksmith. While he installed new doublelocks on every door, I walked from room to room, running my hands over my belongings, as if touching them could somehow brand them as mine and weld them permanently in place.

A strand of pearls and matching earrings were missing, but the diamond tennis bracelet Barry gave me as an anniversary present was still in my jewelry box. So was the emergency cash I keep under the mattress. Although the computer had been booted up, my files were all there, including the diskette I left in the drive. To my surprise, Rachel’s room was untouched. I felt unaccountably grateful.

Downstairs, my sterling silver fruit bowl and coffeepot were gone, but the matching tray was still there, along with the sugar bowl and creamer. It was odd. Things I assumed a junkie would want, like a TV, VCR, or microwave, hadn’t been ripped off. Other things were.

The furnace clicked on while I was rummaging for trash bags in the kitchen. As warm air began to circulate, I realized I hadn’t checked the basement. I don’t keep anything of value down there: mainly an old exercise bike that Barry bought when he’d decided to build a home gym. An early model, he’d only used it for about a month, and it was now obsolete. He left it here when he moved.

I took the steps down. The bicycle was still collecting dust. So was a bag of toys Rachel had outgrown, a table on rickety legs, and some unmatched chairs. Nothing seemed disturbed. As I headed back up, I glanced at the garage door, behind which I’d stacked the cartons of Skull’s clothes. They were gone.

Chapter Ten

Village detective Dan O’Malley was at my door by nine the next morning. Tall, fair, and freckled, he looked like Howdy Doody on growth hormones. I led him into the kitchen, where he leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the room. A trash bag heaped with broken china, food, and papers occupied the center of the room. Silverware covered the table.

“Sorry.” I cleared off a section of table.

He sat down gingerly and took me through last night’s events, jotting down notes as we talked. I pulled on a lock of hair. Hadn’t he read Fletcher and North’s report? But when I got to the missing cartons, he frowned. “Cartons? Those weren’t on the report.”

What’s that they say about making assumptions? “Er…I didn’t realize they were gone until later.”

“What was in them?”

I explained.

“So you had two boxes that belonged to a man you never knew.” He angled his head. “How long were they in your house?”

“A couple of days.”

“And the man they belong to is dead.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know where was he living?”

“Rogers Park. But the woman he was living with died of a heart attack a few days ago, a month or so after him.”

“What about relatives?” I shrugged.

He looked around, his fingers smoothing a carroty mustache that was longer on one side than the other. Then he dropped his hand, as if he’d considered and rejected whatever he’d been thinking.

“Did you get any prints?” I asked. “The officers dusted.”

And left a grimy residue over everything, Fletcher’s denial notwithstanding.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath. They’re probably yours.” He wiggled his fingers. “Even junkies wear gloves these days.”

“So you don’t need my prints? Or my daughter’s?” I had a set of Rachel’s prints from one of those Kid-Safe programs they held at the mall years ago.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Ms. Foreman. Very few home burglaries end up in an arrest. You got off easy. Consider yourself lucky.” That was the second time a cop had told me I was lucky.

“You’re convinced it was druggies?”

“You have any workmen here recently?”

“No.”

“Maids? Landscapers?”

“Not anymore.”

He checked his notes. “What about your ex? Any arguments over visitation, alimony, that kind of thing?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” He looked up. “I’m sure it wasn’t him,” I added hastily. “He has my daughter this weekend. And there’s nothing here he wants. Anymore.”

I saw the trace of a smile. “You change your locks?”

“Last night.”

“How about an alarm system?”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Try to. It’ll give you peace of mind.”

Before he left, he gave me some brochures on home security, part of the Police Are Your Partners program. As he pulled away from the house, I realized that I’d dealt with more cops in one week than I had in thirty years. They’d evolved from pigs to pals. Which probably goes to prove what my father always said: I would become more conservative when I had something to lose. I hate it when he’s right.

I was hauling bags of trash out to the curb when Susan showed up. A willowy redhead who, even in sweats, manages to make me look shabby, Susan Siler considers herself an outcast in a village where all the women are blonde and wear Birkenstocks and pearls. Together. She cast an appraising look around the kitchen. “It doesn’t look that bad.”

“I’ve been cleaning up since dawn.”

“Then it’s time for a break. Come on, let’s walk.” She held the door open for me. “What’s the final tally?”

“Besides what I already told you, nothing. The jewelry, two pieces of silver, and those cartons.”

“Strange.”

“I know.” We jogged over to Happ Road, the north end of our circuit. A weak sun penetrated the heavy overcast, but the air was still somewhere between Fairbanks and Seattle on a good day. Susan was in a teal warm-up jacket that made her hair look incandescent. I was in scruffy gray sweats with paint stains on the legs.

