neighborhood canvassed. Start here and work your way out, searching for anyplace the guy might have parked if he came in from outside. One of you check for strangers in that bunch of rubberneckers over there, too. The rest split up and get moving. Somebody saw something. Find them.”
Once the other officers had departed, I rejoined Morrison behind the tape. “Call SID,” I ordered, referring to the Special Investigative Division’s crime-scene unit. “When you have an ETA from them, buzz the coroner’s office. Say I requested Art Walters, if he’s available.”
“Yes, sir.”
I glanced again at the sky. The overcast had thickened since I’d arrived, and it appeared the sun wouldn’t be breaking through anytime soon. “Have them send a sexual-assault team, too,” I added, remembering Rodriguez’s comment about the wife.
Without awaiting an answer, I crossed the lawn to a wooden gate on the left side of the house. The gate was unlocked. I opened it and followed a narrow walkway along the side, noticing the cloying smell of jasmine as I arrived in a small back yard. Passing a littering of patio furniture, a leaf-choked birdbath, and an assortment of balls, bats, and other children’s toys, I circumnavigated the exterior, examining doors and windows for any sign of forced entry. I found none.
After returning to the street, I made my way up a flagstone walkway to the front door. A bronze eagle, its wings spread majestically in flight, hung above the entry. I gazed at the silent raptor for a moment, preparing myself for what was to come. Then I withdrew a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, pulled them on, and pushed through the door, closing it behind me. Once inside I paused in the entry, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.
Quiet. Too quiet.
To the left lay the living room, shades drawn. To the right, a hallway led deeper into the house. Directly in front, a carpeted staircase curved up to the second floor. Dark stains, some displaying a wavy pattern, marked the entry tiles and several stair treads.
Have SID check it out. Get a shoe size, maybe a make.
Using my pen, I flipped a light switch at the base of the stairs. Nothing. I tried another switch. Same result.
Power out?
On a wall nearby I noticed a security panel, its LCD screen dark.
No battery backup?
I proceeded down the hall, flashlight in hand. At the end of the hallway I entered a laundry room with a door leading to the garage. Beneath a counter piled with clothes I noticed a large wire cage, its door open, the interior empty. A rectangular sign wired to the front read “Buster.”
Retracing my steps, I glanced into a powder room, then made my way to the kitchen, sweeping my flashlight beam along the walls as I entered. Dishes lay piled by the sink, an empty pizza carton beside them. Flanking an oval table in the breakfast nook was a bulletin board covered with crayon depictions of fish, insects, and an American flag-obviously the work of a child but some surprisingly good. Magnetic fruit tacked other drawings to the refrigerator. In a small alcove beside the pantry, someone had taken the phone off the hook and wrapped the receiver in dishtowels.
Crossing the room, I noted that the hands on an analog clock beside the stove had stopped on 12:37. Using my camera’s built-in flash, I took a picture of the clock, then unplugged it. As I continued my inspection, I saw that like the lights in the entry, the digital panels on the microwave and oven were out.
The remainder of the ground floor proved unremarkable: a wood-paneled den, a formal living room, and a dining room with a cut-glass chandelier above an ornate dinner table. Upon completing my circuit of the downstairs, I stopped again in the entry, considering my next move. Apparently, electricity to the house had been turned off-presumably by the killer. Not ready to start pulling drapes and opening blinds, I decided to see whether I could find the breaker panel and get the power back on. After returning to the laundry room, I opened a heavy door on the back wall and stepped into the garage.
Lacking windows, the garage proved even darker than the rest of the house. It took me a moment to find the door-opener control. I pushed the button with the tip of my pen. As expected, the door remained closed.
Playing my flashlight across the concrete floor, I approached the single car present, a Jeep Cherokee. On the bumper, between an anti-nuke slogan and a pro-choice emblem, a third sticker read “Thanks for visiting L.A. Please come back-we weren’t shooting at you.” I smiled briefly. Then, without touching the car’s surface, I leaned across and pulled a rope handle dangling from above, disengaging the door-opener motor from its track. Next I stepped to the garage door and rolled it up, squinting against a sudden flood of light from outside.
A quick search of the garage for the power panel proved fruitless, but I found something else. Fresh oil drips marked the concrete in the Larsons’ vacant parking space. Bending, I checked beneath the Jeep. I saw no sign of leaking under the engine or drive train. Stepping outside, I signaled to Morrison, who had resumed his post on the front walk.
“SID on the way?” I asked when he arrived.
Morrison nodded. “Should be here in about fifteen minutes. I also got in touch with the coroner’s office like you said. They’ll have an investigator en route within the hour.”
“Fine, kid. Now, get on the radio and check with DMV for vehicles registered to the Larsons. Have somebody ask the neighbors, too.”
Morrison glanced into the open garage. “One’s missing?”
“Maybe,” I said, noticing a white van with a roof mounted antenna pulling up to the entry gate down the street. Even at that distance I could make out the Channel Two eyeball on the side. Cursing under my breath, I headed back into the house, realizing a bad day was about to get worse.
Minutes later I found the house’s electrical panel below a coat rack in the laundry. Someone had tripped every breaker. Again using my pen, I flipped them back on. With each click I could hear some distant part of the house coming alive: the refrigerator in the kitchen, a heating fan in the garage, the startup chirps of a computer in the den.
Suddenly I froze. An eerie thumping was coming from deeper in the house.
Again.
Someone was still inside.
3
Slipping out my Beretta automatic, I eased down the hallway, staying close to the wall. I listened.
The living room.
The odd thumping abruptly stopped. I considered requesting backup. Deciding against it, at least for the moment, I edged into the living room, my flashlight and weapon held in a double-handed grip.
The sound resumed. I crabbed deeper into the dim room, trying to pinpoint the noise.
The couch?
Bending, I peered under a large, L-shaped couch. The thumping increased. Still gripping the Beretta, I swept the flashlight beam along the floor. Caught in the light, two red eyes glowed from the darkness. Startled, I jumped back, almost knocking over a lamp. A moment later a fat, tan-and-white rabbit with long floppy ears hopped out, sat, and thumped the floor several times with a hind leg.
I let out a disgusted sigh, glad I hadn’t called for backup. Some things you never live down, and this would have been one of them. “What are you doing here, little fella?” I asked softly. “Nearly scared the crap out of me.”
As if in apology, the bunny took several inquisitive hops closer, then drooped its ears and regarded me solemnly. Apparently deciding I presented no threat, the rabbit then indulged in a quick preening, licking its fur with the self-absorbed fastidiousness of a cat. I watched in amazement.
After completing its cleaning, the rabbit sat up on its hind legs, sniffed once, and stared at me again. Tentatively, I reached out and stroked the soft fur of the rabbit’s head. At my touch, the animal lowered its entire body, splaying its ears like tent poles.
