Wait Until Dark, page 30
1
HE SLID THE DELICATE TOOL - made for such purposes and readily available if one knew where to look - between the doorjamb and the frame, listening carefully for the sound of the lock slipping aside. Pushing open the door only far enough to allow him entrance into the town house, he stepped into the dark silence, trying to figure out just how much time he would have to first locate, then disengage, the security system. The small metal marker on the front lawn had told him whose system protected the premises and being well familiar with that company's product, he knew he could disable the mechanism in the blink of an eye. Once, of course, he located it.
He dropped his shoes, which he'd removed outside before he'd picked the lock, then walked straight through the kitchen, down a short hall, and directly into the foyer, taking no pains now to keep quiet. She wasn't at home, and wouldn't be for at least another two hours. This was Wednesday. One of her gym and dinner-out-with-her-friends nights. She never arrived home much before eleven. That gave him more than enough time to complete his task.
It took only seconds to turn off the alarm, which was, as he'd have bet his last nickel it would be, right there inside the front door. And then he was free to take his time.
He stood in his stocking feet on the plush carpet in the cool of the darkened living room, taking care not to stand too near the large window, where plants of every height and variety crowded the sill. He smiled, having suspected that a country girl like her would surround herself with as much greenery as possible.
Shining his flashlight around the room, he set out to acquaint himself with his surroundings. The sofa was a pretty floral, the pair of wing back chairs covered in a coordinating plaid. A handsome armoire covered part of one wall. With one finger, he slid the door over, then peered inside to find a large-screened TV - not so large as to be excessive, he noted - a VCR and a stereo. Shelves of videos - some of which were classic black-and-white films - and stacks of CDs, classical composers and classic rock. Nothing more contemporary than Santana's latest.
That was his Valerie.
Nothing too far out for his girl.
The coffee table held a number of small items, and he leaned closer to take a look. Small porcelain shapes, so many that she must have been collecting for a long time. He scanned the array quickly with the flashlight. One shape in particular caught his eye. Smiling - surely it was a sign - he slipped it into his pocket.
The old rolltop desk stood open, a pile of mail to one side. He paused to thumb through it, noting where she shopped and what she bought. A card handmade with childish fingers and signed in childish scrawl - we miss you from Eric and Evan - sat next to an antique inkwell.
Photographs poked out of an envelope, and he looked through those as well. In one, she stood on the front steps of an old cabin, a little boy on either side of her like matching bookends. In others, she wore a dark blue bridesmaid's dress and posed with others similarly clad. He studied these closely, taking note of the veil worn by the bride and the cascading bouquet of white roses and some other white things, he couldn't tell exactly what but they looked elegant. Then there she was in a group shot in front of a Christmas tree. He wondered who the man was who stood so close to her right side, one arm casually draped over her shoulder. Frowning, he replaced the pictures, closed over the envelope, and tucked it into his back pocket.
He padded up the steps to her bedroom, which, he knew from watching her these past few months, would be at back of the house. Once he'd closed the door and drawn the drapes tightly, he felt free to turn on the lights.
Again, he smiled. All was so very tasteful. He nodded his approval of the queen-size sleigh bed with its matching dressers of dark wood. The small oriental accent rug with its deep crimson flowers on a background of taupe. The quilt folded neatly to stretch across the end of the bed. The small chair that stood in one corner of the room. The dense sage green carpet under foot. All totally classy, like the lady herself. All neat as a pin, not a thing out of place anywhere.
Well, of course there wouldn't be. He'd suspected that she would take great care with her things, and she obviously did.
He poked his head inside the green and white bathroom and took a quick look around. Fluffy, pure white towels hung from shiny chrome rods, and an oversized brandy snifter filled with colorful soaps stood atop a small wicker table. He studied them for a long moment, then dipped his hand into the glass and took one - a pale pink rose - and added it to the porcelain trinket in his jacket pocket, for no particular reason except that he wanted it.
Opening the walk-in closet, he searched for an interior light, then reached in to touch the dresses that hung on the bar to the right of the door. He stepped inside and trailed his finger along the hangers. She obviously favored silk, as so many of the garments were of that fabric. Several things he'd seen her wear, and those he gathered in his hands, pressed his face into their coolness, seeking her scent. Then, reminding himself of his purpose, he stood back as if taking inventory. There was not nearly the quantity one might have expected, considering who she was. Once again, he nodded his approval. Success had not made her careless with her money nor had it made her overly materialistic. What she had was certainly of good quality - some designer pieces, he noted - but for the most part, her wardrobe was quite modest.
He pulled one dress after another from the rack, holding them up as if studying their style, then checking the size on the label of each. After taking care to return each to its place, he turned his attention to the boxes that were stacked on the floor and lined one entire wall.
Shaking his head slowly, he smiled somewhat indulgently.
She sure did love her shoes.
He opened the box nearest him and parted the tissue to reveal a tall leather heel of dark brown which he caressed briefly before returning it to its box. Leaning closer to read the notations written on the ends of the boxes with black marker, her grinned broadly. Leave it to her to mark every one of them clearly with their contents.
