He slid his hand in his sleeve and used the cloth like a glove. He pushed the door before he touched the knob—he wanted to preserve any fingerprints that might be there—and the door swung open.
It hadn’t been tightly latched.
He remembered pulling it shut, pulling it so hard that the doorframe had shaken.
Someone had been here. Someone had been inside.
The hair rose slightly on the back of his neck. His house, invaded by the Creep. He didn’t see signs of the guy, but the air felt different, violated, as if just sharing it with the Creep had destroyed it somehow.
What if the Creep was still inside?
Rick’s hands twitched. He didn’t own a weapon—had always thought guns more dangerous in the hands of their owners than anywhere else. He thought of grabbing a knife, but that would show that he was afraid of the intruder.
Better to use his hands. He was a strong man. He could handle a single, cowardly stalker.
He hoped.
Little things had been moved. The picture of his parents which hung on the wall in the hallway was tilted. The book he’d been reading was face up and closed, left on the coffee table. He was about to check the bedroom when he saw that the door to the basement was open.
A shiver ran through him. He kept that door closed. His office was down there, and he didn’t want anyone seeing that space. Not that he’d had any visitors to look at it, but still.
He snuck around the creaky parts of the floor and slid through the basement door. There were three stairs and then a landing before the stairs turned and went all the way down. He left the light off. This was the one part of the house he would be able to walk through in his sleep.
It worried him that the light was off. The basement steps were treacherous. Anyone who was unfamiliar with them would need some kind of light to make it to the bottom. He wondered if the Creep had heard him come in and was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him to arrive—waiting to attack, waiting to get rid of his rival, as so many of his threatening letters had suggested.
Then Rick let out a shallow breath. The only way out of that basement was through a window, and those were set high in the walls. He had no accessible chairs down there and no ladders. The Creep wouldn’t be able to reach the windows in order to get out.
Rick eased out of the basement door, back into the kitchen. Then, softly, he closed the door and locked it on the outside.
He went to the alarm and turned on its perimeter features. That would tell him if the Creep had somehow managed to open a window.
Then Rick went to the phone and called Tasha.
TWENTY-ONE
TASHA WAS FEELING a sense of victory. Desmond Pfeiffer hadn’t changed the Parade of Homes interior decoration at all after he moved in. Even the cheap prints still hung on the walls. But when she compared the photos of the crime scene with the Parade of Homes photos, she noted that a Persian rug was missing. It should have been in the entryway, and it wasn’t.
She pointed that out to Lou who was unimpressed. “Maybe he didn’t like it.”
“Or maybe the killer took it.”
“Why would the killer take a rug?”
She slid out the Parade of Homes photos. The Persian rug ran from the entry into the living room, right near the area where Desmond’s blood pooled.
“I bet our guy stepped in some blood, was walking along the carpet, turned to look at his handiwork and saw the footprints.”
“Like he’d know we could use that to identify him,” Lou said.
“Of course he’d know,” Tasha said. “Remember all the OJ evidence about the Bruno Magli shoe? Not to mention CSI and all its clones.”
“Like they’re accurate.”
“Still, I bet if we find the rug, we find the killer.”
“What’s the bet this time?” Lou asked. “If the rug doesn’t lead us to the killer, I pull an extra duty shift. If it does, I buy you dinner?”
“Smart ass,” Tasha said. “We could also check his shoes.”
“Not without cause. He’s not going to let us into his house.”
Tasha was still staring at the photos. “There’s something else missing. What is that?”
She shoved a Parade of Homes photo toward Lou and pointed at something round and shiny on the end table.
Lou picked up the photo and studied it up close. “Looks like one of those big glass paperweights.”
He lowered the photo and looked at her.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “That’s our weapon, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It probably is. I’ll make a copy of this and we’ll take it to the coroner, see what she says.”
“She said a blunt object, rounded edges.”
“It’s size I’m worried about, Tash.”
Tasha grinned. “Men usually are.” Her phone rang and she grabbed it. “Tasha Morgan.”
“Tash, it’s Rick.” His voice was low, so low she almost couldn’t hear it. “I probably should have called 911, but after today, I thought it might be better if I called you.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Lou had started for the copier, but he stopped when she said that. She held up a hand for silence.
“I didn’t lock my place this morning for fairly obvious reasons, and when I got here, it was pretty clear that someone had entered my house. The basement door, which I always keep shut, was ajar. I don’t know if anyone’s down there, but I closed and locked the door just the same.”
“Are you still in the house?”
Lou frowned at her.
“Yeah,” Rick said. “I turned on the perimeter alarm. I’ll know if he gets out.”
“Did you check all the other rooms?”
There was a slight hesitation. “I’ll do that now.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll get out.”
“But the alarm—”
“Is there any way out of that basement?”
“The windows.”
“Then an open window will tell us a lot more than your alarms will. Get out now. I’ll be right there.”
She hung up.
Lou was staring at her. “Let me guess. That was Tall, Dark, and Screwy.”
“He thinks someone got into his house while we had him here.”
