“You had a bad scare,” he was saying, “and you have every right to be upset. What you need is a good stiff drink. We could all use one. Listen, I noticed a great-looking pub a couple of blocks away …”
“We have to wait for the police,” Nicole repeated, trying to hold on to her patience. “I was just having some tea. Why don’t you fix some for you and Brenda? Then, after the policeman leaves, we can all go out for dinner.”
It was another forty-five minutes before the policeman arrived. Nicole had expected to see a real Bobby, in full regalia—the black uniform with brass buttons and brass-trimmed epaulets and the tall, Victorian helmet with its big metal badge. But this man was wearing an unfamiliar costume that, she supposed, must be his summer uniform—black slacks and a white, short-sleeved shirt with nerdy-looking tabs on the shoulders. His hat was shaped like a helmet, but made of felt instead of metal.
When she invited him in, he carefully removed the hat and tucked it under one arm, as if he were carrying a basketball. With his freckles, pale blue eyes and fair curls, he looked like a very tall schoolboy.
Constable Browne, as he introduced himself, was nothing like the British law enforcement types Nicole had seen on PBS. He was neither sympathetic nor especially polite. Nor did he seem to be much of a listener. From time to time he jotted something in his notebook. Between jottings, his eyes strayed over to Brenda, drawn to the cleavage peeking from her jacket.
Nicole had been sure that when she told him about Alice, he’d insist on waking her from her nap to question her. But news of the tenant failed to produce even a squiggle in his notebook. He didn’t ask many questions, and those he did ask seemed calculated to cast doubt on Nicole’s story.
“You got a good look at the person who detained you, then?” he said.
“Yes, I did. When I talked to him in front of the house, he was standing only a few feet away.”
“I see, madam, but did you actually see him inside the house, this…” he paused to consult his notebook. “Reinhardt chap?”
“Of course not. That’s why he locked me in the bathroom—to keep me from seeing him.” As she said this, Nicole could feel their incredulity, which made her even more resentful and upset.
She led them upstairs to the bathroom, explaining how Alice had let her out with the key the man had left in the lock. It was still in the keyhole on the outside of the bathroom door, where Alice had left it. The police officer acknowledged the key with a nod but made no move to examine it.
Next, she ushered them in to look at the safe, explaining how she’d found it open but had accidentally let it shut. The whole time she was talking, she was aware of how unlikely her story sounded, the fact that she had no real proof any of it had happened.
When she finished, the policeman put away his notebook. “That’s fine, then,” he said. “I have enough for my preliminary report. Tomorrow one of our DCs—that’s detective constable—will pop ‘round to take a full report.”
“Wait,” she said. “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints?”
“We have our procedures,” the policeman said. “You said you touched the knob of the safe. And we haven’t got the residents’ fingerprints, so we couldn’t sort them out from the intruder’s, could we? We don’t even know if anything was stolen. I don’t mean to cast doubts on what you’re saying, Mrs. Graves, but we can’t make bricks without straw.” His eyes wandered over to Brenda, and he winked. She flushed prettily and flashed him a smile.
Frustration and anger roiled in Nicole’s head as she followed the others along the hallway and back down the stairs. At the door, the constable, who seemed to have lost track of who was married to whom, turned to Brad. “I’d strongly advise that one of you stays with her tonight. She’s a bit overwrought after her—uh—experience. I don’t think she ought to be left alone.”
“I’ll stay, officer,” Brad said. “I mean—of course I’m staying. I’m her husband.” He gave an embarrassed laugh, as if this small detail had slipped his mind.
The policeman stole one last glance at Brenda. “Well, that’s all right, then. I wish you all good night.”
By the time his car pulled away, it was 11:00 p.m., too late, they all agreed, to go out for dinner. Brad ordered a pizza delivered, then foraged through the cupboards for a bottle of wine.
