Faye Kellerman - Blindman’s Bluff

“Dark back here.” Marge followed the ray of light with her eyes. “How well could you see if something was disturbed?”

“The lightbulb over the porch just burned out,” Rangler said. “Before that, the place was pretty well lit up.”

“Burned out?” Marge turned around and faced him. “Why didn’t you replace it?”

Rangler said, “I didn’t think replacing lightbulbs was part of the job description.”

“If it helps you see what’s going on, it sure as hell is.” She turned to Breslau. “Do you have a lightbulb in the car?”

“No, ma’am.”

“There’s a twenty-four-hour place just around the corner.” She tossed him the keys to her car. “Go down and get one. I’ll stay with Officer Rangler until you get back.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Marge could hear the young cop chuckle. “Something funny, Rangler?”

“Not at all, Sergeant.”

“I thought I heard laughter. Must be imagining things, huh?”

Rangler was silent. Marge walked over to the back door and focused the flashlight on the socket over the entrance. “C’mere, Officer.”

Rangler complied, stopping about a foot away from Marge.

“Take a look up there.” She shone her beam on the light fixture. “How could a bulb burn out…when there’s no bulb in the socket? Want to explain that to me?”

Rangler started to speak, but then wisely stopped himself.

Marge swept her flashlight over the ground until she found the molded piece of glass resting in the grass. She picked it up and screwed it back into the socket, bathing the back area in welcomed yellow light.

“Call in for backup, all units in the area.” Standing off to the side, she pounded on the back door and shouted out to Harriman. Did it again and when she got no response, she hooked her flashlight onto her belt and took out her service revolver.

“Cover my ass, Rangler, we’re going in.”

IT WASN’T GOING like he planned.

None of the fucking lights worked!

They were pounding at the back door.

There were the two cops watching the front door.

Sirens in the background.

You’re not a stupid guy, he said to himself. Don’t start being stupid now!

With desperation, he looked around for a way to get out undetected. But both doors were guarded.

He was a cornered animal about to be hunted down.

Think, you asshole, think!

He took out his piece and held it in his hand. It would give him some leverage, but in the end he was badly outnumbered. A shootout wasn’t the answer.

There was no place to run; he might as well hide.

HARRIMAN COULD HEAR the banging at his back door. His heart, already galloping, almost flew out of his chest. If he yelled from under the bed, could they even hear him? Would he give himself away to the intruder?

Wait until they were closer.

Patience, patience.

Like they say, silence is golden.

WITHIN MOMENTS, BRESLAU had returned and was breathless. “I heard the call go out.”

“What call?” Marge pounded the door again.

“911 from the inside of this address.”

“Good God!” Marge exclaimed. “If Harriman called 911, someone’s inside. The door’s bolted. I don’t want a hostage situation, but I don’t want to ram the door without vest protection. Guy could have a gun.”

Her eyes made a frantic search around the yard and landed on the patio chairs. She stacked the four of them together, picked them up, and brought them to her chest, using them as a shield.

“This’ll have to do,” Marge said. “Cover me.”

“I’ll ram the door, Sarge,” Rangler said. “I got a lot more weight on me.”

“This isn’t Kevlar, Rangler. A bullet could rip through this like it was snow.”

“We all signed up for the job.” Rangler held his arms out. “I got more weight on me. Whoever can do it the easiest, you know?”

“Can’t argue with that.” Marge would remember the good attitude as she passed the chairs to Rangler. He hefted them as if they were a pile of blankets. Taking two steps backward, he rammed the door.

Once.

Twice.

By the third time, the frame splintered and the back door swung open. In the background, the three of them could hear the sounds of approaching sirens.

Marge peered inside: dark and silent.

“Harriman, are you here?” When Marge didn’t get any response, she pulled out her semiautomatic issue. “Rangler, you take the flashlights and shine the beam inside so I can see. Breslau, you’re my cover. Let’s go.”

There was not nearly enough illumination to discharge a weapon. Marge flattened herself against the wall and inched her way inside, groping for the light switch. When her fingers finally found it, she steadied her breath and lifted it up.

Nothing happened.

She did it again and again and then remembered the obvious.

The guy was blind.

Marge wondered if there were any active lights in the entire unit. She thought for a few moments.

Brett had mentioned something about a girlfriend driving him to Rina’s. She must visit sometimes at night. There had to be artificial lighting somewhere. Assessing her surroundings, Marge was standing in the laundry room, which led directly into the kitchen.

The kitchen!

Maybe there was a hood light over the cooktop with a working bulb. She said, “Throw some beams into the kitchen with your flashlights.”

The area looked unoccupied, but someone could be hiding. Slowly she moved toward the cooktop.

She reached under the hood, felt for the switch, and turned it on.

Voilà!

The illumination was better but far from adequate. She saw a duplex switch on the tiled backsplash.

The first one operated the garbage disposal, but the second one turned on a system of under-the-counter lighting. They could see enough to clear the kitchen and move forward.

Harriman’s condo sported an open floor plan: living room, dining area, and kitchen bleeding into one another. The good news was that nothing appeared disturbed. There was no upended furniture or other signs of a struggle, but there was just something off about the place.

Too quiet? The smell?

Sirens continued to wail in the background.

Marge said, “Rangler, call in our position to the RTO and tell all units coming to the scene to approach with extreme caution.”

Her eyes skittered around in the dimness. Off the open public area was a hallway that probably led to the bedrooms.

“Cover me,” Marge told the officers.

She plastered herself against the wall and inched her way down the foyer until she came to the first closed door. She knocked hard on the door, announcing herself as the police, telling anyone inside to come out with their hands in the air. When the door remained shut, she threw it open and pointed a gun forward.

Nothing happened.

With caution, Rangler shined the flashlights inside the room and it appeared to be empty.

“Police!” Marge shouted again. “You’re surrounded! Come out with your hands in the air!”

They waited…one second…two seconds…three seconds.

They entered the room. The small space was set up as a gym with a stationary bicycle, a treadmill, and a weight machine. The pole lamp inside worked and bathed the area in soft light. Marge pointed to a closed door-probably a closet. Pressing herself against the wall, she turned the knob and tossed open the door.

Nothing happened, and that was just the way she wanted it.

As Breslau kept watch at the door and Rangler provided the spotlight, Marge rummaged inside the closet, pushing away clothes and weights just to make sure that no one was hiding.

She jumped when she heard a pounding at the front door. Rangler let the backup officers into the living room, turning on as many lamps as they could find. Good mood lighting but no romance was in the air. When everyone was safely inside, Marge took a head count-eight including herself.