Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(68)
Without looking over his shoulder to see how many busybodies might be peeking out from behind their curtains, he strode across the front of the house as if he knew where he was going. He knew enough to know that the back door would be in the back. Ten seconds later, he found it more or less where he’d expected it to be. It opened onto a small wooden deck, empty but for a single inexpensive patio chair—no patio grill, no garden hose, no wind chimes or hummingbird feeder. The outer aluminum door was unlocked; the wooden door with three diamond inserts of glass at eye level was not. He peered into the kitchen. An Amana refrigerator, gas stove, the corner of a small breakfast table. By all appearances, uncluttered and clean. He raised a fist to the door and rapped five times.
The house remained silent. He lowered his gaze. No dead bolt. He considered his options. The rear decks of two other houses had views of this back door, but was anybody watching? The entire neighborhood was quiet, the kind of bedroom community that had once been fashionable but was now home to high school teachers and small-business owners and factory workers, middle-aged, middle-class, and struggling first-time homeowners. He hoped that everybody was too busy making a living to pay any attention to the man leaning close to Bonnie’s back door, the man using his body to conceal the credit card he was sliding along the doorjamb.
A minute later, he was inside with the door closed behind him. He stood motionless in the corner beside the door and listened for the sounds of movement. The refrigerator hummed. The wall clock ticked.
Walking heel to toe, he crossed the kitchen to stand on the threshold of a long, narrow living room. He stepped just inside, grateful for the ugly shag carpeting, a pale, lifeless green. The living room opened onto a short hallway, and he kept his eye on that dark corridor as he crossed toward it. He told himself that if Bonnie was in the house, she would be in a bedroom. He could only hope that no one else was in there with her.
There were three bedrooms in all: one completely empty, another with nothing but a bare futon on the floor, the other fully furnished with a suite of heavy pieces—mission style, a fumed oak dresser and chest of drawers, two nightstands, and an unmade bed. A dozen clothes hangers lay scattered on the floor, the closet door standing open.
He turned on the bedroom light. Indentations in both pillows. The closet half-empty, another tangle of hangers on the floor. The room smelled of cigarette smoke. Was Bonnie a smoker? Huston, he felt certain, was not. And if that was not the indentation of Huston’s head on the second pillow, whose was it? He shut off the light and returned to the living room.
On the coffee table in front of the sofa were two empty beer bottles. Bud Light. To the left of the farthest bottle, a saucer with three cigarette butts in it. “Possibilities,” DeMarco said. “Bonnie smokes, Huston doesn’t. Or some other man doesn’t. Or some other man does and Bonnie doesn’t.” He could detect no lipstick on the filters.
After he returned to the car, DeMarco telephoned his station commander. “I’m going to need a search warrant ASAP,” he said, “and as soon as you get it, send a team from the nearest barracks over here to collect the prints. Somebody was with her when she bugged out. They left a couple beer bottles and a plateful of cigarette butts behind in the living room.”
“And just how do you know this?” Bowen asked.
“I peeked in the fucking window. How do you think I know?”
“So the curtains are open?”
DeMarco looked toward the plate-glass window with its tightly drawn curtains. “Could I see inside if they weren’t? And while you’re at it, get a search warrant for Whispers too.”
“And how do I justify all this?”
“She spent the night with Huston two Thursdays ago. Plus she lied to me about it. Plus she’s smart enough to know that it wouldn’t take long for me to figure out that she lied. So now Huston is nowhere to be found, his family is dead, and she bugged out of here probably a few hours ago with most of her clothes.”
“How do you know she didn’t just take them to the dry cleaner?”
“How would you like having to pick up your own fucking spinach rolls from now on?”
When the call ended, Trooper Morgan asked, “Where to now?”
DeMarco patted his breast pocket. “I think I dropped my pen when I was out back.”
“There are two or three in the glove compartment. Help yourself.”
“This was a special pen. Give me a minute.”
DeMarco climbed out and walked quickly to the back door. Inside again a few moments later, he made his way to the front window. With a hand on the drawcord, he pulled the curtain aside just enough to peek out. Morgan was examining his teeth in the rearview mirror. DeMarco drew the curtains open by a couple of inches, then hurried back outside and to the car.
“You find it?” Morgan asked.
“Nah, it’s gone. Let’s go.”
“I can help you look for it.”
“Forget it,” DeMarco said and pulled his seat belt tight.
“But if it’s special to you…”
“It’s a fucking pen,” DeMarco told him.
Morgan started the car. “Do you realize you’ve been swearing a lot lately? A lot more than you usually do.”
“I’m sorry,” DeMarco told him. “Really. I am just overcome with fucking regret.”