computer screen. I crossed and set a Costco box of Sweet'N Low beside a picture of her holding a toddler.
She glanced over at my offering and bobbed her head, amused. 'Great. That'll get me through lunch tomorrow.'
'This a bad time?'
'Sorta.' She nodded at the monitor. 'A Japanese guy pulling a live snake through his nostril on YouTube.' She shoved back and folded her arms. 'A new disc show up on your doorstep?'
'No. Did you manage to retrieve anything off the old ones?'
'Totally wiped. Though our tech-head could tell there'd been something burned on them once. He said the data was totally obliterated by some self-devouring software program. He's never seen anything like it.'
I chewed on that dread-inducing tidbit a moment. 'Any prints?'
'Just yours. Your wife's. You're in the database for background checks for community service you guys did in college?'
I nodded.
She continued, 'And the discs have some marks consistent with latex gloves. In other words, fucking smudges.'
I handed her the DVD case from my back pocket. 'This has Keith Conner's fingerprints on it.'
'Wonder what you could get for it on eBay.'
'I was hoping you'd pulled a partial and we could use this for a match.'
'A partial? Easy there, Kojak.'
I pressed on: 'Even if Keith had someone else do the drop or break-in, I figured he might have touched the disc at some point. He's not the brightest bulb on the string.'
'You don't say.' She followed my gaze to the picture of her with the toddler. 'Artificial insemination, since you asked. Miracle of life, my ass. The nausea alone.' She whistled. 'If I had it to do over again, I would've adopted from China like any self-respecting daughter of Sappho.' Her voice rose. 'Now, Terence there, Terence has four boys. Four. Imagine that.' Valentine paused at the top of the stairs, regarded us with sad, tired eyes, then trudged up a corridor. Sally said, 'He loves having me as a partner. Makes him the envy of the squad room.'
'I would've thought it was his ready smile.'
She said, 'Sit.'
I obeyed, easing into the humble wooden chair at the end of the desk. On her blotter was a to-do list. Call gopher guy. Rebate on dryer. Sitter for Tues night shift. The glimpse into the cogs and gears of her life struck a chord. Perhaps it resonated with the banal tasks I'd been crossing off my own checklist while my insides crumbled.
I kept my gaze on the floor. 'Ever feel stuck?'
'Like that U2 song? Part of being a grown-up, I suppose.'
'Yeah, but you always hoped it wouldn't be you.'
She smirked. 'The only new surprises are you can't eat Indian on an empty stomach and how expensive patio furniture is.'
'Just how it goes, I guess. It's okay. If you like where you are.' I looked away quickly; I'd revealed more than I'd wanted to. 'No prints at all? Maybe you should've dusted the camera and tripod.'
She noted my discomfort, the rushed segue. 'Sure. We could shoot an episode of CSI at your house. Maybe call in FBI profilers.'
'Okay, okay,' I said. 'You have limited resources. As of now it's still a camcorder prank.'
'Not just that, Davis, but the guy wore latex gloves. The jewel case, sleeve, and discs are totally clean. If we believe your version, the DVDs autoerased like something out of a Bond film. Whoever's behind this went to great care. He's not suddenly gonna push a 'record' button with a bare thumb.' She poured water from a bottle into a mug and busted into the Costco box, digging out a few pink packets and dumping the crystals. 'Now, I shouldn't tell you this, but you did bring me Sweet'N Low. . . .' She used a pencil to stir. 'You have any other cops to the house?'
'That's a question, Sally. You didn't actually tell me anything.'
'How 'bout that.'
'Why are you asking about other cops?'
She took a sip, leaned back in her distressed little chair. 'The boot print came back--'
'Wait a minute. Boot print?'
'From the mud patch by the leaky sprinkler in your front yard. We saw it when we went over to talk to your neighbor.' She tugged open a drawer, then tossed down a file in front of me. Numerous photos spilled out. A decent impression of a thick worker's sole, pointed toward the street. Left behind, I guessed, when the intruder split the premises. In a few of the shots, the print was illuminated by a Mag-Lite flashlight, just like Sally's, lying in the grass to give a sharp angle.
'When did you take these?' I asked.
'I didn't. Valentine did when I went back to talk to you.'
I pictured Valentine waiting out in the Crown Vic and then her sitting with her tea, holding my attention and keeping me turned away from the front window.
'It's a nice three-dimensional track,' she said. 'Severe sole wear on the outside by the ball of the foot. Pebble wedged deep in the ridges here in the heel. See?'
'Did you cast a print?'
'Like I said, Kojak, we can't roll criminalists because someone sent you a spooky home video.'
'Great. So we'll get slaughtered in our bed and then you'll send a van.'
She lifted an eyebrow. 'First of all, you'll get slaughtered on your couch. And yes, then we would send a van.'
I thumbed through the photos. One was taken from directly above, Valentine's radio lying beside the print. 'The radio's for scale?'
'No, for period atmosphere. Yes. Scale. The print's from a size-eleven-and-a-half Danner boot. The make is Acadia, common uniform footwear, eight inches high at the ankle. They're comfortable as hell, and you can resole them. Cops love 'em, but they're twice the price of Hi-Tecs or Rockys, so you don't see them around as much. They're a field boot, for patrolmen or SWAT guys. Detectives wear bad dress shoes.' With a grunt, she set her long-suffering loafer on the edge of the desk. 'Payless if you're on a single-mother budget.'
'So it's a law-enforcement boot?'
'But anyone can order them. Just like handguns. And we all know how deranged members of our society have been known to fetishize police gear.'
'Especially when they're already working in law enforcement.'
'Don't look at me. I wanted to be an astronaut.'
My eyes wandered around the squad room, taking in the black boots of various makes attached to various officers. 'What size shoe is Valentine?'
Her lips pursed with irritation. 'Not eleven and a half. And he was on shift with me when that footage of you was taken. Surely you can do better than that, Inspector Clouseau.'
'Well, there haven't been any cops to our house that we know of. I think ever.'
'Like I said, it could be a cop in a cop boot, or it could be a wackjob in a cop boot.' She stood, pulled on her jacket, bringing the conversation to a close. 'If you want to be doing something useful, you should be thinking about who you've pissed off lately. Or who your lovely wife has.'
'I have been,' I said. 'Where else am I supposed to look?'
'There are rocks everywhere,' she said. 'We just usually don't kick 'em over.'
Chapter 18
Heading back up Roscomare, I called Ariana at the showroom. 'I'm going home early.'
'You're not going to the movies?' she asked.
'I'm not going to the movies.'
'Okay. I'll finish up here, too.'
There was a courtship excitement to our exchange, unspoken but understood, like we were smitten teenagers planning a second date. It hit me how rarely these past six weeks I'd come home before she was in bed for the night. And now I was nervous but eager, unsure what the evening with her would hold.
