'Meg, there's no way a seagull could smash those thermal pane doors. Not even a three-hundred-pound seagull.'
'I'm just telling you what she said. Will you shut up and listen? She ran to the archway leading onto that womb with a view...'
'Pretty funny, Quilliam.'
'All that pink marble, Quilliam. Ugh! Anyhow, she saw two men struggling with Verger Taylor. Burglars, she said.'
'Did she recognize them?'
'Of course she didn't! What self-respecting burglar would burgle with his bare face hanging out? Both of them had those arctic masks on their faces. You know, the woolly thing you wear to keep the cold out when you ski.'
'How were they dressed?'
'I couldn't get that out of her. She screamed, ran back to the kitchen, and hid in the closet.'
'She didn't call 91l?'
'She was too scared.'
'Oh, dear.'
'Anyhow, she hid in the closet and said the burglars came looking for her.'
'How did she know that?'
'Because they were calling, 'come out, senorita, come out. We will not harm you if you come out.' Devils, she said.'
'Were they hollering in Spanish?'
'They must have been. Her English isn't very good. Anyway, they flung open the door of the closet, found her, blindfolded her, tied her up, and left her for dead. She says. But as far as I can tell, they didn't mean to harm her at all. She was tied up pretty tightly, but she could breathe. And she wasn't beaten or anything. Then one burglar came back.'
'Came back?'
'That's what she said. She was lying there, scared out of her wits, crying, and praying when she heard this devil come back. 'This devil, snapping like the flames of hell.' That's her words.'
'This was all in Spanish, Meg?'
'Yes. What of it?'
'Your Spanish sucks, that's what of it.'
The door to the bedroom flew open. Ange the policeman stood there. His face was red. He called over his shoulder, 'Here they are!' and stepped back. 'Out.'
He motioned with one hand. The other was on his pistol. 'Out now. The sergeant wants a word with you two.'
He shepherded them back to the living room. As huge as it was, it had become crowded. An ambulance team waited with a stretcher. Five or six forensic technicians were crawling around the floor, vacuuming, taking pictures, and otherwise gathering evidence. Two men in dark three-piece suits conferred by the fireplace with Evan and Corrigan. A policewoman sat with Shirl and Beth. The intact door next to the shattered one where the robbers had entered was open, and a man and a woman in plain clothes were headed towards it.
'Sarge!' Ange called out. 'Here they are.'
The woman looked over her shoulder and snapped, 'Hold 'em.'
Ange gestured sternly at a pair of Louis Quinze chairs on either side of an occasional table. An ormolu clock ticked away in the center of the table, and Quill noted the time: eleven-fifteen.
She and Meg both sat down. Ange took up what Quill thought of as the guard-dog stance: feet braced apart, hands on his position belt, a stem and unforgiving look on his face.
'Ange?' she said chattily. 'Are you from around here?'
'New Jersey, ma'am.'
'Is crime more interesting here or in New Jersey?'
Meg rolled her eyes. Ange didn't respond at all. Quill tried again. 'Been on the force long?'
'Two years, ma'am.'
'So you've had some experience,' Meg cracked. 'Mostly traffic though, right? Don't even bother asking him stuff, Quill. He doesn't know a thing.'
A tinge of red crept over Ange' s cheeks. Quill looked at Meg, bemused at her rudeness. Meg dropped the merest wink and Quill murmured, 'Oh, of course.' Then, with indignation, she said, 'What a mean thing to say, Meg. Officer...' She darted a glance at his uniform. His last name had more consonants than syllables. 'That is, Ange knows what's been going on here. Don't you, Ange?'
'Seen this before, ma'am.'
'Where, on that dumb TV show Cops?' Meg snorted. 'Hah.'
Ange's gaze drifted downward. Meg was wearing a gauzy white cotton dress that she'd picked up in Bloomingdale's that afternoon. Despite her tough-guy diction, she looked a lot younger than thirty. 'Home invasion, miss.'
