I hit the space bar, and the computer came back to life. That was the last thing I was hoping for, but it did actually make sense. A hiccup in the electrical supply wouldn’t have restored the computer’s ability to sleep. Only a manual reset could do that. And more alarmingly still, there were no test results for me to view, and no indication my new program was running in the background. I was lost for an explanation. But as I sat and stared at the inert Home screen, my confusion began to unravel itself into something much more straightforward. Worry.
I pulled the keyboard closer to me and checked the computer’s directory. There was no sign of my new program at all. It had completely vanished. As had the data I’d imported. The memory stick had disappeared, too, from the port on the side of the machine. To lose the program was bad enough, but my only copy of the data as well? That would be a disaster.
Then, a moment’s reprieve. All the data wasn’t missing. I hadn’t used the files on the second memory stick, had I? But what had I done with it? My sluggish mind was blank. It took a real effort to recall details of the previous night. And out of the murk I dredged up—nothing.
That was the answer. Nothing. I hadn’t done anything with the memory stick. I’d left it on my key ring. The key ring I’d put on my desk when I checked that the tests were still running. And now there was no sign of it, either. There was just my keyboard, and the monitor. Other than those, the glass surface—and the wooden floor that was visible through it—was completely bare.
Hopes for Carolyn’s return were suddenly replaced by another, altogether more sinister explanation for the door being open when I came downstairs earlier. My stomach turned over. I looked up at the wall above my desk, neurotically checking that my Lichtenstein was still there.
Then I reached for the phone and dialed 911.
Tuesday. Mid-morning.
IN A FEW MINUTES’ TIME, THERE’D BE ARMED MEN IN MY HOUSE.
I’d never imagined myself having to call the police. In fact, like most people, I’d never given the police much conscious thought at all. Ever since I could remember they’d just been a hypothetical, intangible presence. Sometimes unwelcome—like when a guy breaks out a joint at a college party, or when your speedometer creeps a few miles-an-hour north of the limit on the freeway—but usually reassuring. Like a safety net. Only there’s a big difference between being vaguely aware of something that’s there to catch you if you fall, and finding out how it feels to crash face-first into the mesh.
MAYBE ARMED MEN HAD ALREADY been in my house that morning? If I was right, and someone had stolen my prototype, they’d have had to break in to get to my computer. And what kind of burglar breaks into a house, knowing the owner is inside, without being armed? I couldn’t believe I’d been there all along, asleep, and oblivious. It reminded me of my favorite TV show from a while back. Deadwood. Set at the height of the gold rush. In those days, if someone stole your stuff you were free to cut their throats and have their bodies eaten by pigs. Today, I had to wait for a couple of government clock-punchers to show up and take care of business for me. It made me feel irrelevant, like a redundant spectator on the sidelines of life, and I didn’t like it one little bit. I began to wonder if I’d been too hasty, refusing point-blank when Carolyn suggested we should keep a gun in the house after a spate of break-ins in the neighborhood the Christmas before last.
MAYBE ARMED MEN WERE still in my house? The thought hit me as I finished making the coffee I’d neglected earlier. The front door had been left open, after all. Could that have been deliberate? Could the intruders have left it that way in case they needed to make a quick exit? They could have heard me moving around, and taken cover to avoid a confrontation. Like cornered animals. I never did check the spare bedrooms upstairs. Or the closet in the hallway. Or the laundry room, or …
I heard a noise behind me. Someone was trying a door handle. Trying to get in? Or out? I spun around and saw two people outside, on the rear deck. Both were women. Both were younger than me—maybe in their early thirties—and both were wearing nondescript pant suits and flat shoes. I stepped back, momentarily panicked, then the obvious realization hit me. It was the police. These women were detectives. For some reason I’d been expecting uniformed cops. I relaxed, and one of them motioned for me to open the door. That was a whole other problem, though, due to the missing keys.
“Well,” the taller detective said when I finally managed to retrieve the spare set of keys and wrestle the door open. “That was quite an adventure.”
“I’m sorry about that. The keys … My regular ones are missing … I couldn’t remember …”
“Is that coffee I smell?” the second detective asked, cutting me off. “Pour me a big mug, no cream, no sugar, and we’ll call it even. Do that, then maybe go put on clothes, and we can get started.”
WHEN I RETURNED, five or six minutes later, the detective who’d asked for the coffee was sitting at my kitchen table, leaning back comfortably like an old friend who’d popped round to shoot the breeze. Her gray jacket was draped across the back of her chair. She had dark hair—almost black—that hung down below her shoulders, curling in slightly at the tips, and contrasting sharply with her crisp white blouse. Her colleague, the taller one, had cropped blond hair that stood up in sharp little spikes. Her suit was dark blue, and its cut was a little more flattering. She didn’t have a wedding band, but from the way she was leaning against the fridge, looking like she’d be happier somewhere else, she did seem to have an attitude.
“That’s better.” The sitting detective smiled. “It’s an old rule of mine. If I can’t be in pajamas, no one can. Now, let’s get this show on the road. Introductions. My name’s Detective Hayes. This is my partner, Detective Wagner. You’re Mr. Bowman, right? May we call you Marc?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“You called 911 this morning? Said there’d been a break-in? And property had been stolen?”
“Right. I did.”
“OK. Well, we’re very sorry about what’s happened to you, Marc. But the good news is, Detective Wagner and I are here to help. Why don’t you start at the beginning, and tell us exactly what happened? In your own words. Take your time. And don’t leave anything out.”
DETECTIVE HAYES TOOK A notepad out of her purse when I began talking, but she didn’t write anything down. About halfway through my account she started tapping the paper with her pen, and by the time I’d finished I could see from her expression that her idea of sympathy was very different from mine.
“Thank you, Marc.” Hayes tipped her head back to take a final swig of coffee. “I’m getting the bare bones, no problem. But there are a couple of things you could help us straighten out. Like, the front door. You found it wide open, before, you said. Why’s it closed now?”