Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

“Could the latch have failed to catch?”

“I pulled it tight. But it’s your damn door.” Barely a sibilant, but she managed to hiss. “Besides, that doesn’t explain Birdie being outside.”

“If someone was waiting to assault us, the door wouldn’t be open.”

“Assault us?” Anne’s eyes saucered. “Oh, sweet Jesus. Are you talking about some homicidal crazoid you’ve pissed off through your work?”

“That’s not what I meant.” It was exactly what I meant. “I meant some random intruder.”

Anne’s eyes ballooned. “Great. Some crazoid rapist. ”

“That’s not the point. Leaving the door open would be a dead giveaway of a break-in.”

“Excellent choice of wording.”

Under stress, Anne’s sarcasm keeps its cool.

“If it’s a routine burglary, they wouldn’t announce their presence with an open door. The door makes no sense if anyone’s inside.”

Lady Liberty relaxed her arm a fraction, but said nothing.

Creeping forward, I placed my ear to the door.

No noise.

But something else.

Squatting, I held my hand to the crack. Cold air was seeping out.

“What?” Anne was still using her church voice.

I straightened.

“There’s a door or window open inside.”

“Meaning the Ripper has split? Or settled in for a Guinness and garroting?”

At that moment the lobby door opened. We both went rigid.

Voices. Male.

Anne’s Mace arm shot skyward.

Footsteps retreated down the wing opposite mine. A door opened, closed.

Silence.

Then more footsteps. Coming in our direction!

I motioned Anne into the stairwell hallway parallel to my door. We shrank sideways as one.

A figure filled the frame of the main entrance to my corridor, tuque pulled low to his eyes. Dimness and the hat obscured the man’s face. All I could make out was body form. Tall. Lean.

The figure hesitated, then pulled off the tuque and strode toward us.

Anne’s knuckles went white around her canister.

The figure passed under a sconce. Sandy hair. Bomber jacket.

Relief flooded through me. Followed by embarrassment. And feelings of which I was uncertain.

Defusing Anne with a gesture, I stepped forward.

“What are you doing here?” Whispered, but shrill, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through me.

Ryan’s smile sagged, but held on. “I’ve come to view that greeting as a sign of affection.”

“I’m always saying that because you’re always showing up unexpectedly.”

Ryan placed both hands on his chest. “I am a man smitten.” He spread the hands wide. “I cannot stay away.”

Anne lowered her arm, a look of confusion crimping her features.

Ryan turned, preparing to beam charm in Anne’s direction. Seeing the Mace, his smile wavered. He looked a question at me.

Annoyance and embarrassment began a full-court press against fear and relief. If the break-in wasn’t real, I didn’t want to look like a fool. If the break-in was real, I didn’t want to need Ryan’s help. Or his protection.

Unfortunately, at that moment, I suspected I needed both.

“Someone may have broken into my place.”

Ryan didn’t question what I’d said. He spoke without moving.

“How long were you away?”

“A couple of hours. We’ve been back five minutes or less.”

“Did you set the alarm when you left?”

Normally I am good about security. Tonight, Anne and I had been intent on catch-up.

“Probably.” I wasn’t sure.

Pocketing gloves and tuque, Ryan unzipped his jacket, drew his Glock, and gestured us back toward the stairwell.

Anne slid left, back pressed to the wall. I moved behind Ryan.

Ryan twisted sideways against the wall and rapped the door with his gun butt.

“Police! On entre!”

No answer. No movement.

Ryan barked again, in French, then English.

Silence.

Ryan pointed at the lock.

I stepped forward and used my key. Sweeping me back behind him with one arm, Ryan nudged the door open with his foot.

“Stay here.”

Gun gripped in both hands, barrel angled skyward, Ryan crossed the threshold. I followed.

Something crunched underfoot.

One step. Two.

The mirrored wall in the foyer gaped densely black. Courtyard light sparked like phosphorous off the marble floor.

Three.

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.

“Bienvenue à Montréal,” said Ryan.

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.