A man lay sprawled beside her desk, facedown and unmoving, his blood mixed with spilled copier toner, the toner floating on top the viscous red pools like scum on a stagnant pond. She couldn't see his face. What had he wanted? What had happened to him? She owned nothing of great value. Was this simply vandalism, senseless and cruel? Not a burglary at all, but someone mindlessly stoned and intent on destruction, who ended up harming himself?
Whatever had happened, she felt totally violated, felt far more wounded than she'd ever envisioned when she'd heard about others' break-ins. Reading those accounts, she'd tried to imagine how one would react, but she hadn't had a clue.
She wondered, sickly, if he had trashed the whole house. Maybe he'd already made off with her TV and CD player, maybe with the few pieces of gold jewelry she kept in the top drawer of her dressing table, then had returned to see what else he could find. Had someone else been here, and hit him? He was very still, though from the way the blood and toner were smeared, it looked as if he had moved, maybe tried to roll over.
This was the stuff of some lurid movie. She needed the police, she needed someone. Her pride in her independence didn't stretch this far.
Beside her, Lamb looked up at her with solemn, dark eyes, alert and questioning. Reaching down to stroke him, she tried to reassure herself, to take herself in hand.
Why had the burglar turned on her computer? Its light shone faintly across the man's body, reflected from the eBay auction lists.
And was there another vandal? Was he out here in the yard somewhere, watching her? Looking in both directions along the side of the house, she knew she should get away.
None of this made sense. Could that man in there be lying so still to deceive her, wanting to lure her inside and grab her? Someone who would hurt her simply for kicks? Lamb continued to watch the window, the gleam in his dark eyes hard and alert like a snake ready to strike.
Certainly, with Lamb by her side, she would be safe going in. If she went inside, she could see better what had happened, could see if the man was dead, then call 911.
Oh yes, she could do that. And maybe she should take his pulse, she thought, disgusted with herself.
Hands shaking, she stepped down off the plastic planter and backed away. Pulling Lamb's leash tight, she slipped around to the drive where her car was parked. Unlocking the door, she signaled Lamb to get in. Following him, she locked the door again and used her cell phone, which she kept plugged into the dash, to call 911, her voice shaking so badly she could hardly make herself understood. That surprised her, that she would lose control. She managed to tell the dispatcher there was a man lying wounded in her house, bleeding and possibly dead, that there must have been two men. After she hung up, she wondered if she should back out of the drive, get away from there, even if the car was locked.
But it wouldn't be long. She would wait in the drive until the police came.
They arrived within five minutes, a patrol officer-one of two new rookies, she thought. And the new detective from San Francisco, Detective Dallas Garza. She was aware of Garza from her friend Wilma, who knew most of the officers in the Molena Point PD. She wished that Captain Harper himself had come.
The captain had a terse but comforting way about him. During all that trouble up at the retirement home last year, when she'd been staying there recovering from her car accident, and those people were killed up there, Harper's laid-back, quiet resolve had made everyone feel easier, had kept the elderly residents from panicking. But the department was growing, and Harper didn't go out on many calls anymore.
Detective Garza was a squarely built, solid man in his late forties, dressed in slacks and a sport coat, his short black hair neatly trimmed, his black Latin eyes unreadable. The uniformed officer with him was young, with dimples and a cleft chin. Susan gave Dallas Garza her house key, and remained in her car with the doors locked, as he instructed, while they cleared the house. Garza had told her to be ready to drive away if anyone came out or if she felt threatened.
He was in there a very long time. Through her slightly open driver's window, she heard the glass door of the breakfast room slide back, as if they had gone out that way and were looking over the patio. Then she heard the back patio gate creak open. Beside her, Lamb listened, following every sound.
Maybe ten minutes later she heard the gate shut again. She sat in the car feeling useless and uncharacteristically frightened. She didn't approve of such fear in herself; she wondered sometimes if this Senior Survival plan was simply a sign of weakness-a gaggle of old ladies who felt they couldn't cope with life alone? Looking over at Lamb, she was mighty thankful to have him. The big poodle, sitting erect in the passenger seat, watched the house as intently as if he could see through the walls. Another police car arrived, parking on the street. Garza came out of the house to confer with the officer, then walked over to her car, looking down at her as she rolled down her window.
"There's no one in there, Mrs. Brittain."
"That's a relief. Is the man dead?"
"There's no one in the breakfast room. There's no body." Garza looked at her carefully. "There's a lot of blood. Detective Davis is on the way. She'll photograph, take samples, and lift prints. Do you want to tell me again what you saw?"
Her hands began to shake. She couldn't believe what he told her. Reaching to Lamb, she clutched her fingers into his short dense curls.
"You couldn't have mistaken what you saw? Saw the blood, perhaps, and imagined…?"
"Of course not! Are you sure there was no one? You're saying that man got up and walked away?"
"There was no one in the breakfast room. The glass door was unlocked and ajar. Did you leave it that way?"
"I left it locked. I would have heard it open. I looked in the window, standing on that plastic pot, and he was there. I came right to the car, locked myself in, and called you. Well, I guess he could have opened it then, when I was calling, and I wouldn't have heard. But he was so still, and so much blood…"
"Could you describe again exactly what you saw?"
"A man. He looked dead. Lying on his stomach. Denim shirt and jeans. Lying in blood. His own blood, I supposed. Spilled printer toner mixed with blood, floating on top. Blood running into the spilled potting soil. He… the man was turned away, I couldn't see his face. He had short brown hair, and he was thin." She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the scene, then looked up at Garza. "I think he was young. Smooth neck, smooth hands."
"Was he wearing rings or a watch?"
She closed her eyed again, but she couldn't remember. Just kept seeing the blood.
"Did you notice anything else? His shoes? What kind of shoes?"
Again she tried to bring back the scene. "Blood and potting soil, or toner, on his shoes. They must have been jogging shoes. Yes, white. Blood and toner staining the white."
Garza nodded. "There was a blood trail out the glass door and across the patio. But no one in the house. Your keyboard is filled with blood and could have prints. May we take it as evidence?"
"I have another, I just recently bought that curved one-to help prevent wrist problems, you know."
Garza nodded. "And you're all right waiting here while we finish the initial investigation?"
"I'm fine." But, I'm hungry, she thought. Iwant my coffee.
She could go to the neighbors, beg a cup of coffee. But she didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to answer questions. And she didn't want to ask to go in the house while they were taking evidence. They wouldn't want her there getting in the way, maybe destroying something they felt was important.