“I guess so. Must have been.” She considered this as Boldt walked slowly around the crowded sitting room. Television, rack of electronics, desk, computer, telephone, printer, two yard-sale chairs, two metal file cabinets, different makes and colors. “But he was home.”
Boldt studied the room’s ceiling and walls. A motion sensor high in the far corner; shades and extra thick curtains on the windows; a heat alarm in the kitchen. “Installed the security stuff himself, I bet.” He bent over and yanked up a cheap throw rug. Put it back down and pulled up another by the top of the stairs.
“What’s that?” she asked, seeing what he had discovered.
“Pressure switch. You step on the rug and it trips the alarm, same as a motion detector.” He moved on, checking the interior of a small pantry.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t what he was looking for. “An upstairs closet?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He stopped at the bottom of the stairway, which was a tight turn to the left. He stooped and eyed it carefully. Again the overhead stairway light was twice the wattage it needed to be. Again, it obscured one’s vision of the top of the stairs. Another motion detector directly overhead. “The guy was careful,” Boldt allowed. “A guy like this probably made more than a few people mad. Or broke. Or both. You think about it,” he considered aloud, “no shortage of enemies.”
“I know it doesn’t help our case any,” she said, discouraged.
“Pressure pads under his carpets. I tell you what, I arm that security system whenever I’m home. Anyone tries to sneak in on me, I know about it.”
Boldt asked her to walk on the outer edges of the carpeted stairs. They ascended awkwardly.
The upstairs floor plan nearly mirrored the second story, the bathroom over the kitchen, the bedroom over the living room, the closet space stacked vertically. Boldt headed directly to the closet while Gaynes called out to him that the bathroom was the other room. He didn’t answer. He opened the closet door and studied what he saw.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You checked this?”
“Sure.”
“And what did you find?”
“A cedar-lined closet,” she answered. “Clothes, shoes, sweaters.”
“Telephone?”
“What are you talking about?”
He pushed some hanging clothes out of the way and pointed down the rear wall of the closet, showing her the phone.
“What the hell, Sarge?”
His promotion clearly didn’t register with anyone but the bookkeeper. None of those who had served under him were going to call him Lieutenant.
“You notice the closet door?” He pointed. “Two interior dead bolts, top and bottom. A telephone. Behind the cedar you’ll find sheet metal at the very least, plate steel, if he had the bucks. And somewhere in here …” Boldt pushed the clothes around, but didn’t see what he was looking for. He dropped to his knees and clawed at the carpet. The far corner came up. Beneath it, a piece of particleboard had been cut out of the subfloor. He hooked a finger into the joint and lifted.
“My God!” Gaynes said, on her knees alongside him.
Inside was a Glock 21 10mm and three loaded magazines, headlamp, batteries and a variety of ugly-looking grenades.
“Grenades?”
“Probably phosphorus and stun grenades. It’s his safe room. A phone line to the outside, hardened walls, lots of weapons. A place to hide if the boogeyman shows up. We’ll want to catalog it all, get it down to property.”
“Sorry I missed this,” she apologized.
Back in the bedroom, Boldt explained, “I know his type. That’s why I say the security would have been armed once he was inside. He gave people trouble. At his level that could mean some vicious reprisals.”
“The alarm should have been armed?”
“It was at some point.”
“I don’t get it.”
“By the time we responded, the alarm was off,” he reminded, testing her.
Her face knotted in concentration.
“Front door was found locked,” Boldt added. With Gaynes as his shadow they moved over to the door to the bathroom and Boldt leaned his head in, not stepping inside. “The clothes you found on the floor here, did he have possessions in his pockets? Change? Pens? Wallet?”
“Yes.” She spoke as a student to the teacher, “But we don’t necessarily accept that the dead guy put them there.”
“No we don’t,” Boldt agreed, still not venturing inside the small room. “Where’s his stuff? Personal possessions?”
“The contents of his pants were bagged along with the clothes themselves.”
“Keys?”
“I could call in,” she offered. “Have somebody check for me.”
“Call it in,” Boldt advised. “Number of keys and make. Especially Yale. How many Yale keys?”
“What’s up anyway?”
Boldt looked around the bathroom once more and then met eyes with Gaynes. “Mr. Anderson had a visitor. A very smart, very careful visitor.”
Boldt ate a piece of cheddar cheese he found in Anderson’s refrigerator. Was just going to go to waste. Dead man’s cheese, eaten wearing latex gloves. He followed it with some Triscuits from an overhead cabinet and a warm 7-UP. He sat at the kitchen counter snacking while Gaynes watched him, her ear to the phone, awaiting an answer.
“You could use the weight,” she said.
“Grief diet,” he told her. That made him check his watch and think about his son, his daughter and his wife lying in that hospital bed.
The crackers helped ease the pain in his belly. He’d had ulcers. There wasn’t anything new under the sun.
Gaynes mumbled thanks into the phone and hung up. “Eleven keys. Two were Yale.”
“Two,” Boldt stated. He nodded. “Okay, then that’s it.”
“Sarge, I don’t mean to be-”
“The front door,” he told her. “Just to make sure, you’d better check it.” He grabbed another handful of Triscuits. “I’ll finish my lunch, if you don’t mind.”
Gaynes maintained her curious expression. She had a pleasant, boyish face. They had built a history together. She had worked undercover for him on the Cross Killer case and had impressed him with her nerve and good instincts. She didn’t demand the spotlight. She reminded him of himself: a cop who wanted the challenge of difficult work, the lure of Homicide. She headed back down to check the locks. When she returned, hurrying, she announced, “All three are Yale. Top of the stairs is an Omni. You caught that on the way in, didn’t you?”
“Had to make sure,” he said, and thanked her for the legwork. He put the crackers away, washed off his gloved fingers.
“So!” she announced loudly, nervously, after a long silence.
“So someone comes to the front door,” Boldt said, moving from the kitchen toward the stairs. “Our boy checks it out.” He walked over to the television remote, turned on the TV and began to surf the channels. Gaynes looked confused and anxious. After thirty-four channels he hit gray sparkles and continued on into the sixties, mumbling, “It’s here somewhere. Got to be.” He then keyed in 99. The TV screen showed a fish-eye black-and-white image of the area outside Anderson’s door.
“No way,” Gaynes groaned, impressed.
Boldt said, “He concealed it behind that row of mirrors over the front door. Did you catch those?”
“I feel like I should go back to the academy.”
“Just lucky.”
“Right,” she replied sarcastically.
He continued with his theory. “Presumably he liked what he saw, approved of whomever was standing there.” He asked her, “Do you know home electronics?”
“A little.”
“Check that mess for an extra VCR. If I’m James Bond Anderson I run a twenty-four-hour video loop of all the action at my front door.” She was on it immediately, checking the gear.
“Two VCRs,” she confirmed, glancing back at him as if he were some kind of specter. “One’s running.”
“I’m telling you: just lucky. I know these guys.”
“You’re freaking me out here, Sarge.”
“The tape’s long erased itself by now. No use to us. But still, let’s log it as evidence and you take it home with you and play with your fast forward button. Watch it all the way through, just to cover our bases.”