He scanned the boxes until he spied one that held promise, the third one down in the second stack. A white high-heeled sandal.
He pulled the box out and opened it, lifted a shoe and held it up for inspection. It was, in fact, a white, high-heeled, strappy, dressy sandal of some fabric that felt like silk. Judging from the soles, the shoes had barely been worn.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
He paused, considering this unexpected bounty.
His original quest had been merely to determine size, but here was something even better. He tucked the shoe box under one arm.
He tidied up the stack, then turned off the light, but not before he'd run his hands over several more of the dresses nearest the door, stroking their length as if they graced her body.
With one backward glance from the doorway, he glanced around the room to make sure that nothing was amiss. Then, convinced that all was as he found it, he bounded down the steps two at a time, pausing at the bottom to look back up and imagine her standing there. He reached into a pocket for the small plastic bag and opened it, tossing a handful of the contents toward the vision at the top of the steps. At the back door, he put his shoes back on, then, his mission accomplished, left as quietly as he'd arrived.
2
"I'D LIKE TO REPORT A BREAK-IN."
Valerie McAllister cradled the telephone between her head and shoulder, all the while tapping the fingers of one hand impatiently on the steering wheel of her car.
"Yes," she told the officer on the other end of the line, the third one she'd been transferred to in less than two minutes, "I'll hold..."
Her eyes darted from one side of the darkened street to the other, watching for movement in the shadows, but all was still.
"Well, actually, I'm not exactly certain that anything was taken," she said hesitantly. "But I do know that the security alarm was turned off.... Yes, I am absolutely positive that I set it before I left the house this afternoon... No, I didn't go beyond the entry. As soon as I realized that someone had been there . . . you mean, besides the fact that the alarm wasn't working?"
She listened impatiently, her sense of indignation growing. In spite of the officer's skepticism, she knew she'd set that alarm. And besides, once she'd pushed the door open and stepped into the foyer, she had just known that something was not right. It had been as if the air inside her town house had been disturbed – not only touched, but tainted - by an outsider.
There'd been a pricking at the back of her neck, an instinctive warning, even as she'd turned on the small lamp that sat on the table under the alarm. She'd turned slowly, the hair on her arms rising, as she searched the shadows that fell over the living room to her left. To the kitchen at the end of the short hall. Up the stairs, straight ahead, and beyond.
She'd backed out of the open door and snapped it behind her in an attempt to close in anyone who might still be lurking there. With uncharacteristic carelessness, she had waded through the knee-high shrubs that had been planted between her tiny porch and that of the town house next door. She'd leaned on the doorbell, waited, then leaned again, but there'd been no response. Bruce, her neighbor, must have taken his dog, Prudence, for one last evening walk. A glance at the house to her left, where no lights shone from within, told her that her neighbors on the other side were out as well. Seeking safety, she'd hurried back to her car, locked herself in securely, and dialed 911 on her cell phone.
And there she sat, anxiously awaiting the someone from the police department who would be there soon, as the voice on the phone had promised.
Valerie had never been the victim of a crime before. Over the past ten years, as a sought-after print model, she'd traveled from her home in the Montana hills to the most celebrated cities of the world, from New York to London to Lisbon, Paris to Rome, Rio to Hong Kong, without being mugged, robbed, or assaulted in any way. She'd lived in Manhattan for several years without incident. Yet here she'd been in California for barely six months, living in one of those small towns that sat just outside of Los Angeles County that boasted a low crime rate, and already the sanctity of her home had been violated.
Well, it could have been worse, she concluded. I could have been home when the break-in occurred, and no telling what might have happened then.
And, she reminded herself, she still didn't know what, if anything, had actually been taken. She sincerely hoped that whomever had been in her house that night had not had a penchant for photography. She'd left most of her equipment on the dining room table, in plain sight, the night before.
Two shapes appeared in the light of the street lamp. Bruce Miller, her neighbor and an aspiring actor, rounded the corner, holding a long red leash, the end of which was attached to the collar of a large, fluffy dog. With a sigh of relief, Valerie unlocked her door and stepped into the street.
"Hey, Val," Bruce called to her, struggling to hold onto the leash when the dog spied his buddy Val and took off in her direction. "You're late tonight."
"I've been home for awhile," she said as she walked toward him, putting out her hands to greet the bouncing mop of fur that was Prudence, the Old English sheepdog that shared Brace's town house.
"Something on the radio that you just had to hear the end of?" He handed Val the leash, since Prudence was intent upon showering her with affection.
"Actually, I was waiting for the police to get here," she told him as Prudence pranced around her in a wide circle, much like a giant cat. "I think I've had a break-in."
"What?" Bruce exclaimed.
"Someone was in my house. When I came home tonight, I opened the door and stepped inside, and the first thing I noticed was that the security alarm was off."
"Maybe you..."
"Please. Don't say it." She held up one hand as if to halt his words. "I did not forget to set it. It's the last thing I do before I leave. I distinctly remember that I did, in fact, set it this afternoon."
"What was taken?"
"I didn't go past the foyer, so I didn't have a chance to look around. I just knew that someone had been there, but I didn't know if they were still lurking inside, so I came out to the car and called the police. I was just sitting out here waiting for an officer to show up."