They ate in the small dining room. Brad and Brenda didn’t lapse into their usual shoptalk, nor was there mention of the tumultuous meeting that had supposedly kept them late at work. On the contrary, they were infuriatingly attentive to Nicole. Brenda, in her piping little voice, kept coaxing her to eat until Nicole finally snapped, “For God’s sake, Brenda. I’m not hungry. Give it a rest.”
Brenda’s eyes grew very wide. After that, Nicole noticed Brad avoiding his assistant’s wounded looks. A short time later, he sent her home alone in a cab.
Nicole didn’t take any of this as a good sign. She had the feeling that Brad was going to use this incident as yet another argument to send her home.
She lay in bed a long time before she drifted off to sleep. A while later, she woke with a start. An unrelenting ache in her stomach reminded her how miserable she was, even before she remembered why. She turned to glance at the luminous face of the alarm clock on the night table. It was 1:30 a.m. She’d been asleep for less than a half hour.
She looked over at Brad. He was sleeping, his face relaxed and unperturbed. Her mind skipped back to the moment she saw him standing on the doorstep with Brenda. Now she knew why he’d been so inattentive, the reason he no longer seemed to like her much.
Brenda.
Over the last—how long was it? Six months? A year?—Brad had grown more and more distant, and this transformation had puzzled, distressed, and, finally, alarmed her. When she asked, he denied anything was wrong. She began looking for a reason outside their marriage. Perhaps it was something he didn’t want her to worry about, trouble at work or some kind of emotional crisis.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had to stop doing this to herself. She was tired and altogether too irrational to think. She remembered the sleeping pills she’d brought along. But if she took one this late, she’d be groggy tomorrow. She decided to try a glass of milk; if that didn’t work, she’d take the Ambien and sleep late. She turned on her bedside lamp and found her robe. Then she went down to the kitchen.
As she was pouring the milk, she remembered her earlier call to the Lowrys. She looked at the clock. It would be 7:30 p.m. in Dallas now. Maybe they’d be in.
After she put in the number, the phone rang three times; there was a click, and the now-familiar voice came on: “Please leave a message,” it drawled.
Nicole left another message, this one more desperate than the last. As she was hanging up, she heard a car slowing in front. Instinctively, she reached over and flipped off the light. Then she padded into the hall and looked out the small window in the front door. A battered white Renault coupe drove by slowly.
When it was gone, she went back into the kitchen, turned on the light and retrieved her glass of milk. In the cupboard, she found the open package of chocolate-covered biscuits. She munched on one, ears cocked for any new sound from the street. All was quiet.
She finished the milk and cookie and turned off the kitchen light. She was just starting up the stairs when she heard another car approach. Trotting back to the window, she was surprised to see the same white car, now heading in the opposite direction.
As she looked out, the car zipped over to the curb and parked. Then two men got out and started across the street toward the house. Under the streetlight, they were an odd pair, odder still by virtue of the fact that they were dressed almost identically in black leather jackets and dark pants. One was short and grossly obese with a ruffle of jowls that hung down over his collar. The other was tall and skinny with a long neck and small, narrow head.
They stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house and stared directly at the front door, where Nicole was cowe
ring behind the little window. Then the fat one touched the other man on the arm, and both heads swiveled up toward the bedroom window where the lamp on Nicole’s night table was the only light in the house.
She froze, her heart launching into a brisk percussion as the pair headed through the gate into the front yard. Only when they disappeared around the side of the house was she able to set her legs in motion and take flight up the stairs. “Brad,” she hissed, when she reached the bedroom. “Oh God! There are a couple of guys sneaking around outside.”
“Huh?” Brad said groggily. “Wha —?”
“They look like thugs. They went around back.”
He got out of bed and went to the bedroom window.
“Out back,” she repeated. “You’ll have to go downstairs and look out the kitchen window.”
Brad left the room and clumped noisily down the steps. She followed him as far as the top of the staircase, then waited while he walked around the lower floor, looking out the windows.
When she heard him open the back door, she dashed down after him, calling, “What are you doing? Don’t go out there!”
