Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,39

usually less than ten a year, and the crimes that took place were normally financial, money-laundering or tax-evasion, not violent or physical. Beckman had been a cop for twelve years and had only ever drawn his piece three times, never having to fire it. Vasquez was coming up to her third year, but had only drawn hers once. There was no soaring murder rate or any turf wars between different gangs here, and the sense of community in the area meant the locals knew most of the officers by name.

The two cops worked five days a week, weekends off, and drove their beat in a squad car kept spotless by Beckman, covering an area of about eight square miles. They'd just taken a call from dispatch concerning a domestic enquiry. Apparently a kid who did one of the paper rounds had told his boss about a stack of papers on the front step of a property, and as the squad car pulled up outside, the two officers could see he hadn't been exaggerating.

Beckman applied the handbrake and killed the engine. Down the street, both cops saw the beginnings of activity from pretty much every house on the street. It was a family area, lots of people walking down paths and headed to cars, firing engines and driving off to work. The muffled noise of kids being rounded up before they were packed off to school, the yellow school-bus pulling up along the street, the activity that took place in most households across the country at that time in the morning.

But there was none of that kind of activity in the house to their left.

When they'd taken the call, Beckman had suggested that the homeowner probably worked for the CIA. He or she would have been called away somewhere unexpectedly. That was the nature of government work, after all. Vasquez had agreed that it was a possible likelihood, and when she had checked the squad-car computer she'd found that the homeowner, a Peter Shaw, did in fact work at the CIA. But on the screen, it said he was an analyst, not the kind of guy who would be ordered off somewhere for three weeks. Maybe it was a cover. Maybe he was a field agent instead. But nevertheless, the two officers had to check.

Stepping out of the car, the cops shut the doors and walked up the path towards the house. Beckman stepped over the pile of newspapers and approached the front door.

He knocked three times, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to wake the neighbours.

'Mr Shaw? McLean PD. Open up please, sir.'

Pause. Nothing.

'Mr Shaw? Please come to the door.'

Nothing.

He turned and looked at Vasquez, who shifted her gaze to the door handle.

'Check it,' she said.

Beckman reached over and grabbed the door handle. He twisted it, expecting resistance and for the locking mechanisms to kick in.

But the handle twisted and the door opened.

It slid back, revealing a still and empty hallway.

The two officers looked at each other and simultaneously drew their service weapons, two Sig Sauer P229 pistols, from their holsters.

One after the other, they moved inside the house, holding the weapons double-handed as they had been trained, clearing the lower level.

It was silent, no morning activity, no man wearing headphones listening to music as he ate breakfast unable to hear the knock on the door. Vasquez turned right and headed to the living room, whilst Beckman went to the kitchen. Both rooms were empty, but there were clues that were making both officers increasingly concerned.

In the living room, Vasquez saw a heap of clothing on the floor, a woman's, not scattered as if it had been discarded in passion, but as if it had been torn off and dumped on the spot. She walked over slowly and saw a nightgown and some underwear, both of which were ripped.

In the kitchen, Beckman saw what looked like the beginnings of a breakfast. There were two big bowls both half filled with what looked like some kind of bran cereal. Beside them, a carton of milk was open on the table. Beckman walked forward and sniffed over the milk, then withdrew hastily, frowning. It was off. The rest of the kitchen was spotlessly clean and almost obsessively tidy, everything where it should be, mugs hanging from hooks, pots and pans all put away, the jars on the spice rack all lined up, their labels facing outwards. But there was one thing that caught Beckman’s eye. Two things, actually. Their