A saffron trapezoid gleamed from the glass-topped table in the dining room ahead. Other shapes formed out of the darkness. The writing desk. A corner of the sideboard.
A sudden sense of foreboding. I’d left lights burning.
Again, Ryan called out.
Again, no answer.
Ryan and I crept through the darkness, predators testing the air.
Sounds of emptiness. The refrigerator. The humidifier.
Cold, from the direction of the living room.
At the side hall Ryan reached out and flicked the switch. Motioning me to stay put, he made a hard right and disappeared. Lights went on in the bedroom, the bath, the study.
No one bolted. No one rushed past me. Ryan’s movements were the only sounds.
Backtracking to the main hall, Ryan moved forward and probed the kitchen, then the living room. In seconds he reappeared.
“Clean.”
I took my first real breath since entering the apartment.
Seeing my terror, Ryan reengaged the safety and holstered his gun, then wrapped his arms around me.
“Someone cut the glass in the French door.”
“But the alarm?” My voice sounded stretched and quavery, like an overused cassette.
“Wasn’t breached. Do you have a motion detector?”
“Disabled.”
I felt Ryan’s chin tap the crown of my head.
“Birdie kept triggering the damn thing,” I said defensively.
“What the hell?”
Ryan and I turned. Anne was standing in the doorway, Mace aloft, eyes wide.
Anne’s brows shot skyward.
“He’s a cop,” I said.
“Serve and protect,” Ryan said.
Anne lowered brows and Mace. “My kind of community policing.”
Ryan released me and I made introductions.
Hearing voices, Birdie fired from the bedroom and raced a figure eight around my ankles, fur erect with agitation.
“Detective Ryan would be the ‘sort of’ referred to at dinner?” Anne floated one brow in query.
“Someone’s been in here,” I said, shooting her a “not now” look.
“Holy shit,” Anne said, crunching into the foyer.
As Ryan phoned burglary, Anne and I assessed the damage.
While the French door pane had been cleanly cut, without damage to the security-system trip wires, glass had been shattered in the foyer, dining room, and bathroom mirrors, and in every picture frame in the place. Fragments glittered from furniture, sinks, countertops, and floors.
A few books and papers had been tossed here and there, but otherwise, the main living areas were unharmed.
In contrast, the bedrooms were chaos. Bed pillows were shredded, drawers pulled out and upended, closets ransacked.
A hasty inventory turned up two losses. Anne’s digital camera. Anne’s laptop. Otherwise, nothing seemed to be missing.
“Thank God,” said Anne, drawing out the deity’s name.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, gesturing lamely at her belongings.
Tossing the jewelry pouch onto the dresser, Anne shot out a hip and placed a hand on it. “Guess the little pricks didn’t care for Tom Turnip’s taste in gems.”
It took an hour to do the paperwork. The officers promised that crime scene would check for prints, shoe impressions, and tool marks in the morning.
Anne and I thanked them. No one had much enthusiasm. We all knew that her belongings had disappeared into the black hole of petty theft.
Ryan stayed. Perhaps to inspire diligence on the part of the CUM. Perhaps to buoy my flagging spirits.
When the cops had gone, Ryan offered his place as refuge. I looked at Anne. She shook her head no. Her