The door slammed and, after a minute or so, reopened. Brad came in and, brushing past her, began trudging up the stairs.
“Did you see them?” she said, as she trailed after him.
“Nobody’s out there, Nick.”
She was filled with dread. “I think we should call the police.”
“Jesus, Nicole. Everything’s fine. Just try to get some sleep.”
When they reached their room, he climbed into bed. Nicole turned off her lamp and went back to the window. The white car was still parked across the street. The sight of it chilled her.
She turned to look at Brad, now cocooned under the blankets. “They must be the ones,” she said. “The ones who broke into the house.”
He pulled the covers back and propped himself up to look at her. “You told the cop you were sure it was that guy Reinhardt.”
She stared at him, suddenly filled with anger. He was doing it again, refusing to listen to her. “Look,” she said. “I don’t understand why you’re acting like this. It’s like you don’t even believe there was a break-in—”
“Listen, Nick, I do believe you,” Brad said wearily. “But those men you just saw out there? They’re probably the neighborhood watch or something. Two guys picking up a third to go fishing, only they got the wrong house. Get some sleep, and in the morning, we’ll both have a good laugh about it.”
“You think I imagined the whole thing.”
“No, I think ...” he paused, reaching for the right phrase. “I think you’re overreacting. You had a bad scare, and you’re exhausted. That’s enough to make anybody a little nuts.”
With that, he lay down, turned toward the wall, and pulled the covers over his head.
Nicole stood at the window, staring down at the white car. The street was completely still. Finally, she climbed back into bed.
Five
When Nicole opened her eyes, sunlight was streaming through the curtains. She threw the covers back and grabbed her robe from the chair, pulling it on while her bare feet searched the carpet for slippers.
From the silence, she could tell Brad had already left for the office. No matter how many time zones they crossed, Brad was always up and out early the next morning. Today he’d be especially anxious to get in and begin repairing the relationship between SoftPac and its new British subsidiary. This would require, as Brad put it, “a major effort in massaging bruised egos.” Then Nicole remembered that Brenda would be there, too, no doubt eager to do a little massaging of her own.
On the kitchen counter, an envelope was waiting, covered with Brad’s unruly scrawl. “Hope you had a good rest and feel more like yourself,” it said. “Have fun shopping. We’ll go out for dinner tonight. Just us two. Love, Brad.” Inside the envelope was a stack of £20 notes.
She fanned out the bills to count them. At the current exchange rate, they added up to about $800. Stuffing the money back in the envelope, she let out a long, exasperated breath. He was treating her like a child. The money was especially galling after the flak he’d given her for taking the summer off.
And now, here he was, throwing money at her. He’d never been big on spontaneous gifts. And this, like his solicitousness of the night before, struck her as a sign of a guilty conscience.
She thought about this while she struggled with the coffee maker. It was a coffee press, which she’d seen in kitchen supply shops but had never actually used. She thought she grasped the basic principle: put in the coffee and boiling water, then work a plunger to pull the water through the coffee, or vice versa. But she didn’t have a clue as to where to put the coffee, or whether to add the water first or last. She tried three different strategies, each producing the same muddy brew. Finally, she gave up and poured herself a cup.
She was still in her robe, sipping coffee and brooding about Brad and Brenda, when the detective arrived. She hadn’t expected Detective Constable Keaton, as she introduced herself, to be a woman, but there she was, a slender brunette in her early forties wearing a fashionably cut dark-blue suit. She had an angular face, and her dark red lipstick and carefully penciled-in eyebrows made her look a bit hard. But she was polite, soft-spoken, and professional, a pleasant contrast to the rude young constable. Until this moment, Nicole hadn’t realized how much she’d been dreading this interview. Keaton was a pleasant surprise.
Keaton murmured a polite, “None for me, thanks,” to the offered coffee. “Tell me everything you can remember about this break-in, Mrs. Graves,” she said.
