against her forehead, the wine in the glass getting lower.
His second time through the house, gloves on, he opened drawers, checked shelves and closets. He had not done any robbery/burglary work in years, but it came to him naturally: He had searched too many homicide crime scenes to count.
The third time through the residence, he concentrated on minutiae-looking for smudges on the glass of doors and windows, crawling hands and knees across floors, alert for everything from bodily discharge to spilled change or a receipt-or even pet hair (Daphne did not own a pet). If she were being stalked by a parolee, it meant one kind of danger; if it was someone attracted to her looks, another entirely. For reasons that went mostly unexplained, Washington State and the greater Seattle area in particular attracted more than an average share of what the papers called “psychos.” Daphne and her colleagues used different terms. But to Boldt it all boiled down to the same thing: sick people, often violent, often targeting women; and when they snapped, their crimes were among the most heinous.
It was during this third inspection that Boldt discovered the charred electrical outlet in the head and the small drops of water next to the sink. Without telling her, he checked the toilet thoroughly, as well as the shower/tub stall in case the stalker had used these. Masturbation was often the last step prior to the acting out of whatever violent act was planned.
When Boldt had completed his search, he pulled up a chair alongside Daphne’s and said, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
She chuckled nervously. “You sound like me: That’s how I often get a therapy session going.”
He waited her out. He knew she had to be terribly afraid no matter what exterior she presented. After a difficult silence she encouraged him, “Why don’t you go first? Please.”
“Your visitor knew your schedule well enough to enter while you were on your run.” She looked good-too good-in the tight jog bra/halter top and shorts, but he said nothing. They could deal with what she could do defensively later; a baggy T-shirt and running pants was a place to start. “You cut your run short,” he said.
This comment snapped her head toward him. “How did you know that?” she asked incredulously.
“To put it bluntly? If he had meant to harm you, to assault you, then I think he would have tried. We both know that you can hear a person approaching. Right? He was already in the bathroom. Where are you going to head after a run?” he asked rhetorically. “So all he had to do was wait. You’re not going to carry a weapon with you on the way to the shower. But he wanted out. See? That’s why after your description I thought it was a burglary. Maybe a well-planned one. It would fit with your feeling of being watched. He determines your schedule, times your run, and breaks in after a few days of sizing you up. But you surprise him by cutting your run short. When you open the front door, he freezes. Then he decides to get the hell out of there.”
“The door moved,” she interrupted, remembering. “The front door.”
“Moved closed,” he told her.
“Yes. But how-”
“In a place this small and relatively tight, when one door opens, it moves air. It moves doors, or a curtain in a window.”
“I think I knew that instinctively; when it moved, I was scared. I locked it immediately.”
“He was trying to get out, but he looked back-his eyes were more adjusted than yours-”
“There’s a night-light in the head.”
“There you go. He looks back-he’s left something next to the sink. He doesn’t want you to find it.
“He didn’t move after that. He stood very still, just inside the back door, which explains the small puddle of water. If you had come looking, he would have been out of there in a flash. But if he could pull it off, whatever he had left was worth going back for. I think we can be quite sure of that.”
“But I didn’t come looking. I tried to find a light that worked.”
“Exactly. And so he seized the opportunity. He stepped back into the house and you heard him.”
“I hate this guy.” She crossed her arms, fighting a chill.
“As you tried to find a light, the intruder crossed back into the bathroom.”
“I heard the floorboard.”
“Exactly.”
“And I turned on the light.”
“You can imagine his panic. But he’s a fast thinker. There’s a basket of bobby pins and whatnot on the bathroom counter. He’s wearing gloves. We know he’s wearing gloves because he takes the bobby pin, spreads it, reaches
“I hear him and I run.” She felt suddenly colder. Perhaps it was not the sweat. Boldt’s descriptions enabled her to visualize the intruder. She felt violated. She felt lucky to be sitting here drinking wine.
“But he hears you smack into that beam, fall over the chair. He hesitates-just an instant-unsure what to do. You’re too fast for him. Suddenly you’ve got a gun. It’s doubtful he has one. The law views breaking and entering
“You’re a little too good at this,” she said. “It wasn’t you, was it?” She forced a smile but winced with the pain it caused her.
“Well, you know the rest.”
She stood out of her chair and faced Boldt, arms crossed.
He knew that same look in Liz. “Need a hug?”
She nodded.
He wrapped his big arms around her and pulled her tightly to him unreservedly, unashamed, unconnected to their past and that evening when they had done this without clothes. She did not want to cry. She returned the hug, and buried her face. Her hair smelled like sweat. A boat motored slowly across the lake. She thanked him.
He said softly, “Why don’t you point me toward a newspaper? You get yourself showered and dressed. Let’s get you settled. Okay?”
“I’d like that. But I hate to take your time.”
“After that, we need to talk some more.” She nodded. “Do you want to report this? Officially, I mean? I don’t want to discourage that. You have every right-”
“No, Lou. No thanks. I’ve been there. You’re asking, do I want to stay up until two in the morning? Do I want to answer a hundred questions I’d rather not? Do I want to make a huge scene, all in order to never catch this guy? I don’t think so.”
“Still, it’s not right of me to discourage you.”
“I can do that all by myself.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m a big girl now. But if you would stay. Have you eaten?”
“We eat early. Miles,” he explained.
“Right.”
“I’d like to use the phone if it’s all right.”
She nodded. She went upstairs and he heard her undressing and he thought maybe he should go. But he did not. A few minutes later she descended the ladder stairs with an unavoidable amount of leg showing, and headed straight to the shower without comment.
Boldt sat with her as she ate warmed-up leftovers and drank another glass of wine.
She glanced up at him occasionally and smiled through her eyes while chewing. “I feel kind of silly,” she said. “You sure you won’t have something?”
“Tell me, if you’re ready. I’d like to hear.”
She set her fork down, took some more wine, and nodded. He saw that she was going to have a bruise on her forehead, though maybe not too bad, and if she kept up the ice as she was, the lump might not be there in the morning. Sitting this close to her, both on stools at the galley’s food bar, he could see the dozens of flecks of gold and red in her otherwise brown eyes-magical sparks that seemed to increase in candlepower with her enthusiasm.
