the heel. See?"
"Did you cast a print?"
"Like I said, Kojak, we can't roll criminalists because someone sent you a spooky home video."
"Great. So we'll get slaughtered in our bed and then you'll send a van."
She lifted an eyebrow. "First of all, you'll get slaughtered on your couch. And yes, then we would send a van."
I thumbed through the photos. One was taken from directly above, Valentine's radio lying beside the print. "The radio's for scale?"
"No, for period atmosphere. Yes. Scale. The print's from a size-eleven-and-a-half Danner boot. The make is Acadia, common uniform footwear, eight inches high at the ankle. They're comfortable as hell, and you can resole them. Cops love 'em, but they're twice the price of Hi-Tecs or Rockys, so you don't see them around as much. They're a field boot, for patrolmen or SWAT guys. Detectives wear bad dress shoes." With a grunt, she set her long-suffering loafer on the edge of the desk. "Payless if you're on a single-mother budget."
"So it's a law-enforcement boot?"
"But anyone can order them. Just like handguns. And we all know how deranged members of our society have been known to fetishize police gear."
"Especially when they're already working in law enforcement."
"Don't look at me. I wanted to be an astronaut."
My eyes wandered around the squad room, taking in the black boots of various makes attached to various officers. "What size shoe is Valentine?"
Her lips pursed with irritation. "Not eleven and a half. And he was on shift with me when that footage of you was taken. Surely you can do better than that, Inspector Clouseau."
"Well, there haven't been any cops to our house that we know of. I think ever."
"Like I said, it could be a cop in a cop boot, or it could be a wackjob in a cop boot." She stood, pulled on her jacket, bringing the conversation to a close. "If you want to be doing something useful, you should be thinking about who you've pissed off lately. Or who your lovely wife has."
"I have been," I said. "Where else am I supposed to look?"
"There are rocks everywhere," she said. "We just usually don't kick 'em over."
Chapter 18
Heading back up Roscomare, I called Ariana at the showroom. "I'm going home early."
"You're not going to the movies?" she asked.
"I'm not going to the movies."
"Okay. I'll finish up here, too."
There was a courtship excitement to our exchange, unspoken but understood, like we were smitten teenagers planning a second date. It hit me how rarely these past six weeks I'd come home before she was in bed for the night. And now I was nervous but eager, unsure what the evening with her would hold.
Simmering unease eroded my optimism. Ariana's meeting--the one I hadn't picked up the suit for--was supposed to be in the afternoon. So why had she been at the showroom when I'd called? For a half block, I actually debated calling back and checking with her assistant. As Ariana had pointed out, it doesn't take much more than a white handkerchief and a few well-placed nudges. My paranoia, I realized, was bleeding outward, making me question--however stupidly--everything going on around me.
I passed the shopping strip, and the reception bars blinked off the cell-phone screen, offended by the altitude. As I slowed for the driveway, a sense of foreboding seized me, and I couldn't help but crane to see if a new surprise was waiting. The front yard looked normal, and the doorstep was empty. But a ripple at the curtain snagged my focus. I caught a flash of a white hand before it withdrew. Too white.
A latex glove.
It was so odd, so out of place, that at first it stunned me into a kind of mental blankness. Then, through my rising alarm, I registered the figure behind the curtain, shadow-smudged like a fish in murky waters.
My body had gone rigid. But I didn't slow the car further; I rolled right past my driveway and the house next door before pulling over to the curb. I debated hooking back to the grocery-store pay phone to call 911, knowing that
"Did you cast a print?"
"Like I said, Kojak, we can't roll criminalists because someone sent you a spooky home video."
"Great. So we'll get slaughtered in our bed and then you'll send a van."
She lifted an eyebrow. "First of all, you'll get slaughtered on your couch. And yes, then we would send a van."
I thumbed through the photos. One was taken from directly above, Valentine's radio lying beside the print. "The radio's for scale?"
"No, for period atmosphere. Yes. Scale. The print's from a size-eleven-and-a-half Danner boot. The make is Acadia, common uniform footwear, eight inches high at the ankle. They're comfortable as hell, and you can resole them. Cops love 'em, but they're twice the price of Hi-Tecs or Rockys, so you don't see them around as much. They're a field boot, for patrolmen or SWAT guys. Detectives wear bad dress shoes." With a grunt, she set her long-suffering loafer on the edge of the desk. "Payless if you're on a single-mother budget."
"So it's a law-enforcement boot?"
"But anyone can order them. Just like handguns. And we all know how deranged members of our society have been known to fetishize police gear."
"Especially when they're already working in law enforcement."
"Don't look at me. I wanted to be an astronaut."
My eyes wandered around the squad room, taking in the black boots of various makes attached to various officers. "What size shoe is Valentine?"
Her lips pursed with irritation. "Not eleven and a half. And he was on shift with me when that footage of you was taken. Surely you can do better than that, Inspector Clouseau."
"Well, there haven't been any cops to our house that we know of. I think ever."
"Like I said, it could be a cop in a cop boot, or it could be a wackjob in a cop boot." She stood, pulled on her jacket, bringing the conversation to a close. "If you want to be doing something useful, you should be thinking about who you've pissed off lately. Or who your lovely wife has."
"I have been," I said. "Where else am I supposed to look?"
"There are rocks everywhere," she said. "We just usually don't kick 'em over."
Chapter 18
Heading back up Roscomare, I called Ariana at the showroom. "I'm going home early."
"You're not going to the movies?" she asked.
"I'm not going to the movies."
"Okay. I'll finish up here, too."
There was a courtship excitement to our exchange, unspoken but understood, like we were smitten teenagers planning a second date. It hit me how rarely these past six weeks I'd come home before she was in bed for the night. And now I was nervous but eager, unsure what the evening with her would hold.
Simmering unease eroded my optimism. Ariana's meeting--the one I hadn't picked up the suit for--was supposed to be in the afternoon. So why had she been at the showroom when I'd called? For a half block, I actually debated calling back and checking with her assistant. As Ariana had pointed out, it doesn't take much more than a white handkerchief and a few well-placed nudges. My paranoia, I realized, was bleeding outward, making me question--however stupidly--everything going on around me.
I passed the shopping strip, and the reception bars blinked off the cell-phone screen, offended by the altitude. As I slowed for the driveway, a sense of foreboding seized me, and I couldn't help but crane to see if a new surprise was waiting. The front yard looked normal, and the doorstep was empty. But a ripple at the curtain snagged my focus. I caught a flash of a white hand before it withdrew. Too white.
A latex glove.
It was so odd, so out of place, that at first it stunned me into a kind of mental blankness. Then, through my rising alarm, I registered the figure behind the curtain, shadow-smudged like a fish in murky waters.
My body had gone rigid. But I didn't slow the car further; I rolled right past my driveway and the house next door before pulling over to the curb. I debated hooking back to the grocery-store pay phone to call 911, knowing that
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