I made myself take a deep breath. Milo was still in the center of the room, fingers drumming his thighs.
'Cozy,' I said, understanding why he'd wanted me to see it.
He turned very slowly, taking in the open area to the left that led to a small kitchen. A single oak stool at an eat-in counter. White Formica laced with a gold threadlike design, also bare except for black fingerprint-powder smudges. Same for the other counters and the cabinets. On the far wall hung an empty wooden spice rack. Four- burner white stove at least twenty years old, refrigerator of matching color and vintage. No other appliances.
He opened the fridge, said, 'Yogurt, grapes, two apples, baking soda… baking soda for freshness. She liked things neat. Just like Richard… simplifying.'
He began opening and closing cabinets. 'White ironstone dishes, Noritake, service for four… Ditto stainless- steel utensils… Everything full of fingerprint powder… One skillet, one saucepan, containers of salt, pepper, no other spices… Bland life?'
On to the stove burners. Lifting the grill, he said, 'Clean. Either she never cooked or she was really compulsive. Or somebody else was.'
I stared back at the empty front room. 'Did Crime Scene take furniture back to the lab?'
'No, just her clothing. This is the way we found it. My first thought was someone cleaned the place out, or she'd just moved in or was in the process of moving out. But I can't find evidence of her leaving, and her deed says she's been here over two years.'
I pointed to the virgin floor. 'Either she was planning to redecorate or never bothered to furnish.'
'Like I said, grabbing air. C'mon, let's take a look at the rest of the place.'
A hall to the left led to one bath and two small bedrooms, the first set up as an office. No carpeting, the same pristine hardwood, harsh echoes.
Milo kneeled in the hallway, ran his finger along the smooth, clean oak. 'Maybe she took off her shoes. Like in a Japanese house.'
We started with the bedroom. Box spring and mattress on the floor, no headboard, four-drawer pecan-veneer dresser, matching nightstand. On the stand were a tissue box and a ceramic lamp, the base white, ovular, shaped like a giant cocoon. Swirls of white fingerprint powder, the telltale concentrics of latent prints.
'Her linens are at the lab,' said Milo, 'along with her clothes.'
He moved the mattress around, slid his hand under the box spring, opened the closet. Empty. Same for the dresser.
'I watched them pack her undies,' he said. 'No hidden stash of naughty things, just your basic white cotton. Small wardrobe: dresses, sweaters, skirts, tasteful stuff, Macy's, some budget-chain stuff, nothing expensive.'
He righted the mattress, looked up at the ceiling, then back at the empty closet. 'She wasn't moving out, Alex. This is where she lived. If you can call it that.'
In the office, he put his hands together prayerfully and said, 'Give me something to work with, Lord.'
'Thought you already went through it.'
'Not thoroughly. Couldn't, with the criminalists buzzing around. Just that box.' He pointed to a cardboard file on the floor. 'That's where I found the divorce papers. Near the top.'
He approached the desk and studied the books in the cheap plywood cases that covered two walls. Shelves stuffed and sagging. Volumes on psychology, psychiatry, neurology, biology, sociology, bound stacks of journals arranged by date. White powder and prints everywhere.
Milo had emptied the top drawer of staples and paper clips, bits of paper and lint, was into the second drawer, rummaging. 'Okay, here we go.' He waved a red leatherette savings account passbook. 'Century Bank, Sunset and Cahuenga… Well, well, well-looks like she was doing okay.'
I went over and looked at the page he held out. Balance of $240,000 and some cents. He flipped to the front of the booklet. The initial transaction had taken place three years ago, rolled over from a previous passbook, when the balance had been ninety-eight thousand less.
Accrual of nearly a hundred thousand in three years. The deposit pattern was repetitive: no withdrawals, deposits of three thousand at the end of each month.
'Probably a portion of her salary,' I said.
'Theobold said her take-home was around four, so she probably banked three, took out a grand for expenses. Looks like it didn't change during the time she worked at Starkweather. Which makes sense. Her civil service job classification puts her at a comparable salary.'
'Frugal,' I said. 'How'd she pay her bills? And her tax Is there a checking account?'
He found it seconds later, in the same drawer. 'Mont deposits of five hundred… last Friday of the month-sa day she deposited into the savings account. The woman w; clock… Looks like she wrote mostly small check probably household stuff… Maybe she had a credit c; paid the rest of her bills in cash. So she kept five hundrei so around the house. Or in her purse. To some junkie i could be a sizable score. And the purse hasn't been found But this doesn't feel like robbery, does it.'
I said, 'No. Still, people have been killed for a lot less. Without her purse, how'd you identify her?'
'Car registration gave us her name. We ran her pri matched them to her psychologist's license… A sti junkie robbery, wouldn't that be something? She's out si ping, gets mugged for her cash. But what junkie muj would bother stashing her in trash bags, driving her to a S? public spot, and leaving her car behind, when he could 1 thrown her somewhere dark, gotten himself some wheel; the night? Then again, most criminals take stupid pills. Okay, let's see what else she left behind.'
He got to work on the rest of the desk. The money sho up in a plain white envelope, pushed to the back of the hand bottom drawer. Nine fifty-dollar bills, under a b leatherette appointment book issued as a gift by a drug c pany. Three-year-old calendar, blank pages in the book.
'So maybe she had fifty or so with her,' he said. ' spender. This does not feel like robbery.'
I asked him for the bankbook, examined every page.
'What?' he said.
'So mechanical. Exact same pattern, week in, week No sizable withdrawals also means no vacations or predictable splurges. And no deposits other than her si implies she got no alimony, either. Unless she put it ir other account. Also, she maintained her individual ace throughout her marriage. What about her tax return? Die file jointly?'
He crossed the room to the cardboard file box. Inside were two years of state and federal tax returns, neatly ordered. 'No outside income other than salary, no dependents other than herself… nope, individual return. Something's off. It's like she was denying being married.'
'Or she had doubts from the beginning.'
He came up with a stack of stapled paper, started flipping. 'Utility bills… Ah, here's the credit card… Visa… She charged food, clothing, gasoline for the Buick, and books… Not very often-most months there're only three, four charges… She paid on time, too. No interest.'
At the bottom of the stack were auto insurance receipts. Low premium for no smoking and good driving record. No financing on the Buick meant she probably owned the car. No way for her to know it would end up being a coffin on wheels.
Milo scribbled notes and placed the paper back in the carton. I thought of what we hadn't found: mementos, photographs, correspondence, greeting cards. Anything personal.
No property tax receipts or deductions for property tax. If she rented, why no record of rent checks?
I raised the question. Milo said, 'So maybe the ex paid the mortgage and taxes. Maybe that was his alimony.'
'And now that she's gone, he's off the hook. And if he's maintained some ownership of the house, there's a bit of incentive for you. Any idea who gets the two hundred forty? Any will show up?'
'Not yet. So you like the husband?'
'I'm just thinking about what you always tell me. Follow the money.'
He grunted. I returned to the bookcase, pulled a few books out. Foxed pages, neatly printed notes in margins. Next to five years' worth of Brain was a collection of journal reprints.
Articles Claire Argent had authored. A dozen studies, all related to the neuropsychology of alcoholism, funded by the National Institutes of Health. The writing was clear, the subject matter repetitive. Lots of technical terms, but I got the gist.
During graduate school and the five years following, she'd filled her hours measuring human motor and visual
