the evening with him and driving home at one or two A.M. for three or four hours of unconsciousness. They didn’t have dates. When one of them was hungry the other would say, “Let’s go eat,” and she would drive them to a nice restaurant, because Portland was her city. On three rainy nights when the restaurants had been near her house, they had slept there instead of driving back to his hotel.
The words were always wrong. If they kept getting along, then there would be a time when he would be called her boyfriend, even though he was over forty and already much more intimate than any friend, and she would be his girlfriend, even though she was hardly a girl and had already been married and divorced. The only time the words were right was when people changed their behavior to fit the words. When people were married they tried to fill the space made by the word, behaved the way they had sworn they would—all of them except her ex-husband, Kevin, anyway.
Was she going to marry Joe Pitt? When she had met him she had experienced the standard reaction. She had wondered, “Is he the one?” but she had gone to the Internet to learn about him, asked the older male detectives if anybody knew him, listened to what they said, and decided that he almost certainly wasn’t husband material. But maybe that was just another case of the words setting up an expectation that wasn’t real. Right now he was the one. That was the only word she could think of that described the relationship: the one.
She got into her car and drove through the early-morning traffic to North Thompson Street to get to work. She still went in as early as she could every day to work at finding Tanya Starling while her mind was fresh and she had solitude and silence. Today she was starting late. She could spend only a half hour reviewing the information she had about Tanya Starling and searching bulletins and circulars for anything that might relate to the case before the other homicide detectives began to arrive. This morning her in-box was full, but there were no signs in it that Tanya Starling had been seen anywhere.
Catherine had a theory about what was going on. Tanya would be living in a very quiet way in an apartment in a distant city, working at developing a new identity. She would probably be dyeing her hair again, making herself fake identification, and constructing a reason for being where she was. She would try to wait long enough for all of the law enforcement agencies all over the country to be buried in circulars about other people.
Catherine knew her, and yet the feeling of knowing was like being gagged. The things she knew weren’t things that she could prove to anyone or translate into action. Tanya had been born with a reasonably agile mind, and whatever had made her into a killer—or maybe the actual experience of killing—had made her an avid learner. Tanya was learning at a phenomenal rate. Every day that went by while she was free seemed to make her better at staying free. Every time she killed someone she did it differently. The other detectives had all interpreted the range of methods she’d used as proof that someone else had been in charge all along, and Tanya was just the companion. Catherine had known since Los Angeles that it wasn’t true—no man had been in Mary Tilson’s apartment, and no man had been on the security tapes going into Brian Corey’s hotel room. Tanya had no companion. Tanya’s methods were new each time because she was learning.
Tanya had learned some things between Portland and Flagstaff that made her much more dangerous. She had learned how to isolate victims, she had learned that there were lots of ways of denying blood to the heart and brain, and then she had learned that she could induce other people to do the killing for her. Now anything could happen.
At ten, a fresh homicide case arrived on Catherine’s desk. The previous night there had been a burglary in the house in Arlington Heights where Marjorie and Jack Hammond lived. When Catherine arrived at the house, Marjorie Hammond had been so carefully made up, coifed, and dressed that to Catherine she looked as though she had been sitting for a portrait. The responding officer’s report said Marjorie Hammond was forty-two years old, but like some beautiful women, she seemed to be without age.
She had been present when her husband had shot an intruder in the dark house in the night, and they had tried uselessly to stop the bleeding until the ambulance had arrived. The downstairs entrance and hallway were still blocked off with tape, so Mrs. Hammond met Catherine at the kitchen door. Catherine sat in a spotless, cheerful sunroom at the back of the house while Mrs. Hammond brought tea on a Chinese lacquerware tray.
Catherine said, “I know it’s hard to talk about what happened here last night, but you understand that we do have to be able to explain all of it.”
“I understand.”
“Do you mind if I record our conversation? It helps when I make out my report.”
“No.”
Catherine took the recorder out of her pocket so Mrs. Hammond could see it, turned it on, and said, “This is Detective Sergeant Catherine Hobbes. I am recording my interview with Mrs. Marjorie Hammond at . . . eleven- thirteen A.M. on October fifth.” She put the tape recorder back into her coat pocket. “Let’s see. You and your husband told the responding officers last night that you had never seen the intruder before. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“By the way, where is your husband right now?”
“Jack?” She looked shocked. “He’s at work. I thought it would help him get through the experience if he went back to his routines right away. Men are creatures of routine, aren’t they?”
“Are they?”
“Of course. Their work habits rely on it, and even the things they do for pleasure they do exactly the same each time. Once you’ve watched fifty football games, what can be new in the fifty-first, or the five thousandth? But it seems to give them some kind of reassurance.”
“What about you? Are you getting through the experience?”
“I’ll be okay.”
Looking at her, Catherine sensed that it wasn’t going to be that easy. She seemed too put together, too perfect. He should be here. “I guess I can interview him separately,” said Catherine. Alarm signals were everywhere, but Catherine wasn’t ready to decide exactly what they meant. “Tell me what happened.”
“Well, Jack was working late last night. He had been in Seattle at a trade show. He sells power tools, mostly for the construction industry, and they were showing off a new line. I was upstairs in bed, asleep. Jack arrived home around midnight, came upstairs, and started to get ready for bed.”
“Did he wake you up?”
“Yes. I heard him trying to undress in the bathroom, so I turned on a light by the bed and called out to him. That was when we realized that there was someone else in the house.”
Catherine’s eyes went to the doorway across the sunroom to the alarm keypad near the back door. “Was the alarm system turned on?”
“He turned it on when he came in. I should have done it before I went upstairs, but I forgot because Jack usually does it, and so I didn’t think of it.”
“Does he go away on business often?”
“Not really. There are conferences sometimes, or training sessions he has to go to so he can demonstrate new machines. Once in a while he goes somewhere to make a sale and stays over. It’s only a few nights a year.”
“What time did you expect him to come home last night?”
“Actually, I didn’t know he was coming home. I thought he’d be home tonight. But he got his meetings in early, and he caught a flight yesterday.”
“And when he goes away, do you usually forget the alarm?”
“I don’t usually forget. I guess I was sleepy last night. That’s all.”
“Okay. So you said you realized there was someone in the house. How?”
“Jack was the one who noticed. When I called to him that I was awake, he answered, then started down the stairs. He had left his suitcase in the entry because he didn’t want to wake me up clunking around with it, but since I was awake, he decided to go down to get it. When he reached the top of the stairs he heard something. He ran back to his dresser, where he keeps the gun. He told me to get ready to call nine-one-one, and went down to search the house.”
Catherine was having the experience again of listening to someone lie, but not being quite sure of what the lie was. The secret that all police officers knew but that other people seemed not to was that truth and lies were not mutually exclusive. They were always mixed together in a kind of stew and had to be separated. Every person who told a police officer a story was lying. Sometimes they were only making themselves look braver or more sensible than they really had been in a crisis, and sometimes they were fabricating whole incidents to hide the fact