We fell into step, and I summarized O’Malley’s visit. “His attitude was basically ‘Get over it, lady.’ I don’t think they’re going to find the assholes who did it.”

“What else is new?”

“He left me some brochures on home security.” I said. “Part of the Police Are Your Partners program.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what’s your next step?”

“I don’t know. Call my insurance company. Move on. Try not to take it personally.” I glanced at her. “Nice jacket.”

“Twenty-four dollars at TJ Maxx.” Susan and I first met at a discount shopping outlet when she pointed out a mint green Garfield and Marks suit marked down 80 percent and said it was my color. We became friends over coffee when I confessed to smashing Rachel’s fingers in the car door, and she admitted she’d once sat on her daughter and broke her collarbone. But I knew she’d be my friend for life when she told me she had actually seen Grace Slick on a Marin County beach watching sea otters.

“I don’t think I’ll be shopping much for a while,” I said. “Not even discount?”

I shook my head. “It’s not just the break-in. I should never have kept the house.” I told her about Barry’s stock. “When we split up, I bought the concept that Rachel should have as little disruption in her life as possible. I should strive for continuity. That’s why I fought so hard to keep the house.” A couple of kids on bicycles flew past us, barely swerving in time to avoid a collision.

“Most women do,” Susan said.

“We were sold a bill of goods. Everything I make goes for the mortgage, utilities, and food. God forbid the water heater blows, or the air conditioner breaks down, or the roof starts to leak. I’m always struggling. Now I’m supposed to install an alarm system. The house is a goddamn albatross around my neck.”

Susan didn’t say anything. She’s a good listener.

“Now compare that with Barry. Okay. For a few months, right after the settlement, he was strapped. Maybe even a year. But now he’s got his condo, a grand or so in child support every month, and no other obligations. Nada. He even has enough to play the market.” I stepped up my pace. “Tell me. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“You made the best decision you could at the time.”

“It was shortsighted.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. How could you predict the future?”

We reached the Catholic church at the end of the road. The parking lot was a sea of cars, with a white limo bearing a Just Married sign in front. Pink and white streamers floated from the bumper. “Where’s Dustin Hoffman when you need him?”

“Huh?”

“Someone should break up the wedding while there’s a chance.” I pointed to the limo. “They only have a fifty-fifty shot anyway.”

Susan’s other eyebrow arched. After eight years of friendship, we can sense when one of us is dissembling, even if we are just trying it out on each other. “My, we are bitter today.”

“What if Barry doesn’t come through with child support, Susan? What am I going to do?”

“Don’t you think you might be overreacting just a bit?”

“With Barry?”

“Whatever happens, you will survive. At the very worst, you’ll borrow money. People do it every day. They have these places called banks.”

“Assuming my credit rating isn’t in the tank. Which it probably is. It takes years to sort out your credit after a divorce. And with Barry’s track record—”

“You know, sometimes I get the feeling you like to obsess about things, Ellie. You know what they say. If you fixate long enough, you can actually cause it to happen. A selffulfilling prophecy.”

“I’m not obsessing. I just want to be able to…to manage the situation. Control it.”

“Aha. Now we get to the root of the problem. Except that last I heard, random break-ins and ex-husbands are beyond ex-wives’ control.” I started to cut in, but she overrode me. “Look, Ellie. I know it’s frustrating. You want answers right now. For all the right reasons. And you’ve had a rough time. But you’re going to have to ride it out. You never know. Maybe the detective will catch those thieves. Maybe the stock will come back.”

“And maybe there’s a tooth fairy.”

We turned west past Rachel’s school. We were into a rhythm now, hiking at a good clip. The bicyclists who passed us earlier were now criss-crossing the playground.

Susan changed the subject. “Marian Iverson’s having a fund-raiser up in Lake Forest in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s nice.”

“Doug’s supporting her.” Susan’s husband, a village trustee, is involved in local politics. “Why don’t you come with us?” I wrinkled my nose. When I was young, I joined the revolution, confident that we would topple the fascist pigs corrupting the system. I read the
Revolutionary Times
and studied my “3M’s”: Mao, Marcuse, and Marx. It didn’t last. I was told I was hopelessly bourgeoise. The most I could aspire to was running a safe-house. Since then I’ve tried to eschew politics.

“She’s a woman, Ellie. And she came out pro-choice.”

“I suppose for a Republican that takes courage.”

Susan giggled. “Come on. Compared to some of the candidates you’ve supported, this one might even win.” I shot her a look. “And you never know. The man of your dreams might be there.”

I broke into a jog and left her in my dust.

Chapter Eleven

That afternoon I made a trip to the store to restock my cabinets. At the end of one aisle was an eye-catching display of smoking accessories, including pipe cleaners, butane lighters, and flints. Festooned with colorful ribbons and signs, it wasn’t there to attract young smokers, of course. I picked up a small can of lighter fluid.