deadboltyielded quickly, a receipt was
signed, the locksmith tossed his gloves onto the hallway carpet and left.
I
waited until Milo called out the all-clear.
Desmond
Backer had been trained in structural design and aesthetics but he’d lived in a
plain-wrap one-bedroom, one-bath, had made no attempt to personalize.
Brown
cloth sofa and matching love seat in the living room, cheap bamboo tables,
framed generic photographs of trees, lakes, foxes, owls, eagles. A
cinder-block-and-glass-shelf bookcase housed architecture texts and a few
large-format paperbacks. Population control, biodiversity, tropical reforestry,
renewable fuels.
Plastic-wrapped
six-packs of generic springwater filled the upper shelf of the low-profile
fridge. Three bottles of Corona below, along with unopened salad bags and a
vacuum-wrapped package of organic trout. The fake-granite counter of the
mini-kitchen held a coffeemaker, a juicer, knives in a block, yesterday’s paper,
still folded and rubber-banded.
No
disorder, no obvious blood. No woman’s presence.
Same
for the puny, dim bedroom nearly filled by a king-sized bed in a black wood
frame. A single high window framed the blue flank of the building next door. A
birch cube nightstand hosted a gooseneck lamp, a box of tissues, two more books
on forestry. No dresser, but part of the closet was sectioned into drawers. Not
a lot of clothes, but what was there was high quality. Two cashmere sweaters,
navy and chocolate brown, same style as the black one worn by Backer on his
last breathing night. Italian loafers and a pair of New Balance running shoes.
Milo
inspected the soles of the runners. “Sand in the grooves, probably jogged on
the beach.”
A
you-build desk next to the closet hosted a silver iMac and a second adjustable
lamp. In a top drawer, Milo found condoms, boxes of them, in a variety of
brands, styles, and colors. Below all that, several pages printed from the
Internet. Straight sex, athletic positions, women in ecstasy, genuine or not,
nothing cruel or outré.
I said, “He practiced safe sex but left semen on
Jane’s thigh and no condoms at the scene.”
Milo
scratched his nose. “Maybe a box of rubbers was another take-home goodie for
Baddie.”
“Jane’s
purse, whatever bedding Backer brought, the BMW,” I said. “Interesting haul.”
He
got down and peered under the bed.
I
said, “Catching Backer in the act of unpeeling a condom would be a perfect time
to make your move.”
“Zoned
out, off-guard, off-balance,” he said. “Here comes the big death.”
“The
alternative is, Backer didn’t glove up with Jane because he did have something
special with her.”
He
thought about that, returned to the closet, checked a high shelf, then the
floor beneath some long coats. Slid out a box. Drawing pads, pencils, erasers,
pens, last year’s tax return, a few credit card bills, cell phone records,
loose photos.
Milo
examined the receipts first. “Not much activity last month … talking to someone
in Washington State … four times—and here’s our tyke, again.”
Unfolding
four snaps in plastic holders.
Solo
portraits of “Samantha” except for one shot in which the child appeared on the
lap of a good-looking woman in her thirties. Next to her a large-jawed,
bespectacled blond man and a golden retriever. Decorated Christmas tree in the
background, everyone in matching reindeer sweaters.
Dear
Uncle Desi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for the play oven, I love to cook on it.
Yumm numm. I wish we could hang out. Love, Samantha .
Milo
said, “Someone cared about him,” and headed for Backer’s computer.
The
screen opened directly to a server, preset by a “remember me” password. Nine
unread e-mails, all spam except for a missive from [email protected].
hey lil sib, how goes it? really desi you need to
write more miss you, specially sam. write, call, sing a song, send an e-card
use a messenger pigeon. lol. Luv xoxox ricki
Milo
printed the page, slipped it
signed, the locksmith tossed his gloves onto the hallway carpet and left.
I
waited until Milo called out the all-clear.
Desmond
Backer had been trained in structural design and aesthetics but he’d lived in a
plain-wrap one-bedroom, one-bath, had made no attempt to personalize.
Brown
cloth sofa and matching love seat in the living room, cheap bamboo tables,
framed generic photographs of trees, lakes, foxes, owls, eagles. A
cinder-block-and-glass-shelf bookcase housed architecture texts and a few
large-format paperbacks. Population control, biodiversity, tropical reforestry,
renewable fuels.
Plastic-wrapped
six-packs of generic springwater filled the upper shelf of the low-profile
fridge. Three bottles of Corona below, along with unopened salad bags and a
vacuum-wrapped package of organic trout. The fake-granite counter of the
mini-kitchen held a coffeemaker, a juicer, knives in a block, yesterday’s paper,
still folded and rubber-banded.
No
disorder, no obvious blood. No woman’s presence.
Same
for the puny, dim bedroom nearly filled by a king-sized bed in a black wood
frame. A single high window framed the blue flank of the building next door. A
birch cube nightstand hosted a gooseneck lamp, a box of tissues, two more books
on forestry. No dresser, but part of the closet was sectioned into drawers. Not
a lot of clothes, but what was there was high quality. Two cashmere sweaters,
navy and chocolate brown, same style as the black one worn by Backer on his
last breathing night. Italian loafers and a pair of New Balance running shoes.
Milo
inspected the soles of the runners. “Sand in the grooves, probably jogged on
the beach.”
A
you-build desk next to the closet hosted a silver iMac and a second adjustable
lamp. In a top drawer, Milo found condoms, boxes of them, in a variety of
brands, styles, and colors. Below all that, several pages printed from the
Internet. Straight sex, athletic positions, women in ecstasy, genuine or not,
nothing cruel or outré.
I said, “He practiced safe sex but left semen on
Jane’s thigh and no condoms at the scene.”
Milo
scratched his nose. “Maybe a box of rubbers was another take-home goodie for
Baddie.”
“Jane’s
purse, whatever bedding Backer brought, the BMW,” I said. “Interesting haul.”
He
got down and peered under the bed.
I
said, “Catching Backer in the act of unpeeling a condom would be a perfect time
to make your move.”
“Zoned
out, off-guard, off-balance,” he said. “Here comes the big death.”
“The
alternative is, Backer didn’t glove up with Jane because he did have something
special with her.”
He
thought about that, returned to the closet, checked a high shelf, then the
floor beneath some long coats. Slid out a box. Drawing pads, pencils, erasers,
pens, last year’s tax return, a few credit card bills, cell phone records,
loose photos.
Milo
examined the receipts first. “Not much activity last month … talking to someone
in Washington State … four times—and here’s our tyke, again.”
Unfolding
four snaps in plastic holders.
Solo
portraits of “Samantha” except for one shot in which the child appeared on the
lap of a good-looking woman in her thirties. Next to her a large-jawed,
bespectacled blond man and a golden retriever. Decorated Christmas tree in the
background, everyone in matching reindeer sweaters.
Dear
Uncle Desi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for the play oven, I love to cook on it.
Yumm numm. I wish we could hang out. Love, Samantha .
Milo
said, “Someone cared about him,” and headed for Backer’s computer.
The
screen opened directly to a server, preset by a “remember me” password. Nine
unread e-mails, all spam except for a missive from [email protected].
hey lil sib, how goes it? really desi you need to
write more miss you, specially sam. write, call, sing a song, send an e-card
use a messenger pigeon. lol. Luv xoxox ricki
Milo
printed the page, slipped it
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