As if on cue, a dark sedan rounded the corner and pulled over to the curb, stopping nose-to-nose with Val's car. A tall, densely built man stretched out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk, nodding to Val and Bruce as he did so.
"Is this Thirty-seven Meadow Circle?" he asked.
"Yes. Are you with the police department?"
"Detective Rafferty, ma'am," he replied.
"I'm Valerie McAllister. I'm the one who called about the break-in." She handed the leash back to Bruce. "At least, I think there was a break-in."
"I'll take Prudence inside," Bruce told her as he led the dog in the direction of their door. "Come over when you're finished if it's not too late, and I'll make you a cappuccino and Pru can show you what she learned in doggie school this afternoon."
"Did you see anyone?" the detective asked as Valerie approached him.
"No. I didn't go in. I left as soon as I realized that someone had been in there."
"So you don't know what, if anything, was taken?"
She shook her head.
"That was quick thinking." He smiled at her. "There's always the chance that you surprised someone who was still there."
"I was afraid that might be a possibility."
The detective was tall and good-looking, with light brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose. His pleasant smile and polite manner immediately put Val at ease.
"Shall we go inside?" Val asked as she headed toward the walk.
"Let me go in first and take a look around." He followed her up the walk.
"Is the door locked?" he asked as they approached the narrow covered porch.
"Yes. I have the key," she said, holding up the key ring to the light to find the right one. She slid it into the lock and turned the door handle, pushed the door open, and stepped aside.
"Just wait here for a minute, if you don't mind," Detective Rafferty told her as he moved past her into the foyer.
"Shouldn't you call for back-up or something?" she found herself whispering.
He drew a gun that had been previously hidden behind a light brown sport jacket.
"I'd be real surprised if anyone was still here after you opened the front door. Is there a back entrance?"
She nodded.
"Just give me a minute to take a look around."
Valerie stood directly in the haze of the overhead porch lamp, and watched as the lights in her town house came on. First the living room, then minutes later, a feint glow could be seen at the top of the stairs.
"Just as I thought," the officer said as he came down the steps. "Whoever was here is long gone. Come on in and we'll see if we can tell what's missing."
Val's first concern was for her camera equipment, and now that the house was safe to enter, she made a beeline to the dining room where she'd left several bags holding expensive cameras and numerous lenses on the table that she rarely used for dining. Relieved to find that all was as she'd left it, she turned her attention to the rest of the house.
Over the next two hours, accompanied by the detective, Val scoured every room. When she stepped into her bedroom, she experienced the same tingling along her spine she'd felt when she'd first opened the front door, though nothing appeared to be disturbed on the second floor. She was beginning to wonder if there had been a break-in after all.
And then she heard the faint crunching sound under her feet.
She bent down and picked up the tiny white grains. "Rice." She held her hand out to the detective. "It's rice..."
"Had you dropped…" he began.
"I don't have rice in my house. I don't eat it." She looked up at him, baffled. "Why would someone leave rice on my floor?"
"I don't know." Rafferty picked a number of grains from the steps and dropped them into an evidence bag. "Let's take another look around downstairs."
The first item that she'd positively determined to be missing from the living room was the Limoges wedding cake box made of porcelain that had been sitting in the middle of the coffee table as part of a collection. She was positive of this, she told Rafferty, because she'd placed it there only two days earlier, when she'd brought it back from the jeweler where she'd taken it to have the hinge repaired.
"I'd accidentally dropped it a few weeks ago," she said. "The jeweler called on Friday to let me know it was ready to be picked up, but I was out of town and wasn't able to get there until Monday. Why would someone steal something so insignificant, yet leave all of that expensive camera equipment in the dining room?"
She paused in front of her desk and frowned.
"Miss McAllister?" Rafferty inquired, following her gaze.
"The photos are missing."
"The photos?"
"There had been an envelope of photos there on the desk. I was looking at them this morning, thinking about having a picture of my nephews enlarged and framed as a gift for my sister-in-law's parents."
"Are you sure you didn't drop them into one of the desk drawers, or maybe carried them into another room?"
"No. I left them right there." In spite of her assurances, she opened and closed all the desk drawers to prove that the photos were not there. "Why would anyone steal photographs?"
"With all due respect, Miss McAllister, yours is a pretty well-known face. If someone had taken pictures of you, it really wouldn't be so surprising."
"They weren't all of me. There were pictures of my brother and his twin boys that his wife sent to me. And several that she recently came across that had been taken at her family's home several Christmases ago. And some photos from their wedding. Nothing of any interest to anyone other than family."
"Still, you being a model, I'm not all that surprised that someone lifted pictures of you, though you'd expect that more as an incidental loss, you know, if the TV or the VCR had been taken as well." Rafferty told her as he stood in the open doorway, preparing to leave. "Look, it's pretty late. If it's all the same to you, I'll stop back tomorrow to make a formal report. And maybe between now and then, you'll discover something else that is missing. It's odd that someone would go to the trouble of breaking into your home, disabling your security system, and then not take anything of value."
