Maybe I will stretch out for a few minutes.” She started toward the bathroom doorway.
“Mrs. Raymond.”
“Yes?”
“Better not close your door.”
Karen went on into the bedroom. Don’t close your door. Great. And suppose she wanted to go to the bathroom?
She did just that, moving through the bedroom and leaving the bathroom door ajar. At least he couldn’t see her from the living room, not unless he followed her. This was worse than being in jail. Now she could understand how Bruce must have felt in the sanatorium, under observation, someone watching all the time. Bruce, where are you? I know you’ve been here.
She knew because she had lied about the bathroom window. When she had left for work yesterday, it had been closed and locked.
She moved to it now, quietly and cautiously, ears attuned for any telltale sound that would show that Doyle might have gotten up. Carefully, very slowly and deliberately, she eased the window down, exposing the lock, with its telltale bright metal streakings, shining in parallel grooves against the marred, painted surface. The lock had been forced open from outside.
Karen had been sure Bruce had been home the moment she’d seen the partly-open window; she never left the apartment without making certain everything was closed. And if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to tell Doyle she’d opened the window, if she hadn’t been quick enough to forestall him, he would have done what she was doing now and had confirmation.
Karen took a deep breath. Confirmation of what? That Bruce had been here?
It was her first thought at the time. That’s why she’d lied to Doyle.
But now, gazing at the forced lock, she had to admit to herself that she wasn’t sure. After all, Bruce did have his own key to the apartment. Unless, of course, it wasn’t in his possession when he left the sanatorium. Griswold might have placed all of Bruce’s personal effects somewhere for safekeeping, and he might not have had the opportunity to locate his key. Even so, would he have risked entering this way?
The murderer of Dorothy Anderson came in through the bathroom window —
Maybe it wasn’t Bruce who had forced this lock. Suppose it was the killer?
Karen turned, started back towards the bedroom. She’d better tell Doyle.
Or should she? Her pace slackened and she halted before the bathroom mirror.
She couldn’t tell Doyle; it would be an admission of a deliberate lie, and the moment he knew he’d yank her back down to headquarters—to sit there, behind bars, not knowing what was happening, without a chance of hearing from Bruce, without a chance of his ever getting to her.
But what if he did get to her?
What if it had been Bruce after all, trying to get to her—trying to get to her and kill her?
Bruce wouldn’t do that.
Or would he?
Karen met her own wide-eyed stare in the mirror.
Would he?
That was the real question, the question she’d tried to avoid all along. But she had to face it now, just as she had to face herself in the shimmering glass.
Knowing what had happened, knowing what she did about Bruce—did she think he was guilty?
Slowly, Karen retraced her steps to the window and opened it to its former position. That settled that; Doyle wouldn’t realize what had happened. But it still didn’t answer the question.
Was Bruce guilty?
She didn’t know.
And now, staring through the open window at the empty alleyway, she was afraid to find out.
CHAPTER 10
N o news is good news—but not to a reporter.
LAPD had no official statement to issue that afternoon, and neither did the Sheriff’s Department. Lieutenant Barringer was unavailable for comment—holed up somewhere for his badly-needed sleep—and Captain Runsvick, fronting for the homicide division, had nothing to offer but advice.
“Play it down,” he said. “Sure, we’re getting a lot of calls and we’ll be checking them out. As soon as we’ve got something, we’ll give it to you. But until we do, no
“Mrs. Raymond.”
“Yes?”
“Better not close your door.”
Karen went on into the bedroom. Don’t close your door. Great. And suppose she wanted to go to the bathroom?
She did just that, moving through the bedroom and leaving the bathroom door ajar. At least he couldn’t see her from the living room, not unless he followed her. This was worse than being in jail. Now she could understand how Bruce must have felt in the sanatorium, under observation, someone watching all the time. Bruce, where are you? I know you’ve been here.
She knew because she had lied about the bathroom window. When she had left for work yesterday, it had been closed and locked.
She moved to it now, quietly and cautiously, ears attuned for any telltale sound that would show that Doyle might have gotten up. Carefully, very slowly and deliberately, she eased the window down, exposing the lock, with its telltale bright metal streakings, shining in parallel grooves against the marred, painted surface. The lock had been forced open from outside.
Karen had been sure Bruce had been home the moment she’d seen the partly-open window; she never left the apartment without making certain everything was closed. And if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to tell Doyle she’d opened the window, if she hadn’t been quick enough to forestall him, he would have done what she was doing now and had confirmation.
Karen took a deep breath. Confirmation of what? That Bruce had been here?
It was her first thought at the time. That’s why she’d lied to Doyle.
But now, gazing at the forced lock, she had to admit to herself that she wasn’t sure. After all, Bruce did have his own key to the apartment. Unless, of course, it wasn’t in his possession when he left the sanatorium. Griswold might have placed all of Bruce’s personal effects somewhere for safekeeping, and he might not have had the opportunity to locate his key. Even so, would he have risked entering this way?
The murderer of Dorothy Anderson came in through the bathroom window —
Maybe it wasn’t Bruce who had forced this lock. Suppose it was the killer?
Karen turned, started back towards the bedroom. She’d better tell Doyle.
Or should she? Her pace slackened and she halted before the bathroom mirror.
She couldn’t tell Doyle; it would be an admission of a deliberate lie, and the moment he knew he’d yank her back down to headquarters—to sit there, behind bars, not knowing what was happening, without a chance of hearing from Bruce, without a chance of his ever getting to her.
But what if he did get to her?
What if it had been Bruce after all, trying to get to her—trying to get to her and kill her?
Bruce wouldn’t do that.
Or would he?
Karen met her own wide-eyed stare in the mirror.
Would he?
That was the real question, the question she’d tried to avoid all along. But she had to face it now, just as she had to face herself in the shimmering glass.
Knowing what had happened, knowing what she did about Bruce—did she think he was guilty?
Slowly, Karen retraced her steps to the window and opened it to its former position. That settled that; Doyle wouldn’t realize what had happened. But it still didn’t answer the question.
Was Bruce guilty?
She didn’t know.
And now, staring through the open window at the empty alleyway, she was afraid to find out.
CHAPTER 10
N o news is good news—but not to a reporter.
LAPD had no official statement to issue that afternoon, and neither did the Sheriff’s Department. Lieutenant Barringer was unavailable for comment—holed up somewhere for his badly-needed sleep—and Captain Runsvick, fronting for the homicide division, had nothing to offer but advice.
“Play it down,” he said. “Sure, we’re getting a lot of calls and we’ll be checking them out. As soon as we’ve got something, we’ll give it to you. But until we do, no
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