At the Scene of the Crime by Dana Stabenow Page A

whereabouts at the time of the crime?”
    Grumbling the entire time, Yackowski slipped off his shoes and handed them to Raines, who bagged them and somehow managed not to smile.
    Yackowski shuffled out on the hardwood floor in his stocking feet, grumbling the whole way, Jacobsen trailing him as far as the door.
    When the others were out of earshot, Raines said, “You two have a nice rapport.”
    “See, already you’re analyzing.”
    “Thanks,” Raines said. “Where do you want to start?”
    “You do the bodies and the immediate scene. I’m going to poke around a little. Want to make sure we can rule out robbery as a motive.”
    The rookie looked hesitant. “Are you sure you don’t want to do the bodies yourself?”
    Hawkins took a couple of steps toward her. “You’re going to have to do it sooner or later. Sooner’s better.”
    “This is an important murder—”
    “Are there unimportant ones? You’re as natural at this as anyone I’ve seen, and you’ve had good training, Krysti. Trust it.”
    She took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, sir.”
    In the living room, Hawkins looked around. Knickknacks on the coffee table were untouched, magazines stacked neatly. On a side table next to the front door, a small basket held envelopes that proved to be the day’s mail and a set of keys, presumably Mrs. Hoff ’s. Everything seemed to be in order.
    He went down the hall. On the left, he peeked into a small bedroom that had been turned into an office. Again, nothing seemed disturbed.
    On the right side of the corridor, he entered a bathroom that felt like
stepping onto the flight deck of the starship Enterprise. Two glass sinks perched on twin black columns beneath two stainless steel plates with no visible faucets. Beyond those, a small cubicle housed the toilet. Against the opposite wall was a deep, two-person tub outfitted with water jets. Dominating the center of the far wall was a glass-enclosed shower with four brass heads aimed at various angles. The glass walls still showed beads of water. In front of the shower a huge, furry, lavender rug covered most of the Mexican tile floor. It felt damp, but not wet. Someone had taken a shower earlier in the evening. He looked at the towel rack on the wall next to the shower—empty. Maybe Mrs. Hoff had taken the towel, or towels, into the bedroom with her.
    Getting his face down in the rug, Hawkins peered at the footprints pressed into the nap. They were already fading away, with no way to preserve them, but Hawkins was sure he could see the outlines of at least two different size feet in the damp rug.
    Mrs. Hoff had been wearing a negligee, but Mr. Hoff had been fully dressed. Could they have had a short-term reconciliation that went bad later?
    Maybe.
    Hawkins pulled a short, unfolding ruler from his pants pocket. Normally he used it to give scale to evidence he was photographing, but tonight he measured the disappearing footprints in the rug. The first print was almost exactly eight inches long, the length of the ruler. The second print was at least two inches longer than the first and much wider.
    Again, he wondered where the bath towels were. Looking at a second towel rack between the sinks, he noticed two lavender hand towels matching the rug. He rose and considered trying to photograph the footprints, but he knew by that time he could get the lighting right they would have long since disappeared.
    He left the bathroom and returned to the corridor, where he checked two doors, both on the left side. The first door led into a small bedroom that had been turned into an immaculate office, apparently undisturbed. A
computer desk occupied one corner, the monitor on top in sleep mode with the power on.
    The second door led to the master bedroom. He flipped the light on and found this room immaculate, too. A tall armoire stood immediately to the right of the doorway. A king-size bed took most of the right-hand wall along with two night stands. In the corner in front