Nicole started with her encounter with Reinhardt in the front yard. By now the detective had pulled a notebook from her tailored leather bag and began writing. “Please do go on,” she prompted.
When Nicole was done with her story, Keaton brought up the possibility that Reinhardt wasn’t the burglar at all. “You know, this man might really be your landlord’s business associate. It wouldn’t make good sense for him to put in an appearance and introduce himself if he was planning to break into the house.” The detective smiled while she was talking. She smiled a lot, although as far as Nicole could tell, she didn’t seem to have much sense of humor.
She pointed out that the intruder hadn’t hurt Nicole—had, in fact, taken some care to wait until she’d gone in to bathe (the detective pronounced it bath) before he locked the door. “In his way, he spared you the trauma of a direct encounter.”
“A real gentleman,” Nicole said.
“Be grateful,” Keaton said, with yet another smile. “Los Angeles doesn’t have a corner on heinous crimes, you know. We see some terrible things.
“As for those two men you mentioned seeing in front of the house,” she continued, “it’s unlikely that they had anything to do with your break-in either. We find that most perpetrators stay away from the scene of a burglary for a while. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to look around.”
Methodically, she began examining the locks on the doors and windows. She had bright red nails and a dainty way of touching things that called attention to them. When she found the cellar door unlocked, she gave Nicole a smile. “You really should keep this secured,” she said gently.
As she made her way down the stairs, Nicole was a step or two behind. In the cellar, the detective discovered yet another entrance to the house. It was a small trap door designed for delivering coal directly into the big bin next to the furnace. The padlock was missing. Keaton produced a handkerchief from her purse and, using it to protect her manicure, pushed against the trap door. It lifted easily and turned out to be not only unlocked but unlatched.
Nicole must have paled, for the detective reached out and gently gripped her shoulder. “Never mind about that,” Keaton said kindly. “We’ll lock it up now.” She looked around until she found a cobwebby padlock lying on a window sill. The key was still in the lock. Still using the handkerchief, by now covered with cobwebs and soot, she carefully remov
ed the key and handed it to Nicole. She dusted off the lock, slipped it into place, and clicked it shut.
“Don’t worry,” she told Nicole. “This wasn’t the entry point for your intruder.” She pointed to the coal bin, right under the trap door. “He would have landed there first. You don’t see any coal tracks on the cellar floor, now do you?”
On the way back up the steps, Nicole remembered the Lowrys’ tenant. When she mentioned Alice to Keaton, the detective immediately smiled. “I’d like a word with her,” she said.
Nicole led the detective up to the second floor, then down the hall past the Lowrys’ bedroom to Alice’s room at the back of the house. She knocked on the door, but there was no response. “I guess she’s out,” she said. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t heard her this morning. Maybe she already has another nursing assignment.” Remembering Alice’s offer to show her around London, she felt a pang of disappointment.
“I’ll give you my number,” Keaton said. “Ask her to give me a ring. I have a few questions for her.”
She didn’t ask if the detective was going to dust for fingerprints. The moment had passed. Aside from the unlocked cellar, Keaton was impressed with the amount of security in the house and admonished Nicole to take full advantage of it. “Even if it’s broad daylight, and you’re planning to go no further than the back garden,” she said, turning on the full wattage of her smile, “for heaven’s sake, lock the door and take the key with you.”
As they were saying goodbye, Keaton produced her card and, still smiling, pressed it into Nicole’s hand. “Now, I’d like you to keep your eyes open,” she said. “Be aware of what’s going on. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, please give me a ring. Even if it doesn’t seem terribly important.”
Despite Keaton’s kindness, Nicole didn’t think the detective bought her theory about Reinhardt being the culprit, nor was she much interested in hearing about the two men who’d been sneaking around in the middle of the night. On the other hand, Keaton did seem to accept Nicole’s word that there had been an intruder who’d locked her in the bathroom. Keaton also seemed to respect her observations, listening to what she had to say and taking careful notes.
The Swap Page 5