“Nice ploy. Builds on your sympathy, gets you involved real fast.”
“Lou, it’s a call for help.” She grabbed her suit jacket.
“If he was having trouble, why didn’t he call 911?”
“And explain everything all over again? Plus the fact that he was down here for assault? Come on, Lou. Not even you would have done that.”
Lou shook his head slightly. “I’m coming with you.”
“Damn right you are. And if we find anyone, we’re calling for back-up.”
“You think we’ll find someone?” Lou asked.
“You know,” Tasha said, “I’m hoping we will.”
TWENTY-TWO
RICK STOOD ON his front lawn, shifting from foot to foot, feeling like an idiot. He was making quite a spectacle of himself for the neighbors—first the attack, then the arrest, and now this, standing outside doing nothing, like a lunatic. He wondered if Mrs. McGuilicuty was sitting near her window with her hand clutching the phone, just waiting for him to do something else before she called the police again.
Well, she’d be surprised when the police showed up.
It had been about fifteen minutes. He’d already walked the outside of his house. All the basement windows were closed. He saw no one inside. The other windows were closed as well.
He couldn’t believe he’d failed to check out the other rooms. But he was convinced that the Creep had gone into the basement. That had been where he had tried to get in before. That had to be where he was.
While he waited, Rick had picked up the roses and put them in a pile beside the porch steps. He placed the ferns beside them, and then he collected the shards of glass, setting them near the destroyed flower arrang
ements. Oddly enough, he’d never found the card. The Creep always enclosed a card.
Had it blown away? Or had the Creep himself picked it up?
Or had the Creep staged this whole thing so that he could get inside. More and more, Rick was beginning to believe that was what happened.
But he wasn’t going to tell Tasha. He already sounded crazy enough.
He was about to pace the grounds around his house a second time, when Tasha’s white sedan pulled up. She parked just as haphazardly as she had that morning. And she wasn’t alone. The older cop was with her, the one that had originally handcuffed Rick.
Well, what had he expected? Her to come alone, dressed in that spectacular green gauze?
“You think he’s still inside?” Tasha asked as she got out of the car.
“He was inside or someone was.” Rick walked up to greet her. “But is he still? I don’t know. He’s not trying to get out.”
The other cop got out of the car, and glared at Rick. Rick decided this was the moment to take control. He extended a hand. “Rick Chance. We got off on the wrong foot this morning.”
“And you still got that foot in your mouth, as far as I’m concerned,” the cop said.
“Lou.” Tasha sounded exasperated. “This is my partner, Lou Rassouli.”
“Detective Rassouli to you,” he said to Rick.
Rick let his hand fall. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell us how to get to that basement,” Tasha said, “and then we’ll handle this.”
“No way,” Rick said. “I’m coming with you.”
“Like hell,” Rassouli said.
“It’s my house. There’s some creep inside.”
“And if he shoots you, you’ll sue the city. Not a risk I want to take.” Tasha was all business, like she’d been earlier. He found he liked this side of her. “How do we get there?”
Rick told them. “I’ve got a pretty sturdy lock on my office door down there. If he got through that, and then barricaded himself inside, you’ll have to come get me.”
“Where’s the key?” Tasha asked.
Rick stared at her for a moment. “I use an electronic combination lock.”
She let out a small snort. “What? You afraid someone’ll steal your next masterpiece?”
“No,” he said. “I just didn’t want anyone walking in there accidentally.”
“You really are into this secrecy crap, aren’t you?” Rassouli asked.
Rick felt cold. “You told him? I thought you weren’t going to say—”
“You told him,” Tasha said as she pulled out her gun. “He was outside the interrogation room.”
Then she led the way to the house. The gun made Rick nervous. He had known this situation was serious, but to have two police officers enter his home, guns drawn, made it seem like something out of Cops.
He hovered near the porch steps, feeling useless. He didn’t want to wait, but he understood the wisdom of it. Still, he knew it would take all his self-control not to follow them inside.
***
Rick’s house was a revelation. Not as slobby as Tasha had expected and not neat-as-a-pin, but somewhere in between. There was a few days’ worth of clutter—newspapers, some battered magazines—on end tables, and half-read books scattered throughout. An open and unfinished bag of popcorn leaned against the couch, as if he’d been eating it while he read something, and then forgot about it.
The furniture was comfortable and expensive. She wagered the wood frames were made of cherry. The end tables certainly were. He didn’t have a television in his living room, but he had bookshelves—more books than she had ever seen in one place. The shelves went down the hall to what was obviously the guest bedroom.
It was empty. Lou checked the closet just to make sure, then he gestured to Tasha to follow him into the bathroom. It was old and one part of the house that hadn’t been remodeled. It had a claw-footed tub and no shower, but there were no toiletries either. The guest bath. It had two doors. One of them led into the laundry room. That room was a mess of dirty clothes piled on the floor, clean clothes folded on top of the dryer, and wet clothes hanging from a peg behind the door.
This time, Tasha checked the dark places. Nothing. Yet.
