They're Watching

Valentine blinked twice, displeased.

Ariana had called them to protect me from Don's guns, but now that they were here, they required an explanation of some sort. I ushered them in. We sat at the dining table like it was some sort of social visit. Richards's gaze caught on my bruised knuckles. I dropped my hand quickly into my lap.

'Would you like something to drink?' Ariana asked.

Valentine shook his head, but Richards smiled brightly. 'I would love something to drink. Glass of water. With a spoon.'

Ariana arched an eyebrow but brought both over. Richards plucked three Sweet'N Lows from her inside lapel pocket and shook the pink packets down. She tore off the ends, dumped the sweetener in, and stirred. 'Don't ask. It's a fucking diet so I can fit into a boat tarp by beach season. Now, what's going on here?'

I ran through it all for them, Richards quietly noting Ariana's surprise at some of the revelations. Halfway through, Valentine got up and stood at the kitchen window, staring out despite the fact that the blinds were closed. After I finished, Richards knocked the table twice and said, 'Let's take a look at these DVDs, then.'

I fed in the first disc, Richards and Valentine exchanging a glance over my tissue-handling of the evidence. We stood before the flat-screen, all four of us, arms crossed, scouts watching batting practice. After the last one finished, Richards said, 'Well, well.'

Back to the dining table. She sat, and Ariana and I followed suit. Valentine stayed in the family room, poking through the cabinets. Ariana glanced over her shoulder at him a few times, nervously. I realized, with approval, that Richards had taken a chair on the far side so Ariana and I would wind up sitting with our backs to her partner as he snooped.

Richards smoothed her hands across the lacquered surface. 'This one of your designs?'

Ariana said, 'How did you . . . ?'

'Stacks of trade mags on the table by the front door. Sketch pad on the stairs, there. Charcoal smear on your left sleeve. Lefty--creative. And your hands'--Richards reached across the table, took Ariana by the wrists, like a fortune-teller--'rougher than suburban. These hands work with abrasives, I'd guess. So: a furniture designer.'

Ariana withdrew her hands.

Valentine was behind us. 'You keep a house key outside somewhere? Hidden?'

'Fake rock by the driveway,' I answered. 'But like I said, I probably left the back door unlocked myself.'

'But you're not certain,' he told me.

'No.'

'Alarm? You got two signs out front, stickers in the windows.'

'Just the signs. From the last owner. As deterrents. We dropped the service.'

Valentine made a noise in the back of his throat.

Richards asked, 'Why?'

'Expensive.'

Valentine looked around with pursed lips, presumably at the nice furnishings.

'Okay,' I said, 'we'll call the company, get it hooked up again.'

He asked, 'It work by code or keys?'

'Both.'

'How many keys?'

'Two.'

'You still have 'em?'

I walked over, pulled them from the back of the silverware drawer. 'Yes.'

'Anyone else know where those keys are?'

'No.'

Valentine took them from me and dropped them into the trash can. 'Get new ones. Change your code. Don't tell anyone. Not the cleaning lady, not your Aunt Hilda, nobody.' His flat stare was unreadable. 'Only you two should know.'

Richards stood, winked at me. 'Let's take a look outside, Patrick.' Ariana started to stand, and Richards said, 'It's cold out there. Why don't you wait inside with Detective Valentine?'

Ariana eyed her a beat too long. 'Fine. I'll go get the key in the fake rock, then.'

Richards gave me an after-you flourish of the hand, and we went through the rear door. Outside, she crouched, studied the knob.

'Detective Richards--'

'Please. Sally.'

'Okay, Sally. Why was he wearing latex gloves?'

'Leather ones leave distinctive marks, just like fingerprints.'

'So if the guy used leather gloves twice, you'd be able to ID them.'

She cocked her head, taking me in from an angle. 'Screenwriter, yeah?'

I grinned. Her Sherlock routine in the kitchen with Ariana's charcoaled sleeve was probably just stage dressing on a Google search. 'Teacher, really.'

' 'Guy,' ' she noted. 'You said 'the guy.' '

'Better odds for an intruder. Plus, the gloved hand looked masculine.'

'Just a little big, really. Maybe it's a woman retaining water.'

I crouched next to her. 'He used his right hand to open the door. So I'm guessing he's left-handed.'

She paused in her examination of the doorframe, just for a split second, but I knew I'd surprised her. 'Ah,' she said, 'because you figure he'd use his dominant hand for the camcorder.' Another sideways glance at me. 'Glad to see you're not obsessing about this.'

A faint mark in the thin layer of dirt on the rear step caught her attention. The edge of a footprint. She swept me back and leaned over it, fists on her knees.

My heart quickened. 'What can you tell?'

'It was made by a Mexican male, six-two, goes about a buck ninety, had a backpack slung over his right shoulder.'

'Really?'

'No. It's a fucking footprint.'

I laughed, and her eyes crinkled a bit at the edges; it seemed she found me as amusing as I did her.

But there'd be no lingering in our joint fondness. 'Lemme see your shoe,' she said. 'No, take it off.'

I tugged my sneaker off. She held it over the imprint. A perfect match. 'Square one.'

'How 'bout that.'

She stood, arched to crack her back. It didn't crack, but she got in a good groan. Clicking on her Mag-Lite, she started along the wall, reversing the course the camera had traveled. 'Any problems with your left-handed wife?'

Don and Martinique's bedroom light was still on. 'All couples have problems,' I said.

'Any serious disputes with anyone else?'

'Keith Conner. And Summit Pictures. There's a lawsuit--it was all over the tabloids. . . .'

'I don't read The Enquirer much. Tell me about it.'

'The judge issued a gag order until the matter's resolved. The studio didn't want any bad press circulating.'

She looked mildly disappointed in me, as if I were a dog that messed the carpet. 'Maybe that's not so important right about now.'

'It's so stupid you wouldn't believe it.'

'I probably would. I had to arrest a director last month for taking a dump in his agent's pool. I can't mention any names, but it was Jamie Passal.' She looked at me flatly, not pushing.

I drew in a breath of cool air. Then I told her about the confrontation with Keith, how he'd slipped and banged his jaw on the counter, how he'd lied and said I'd hit him, how the studio had joined him in suing what was left of my ass.

When I finished, she looked unmoved. 'Money disputes are our bread and butter.' She looked at me, then added, 'And stupid domestic disputes.' She ran her fingers along the wall, as if checking for wet paint. 'So this thing with Summit and Keith is ongoing.'