force, led by Chief Fanelli, entered the house.
“Police! Don’t move,” the command repeated as officers moved throughout the house. The police radios were abuzz with chatter and static. Looking out the window, Michael saw the lights from the surrounding homes, one by one going on. He recognized several neighbors standing on their front porches. He realized too that this was the second police scene he had been in the middle of in less than four hours.
But as he retrieved his cell phone from the night table where he had left it, he noticed something unsettling: the screen was still lit up, indicating the last digits Michael had tapped in when he had begun dialing 9-1-1. And only a flashing 9 appeared.
“How did Fletcher know?” Michael said to Samantha.
“What do you mean?”
“How did Fletcher and the police know to come to the house?”
“You called him, didn’t you? On your cell, I saw you.”
“Samantha, the call never went through. I only got as far as the 9—see?” Michael watched as Samantha stared at his cell phone screen, the 9 blinking, a stark reminder of the unfinished call.
Chapter 12
S amantha was trembling. She looked stunned by what was happening but alert to every sound, her eyes darting from the blocked bedroom door to the opened doorways leading to the dressing room and closet. While keeping an eye on the strange blue light, Michael took her again in his arms. “Don’t worry. The cops are here. Fletcher’s here too.”
“But, Michael, how did they find out? What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
“We’ll deal with that later. Right now, let’s be thankful they’re here.” He handed Samantha her robe and put on his trousers and a sweater. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”
The bedroom lights came back on. Michael looked at the spot where the blue light had been. It was nearly impossible to see now. His cell phone rang. “Michael, it’s Fletcher. We’re outside your bedroom door.”
“Did you find anyone in the house?” Michael asked anxiously.
“No, not yet anyway. You can open your door now. We’re going to secure you guys and search the rooms off your bedroom—and check out that light. Samantha must be crazy in there.”
Michael pushed aside the bureau as he unlocked and opened the door. Samantha, in tears, hugged Fletcher as four uniformed policemen with guns drawn walked swiftly by them and proceeded to check out the rooms off the bedroom.
“Oh my God, Fletcher. He was here, on the phone, in the house, and then … We heard his voice—and that laugh, that horrible laugh, here in the bedroom.” She looked around the room, as though she was now unsure of what she had seen and heard. “Somewhere here. But I don’t understand.”
“Where’s this light?” Fletcher asked, his eyes scanning the room. Michael pointed to the far end of the bedroom, to a spot near the door to the bathroom.
“Over there, around the sculpture,” Michael said, pointing to a white polished-marble sculpture at the other end of the room, near the door to the bathroom. “But once the lights came back on, I lost it.”
He watched as Fletcher walked to the spot and stared at the Picasso-like cubist rendition of a woman’s head sitting atop a glossy white wooden pedestal. It was twice the size of a normal head and distorted, with only one giant eye. Michael could see that Fletcher had spotted something else. It appeared to be a small white box, about the same size as a pack of cigarettes. It was cleverly camouflaged, wedged securely inside the white marble cubist sculpture. Fletcher cautiously moved to within inches of the mysterious box, pulled it out of its crevice and then examined it, turning it over in his hand.
”It’s one of those home monitoring devices. It’s got a camera, a speaker, and a microphone all built in. It connects to someone’s computer through the Internet. They can see everything going on and even carry on a conversation with you. If the light level
“Police! Don’t move,” the command repeated as officers moved throughout the house. The police radios were abuzz with chatter and static. Looking out the window, Michael saw the lights from the surrounding homes, one by one going on. He recognized several neighbors standing on their front porches. He realized too that this was the second police scene he had been in the middle of in less than four hours.
But as he retrieved his cell phone from the night table where he had left it, he noticed something unsettling: the screen was still lit up, indicating the last digits Michael had tapped in when he had begun dialing 9-1-1. And only a flashing 9 appeared.
“How did Fletcher know?” Michael said to Samantha.
“What do you mean?”
“How did Fletcher and the police know to come to the house?”
“You called him, didn’t you? On your cell, I saw you.”
“Samantha, the call never went through. I only got as far as the 9—see?” Michael watched as Samantha stared at his cell phone screen, the 9 blinking, a stark reminder of the unfinished call.
Chapter 12
S amantha was trembling. She looked stunned by what was happening but alert to every sound, her eyes darting from the blocked bedroom door to the opened doorways leading to the dressing room and closet. While keeping an eye on the strange blue light, Michael took her again in his arms. “Don’t worry. The cops are here. Fletcher’s here too.”
“But, Michael, how did they find out? What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
“We’ll deal with that later. Right now, let’s be thankful they’re here.” He handed Samantha her robe and put on his trousers and a sweater. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”
The bedroom lights came back on. Michael looked at the spot where the blue light had been. It was nearly impossible to see now. His cell phone rang. “Michael, it’s Fletcher. We’re outside your bedroom door.”
“Did you find anyone in the house?” Michael asked anxiously.
“No, not yet anyway. You can open your door now. We’re going to secure you guys and search the rooms off your bedroom—and check out that light. Samantha must be crazy in there.”
Michael pushed aside the bureau as he unlocked and opened the door. Samantha, in tears, hugged Fletcher as four uniformed policemen with guns drawn walked swiftly by them and proceeded to check out the rooms off the bedroom.
“Oh my God, Fletcher. He was here, on the phone, in the house, and then … We heard his voice—and that laugh, that horrible laugh, here in the bedroom.” She looked around the room, as though she was now unsure of what she had seen and heard. “Somewhere here. But I don’t understand.”
“Where’s this light?” Fletcher asked, his eyes scanning the room. Michael pointed to the far end of the bedroom, to a spot near the door to the bathroom.
“Over there, around the sculpture,” Michael said, pointing to a white polished-marble sculpture at the other end of the room, near the door to the bathroom. “But once the lights came back on, I lost it.”
He watched as Fletcher walked to the spot and stared at the Picasso-like cubist rendition of a woman’s head sitting atop a glossy white wooden pedestal. It was twice the size of a normal head and distorted, with only one giant eye. Michael could see that Fletcher had spotted something else. It appeared to be a small white box, about the same size as a pack of cigarettes. It was cleverly camouflaged, wedged securely inside the white marble cubist sculpture. Fletcher cautiously moved to within inches of the mysterious box, pulled it out of its crevice and then examined it, turning it over in his hand.
”It’s one of those home monitoring devices. It’s got a camera, a speaker, and a microphone all built in. It connects to someone’s computer through the Internet. They can see everything going on and even carry on a conversation with you. If the light level
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