Her heart was pounding, like it always did in these situations. She wasn’t nervous. She was anticipating, knowing that at any moment, something—someone—could jump out at her, startle her, force her into an error. She had to be very alert to prevent that, and seeing Rick’s stuff for the first time this way, made her feel slightly off her game.
The kitchen was spotless and stunning—a cook’s kitchen, also made of cherry, with a flat-topped stove and a refrigerator that looked like it could fly all by itself. The room had a lot of light and no corners for anyone to hide in.
There was, however, a huge security keypad with a computerized screen that showed all parts of the house. Lou nodded toward it as he went by.
A confirmation, maybe, of Rick’s story. Was that how Lou saw it? Or did he see it as part of the scam that he was convincing himself Rick was running? Tasha couldn’t tell.
She found the basement door where Rick had said it would be. She showed it to Lou, who nodded. First, though, he wanted to check the upstairs. No sense going into the place where they could get trapped before discovering whether or not they were alone in the house.
Her stomach jumped at the thought. Would Rick come in and lock them down there? Was he that kind of nutcase? Then she shook the idea off. If he did anything like that, she had her cell phone and Lou had his. They could literally call for help.
She rounded the corner, went back to the narrow hallway and found the stairs leading up. They were broad, and made of polished wood. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Lou was following, then she went up.
Halfway up, she heard the faint murmur of voices. Her stomach jumped. She hadn’t expected the Creep, as Rick called him, to be upstairs. She had expected him to be in the locked basement. She turned, gestured to Lou to remain silent, and continued up the steps.
There wasn’t much of a landing upstairs—just a central space that had three doors leading off it, one to a bathroom, one to a bedroom, and one where the noise was coming from.
Tasha moved silently toward that room, noting that this house was in such good repair not even the floorboards creaked. The bathroom across from her was obviously the master bath. It had been completely remodeled. She could tell that from outside the room, from the tile, the size of the shower, and the partially visible sink.
Something reflected on the glass shower door, something from the room she was heading to. She kept her gun out, back to the wall.
The voices coalesced into familiar tones. Laughter, tinny and electronic. The voice of the guy who did most of Portland’s helicopter traffic reports. She was hearing a radio.
That didn’t make her drop her guard.
She waited until Lou was beside her, then she spun into the room, hands braced, finger on the trigger.
It was a den—and it appeared to be empty. A long couch with the indentation of Rick’s body in the cushions, another half empty popcorn bag, and books scattered on the floor. The television was tuned to a rerun of Full House, the WGN logo in the lower right hand corner showing what channel the TV was tuned to. In the left corner, the word “mute” was displayed in prominent red.
A computer hummed near the shuttered window. The screen saver showed a slow-motion baseball game, obviously in progress. And the radio, now playing “It’s My Party” not softly enough behind her, was not just any radio. It was a Bose. Spendy, like everything else in the room.
It looked like someone had been interrupted while working on the computer, and had not come back to anything, which would dove-tail with Rick’s story about the flower delivery. But why would someone have a radio and the television on at the same time?
There was a small closet near the radio. She signaled Lou to watch while she turned the knob. The closet was dark and smelled
faintly of leather. It was filled with suits and leather jackets. Ties of all design hung on the door, and expensive shoes covered the floor. She pushed the clothing back with her free hand.
Nothing. No one.
She let out a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding. “Clear,” she whispered.
That left the bedroom. A little shiver ran through her at the thought of it. Rick’s bedroom. She had never expected to enter it like this.
Lou led them across that narrow landing and toward the bedroom door. This time he went in first, following the same procedure she’d used, back to the door, then turning in, gun out and ready. After a moment, he gestured her to follow.
The room was larger than the den, with windows that overlooked the backyard. The bed was made—ten points for Rick—and was covered with thick pillows. The spread was a simple tan with black lines. Very masculine.
The entire room was very masculine.
And it smelled faintly of Rick, a scent she was beginning to recognize, something akin to sunshine on a beautiful summer day.
Maybe Lou was right. Maybe she did have it bad. And it was distracting her. It was distracting her now. She couldn’t take her gaze off that bed, thinking about him in it at night, in the dark, naked...
She wrenched herself away. Lou was opening the closet door and she was supposed to cover him. Her breath caught in her throat. If something had happened a minute earlier, she wouldn’t have been paying attention. What if Rick’s Creep had been inside? She would have lost her partner because she was ogling the bed of a man she’d nearly arrested that morning.
But this closet, filled with casual shirts, jeans and khakis, was as empty as the other one.
“Basement then,” Lou said softly.
“Wait.” Tasha wanted to check one other thing. She holstered her gun and went back to the den. Lou followed.
Once inside, she pushed the mouse beside the computer. With a melodic bing, the screen saver disappeared. Windows appeared—displaying the desktop in the background. In the foreground was an Internet website showing a stock graph that had frozen in real time. And in front of it all, was a notice that the user had been idle too long, and his modem had disconnected at 11:26 a.m., about ten minutes before Tasha had arrived that morning.
The Perfect Man Page 12
