“No fucking way. I saw the flamingos. Even you didn’t see the flamingos.”
“Yeah, but. Well. You did miss something.”
“What? And it better not be some Emery Hazard bullshit like saying I missed your reflection or I didn’t carbon date the fence.”
Grinning, Somers said, “Go ask the neighbors.”
“Ask them what.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Then, after checking the booties and gloves again, Somers stepped inside the house. The competing noises were louder here—aggravatingly loud, in fact. But he lingered in the doorway, checking the jambs, the head, the strike plate, the door. No signs of forced entry. The deadbolt and the lock on the handle both bore signs of wear and tear, but nothing that Somers could point to as an obvious sign that they had been forced.
The apartment was small: a kitchen immediately to his left, the linoleum curling up under the cabinets; then a living area with a small CRT television and, on the coffee table, an iPad. The iPad’s screen was flashing in time with the synthesizer notes, obviously an alarm that Susan had set for herself. Beyond the coffee table, at the end of the living space, a glass slider opened out onto the tiny patio and backyard. On the right, one door led into a bathroom; a curling iron lay on the counter, unplugged, and a tube of lipstick had fallen onto its side. A second door led into the bedroom.
Somers checked the floor before moving forward; past the kitchen, the linoleum gave way to orangish laminate boards. He squatted until light hit the floor at an oblique angle. No visible footprints; dust bunnies and some loose hairs and fibers. Well, that was why he was wearing booties. Still, just to be safe, he kept close to the wall as he moved deeper into the apartment.
The stench stopped Somers at the bedroom’s threshold. Gore—some specks brown, some gray, some blackened from oxidation—marked the bedding, the pillows, the headboard, and a tiny crescent of wall. It was obvious from the angle that the Keeper had approached Susan while she was still asleep. Somehow, he had managed to get close without waking her. Then the Keeper had shot her in the head. Presumably, Somers thought with a kind of detachment that he had only gained over long years, the kind that he still scrabbled for in situations like this, presumably Susan had been turned toward the door, and the Keeper had fired directly into her face. The same way Phil Camerata’s face had been destroyed. The FBI would have a spatter analyst who could confirm that. Somers reached out and tapped the bedside alarm, which gave a final beep before going silent.
Footsteps pulled Somers’s attention away from bits of brain and bone and blood. In the doorway, Dulac hesitated.
“Christ,” he said.
Somers nodded.
“That answers one question,” Dulac said.
“And raises a lot more.”
“Very funny, by the way.”
“Nobody home?”
“You could have told me the apartments were empty instead of making me trot around like an asshole.”
“I just wanted to make sure I was right. After all, you’re the one who spotted those flamingos. Good catch on that, by the way.”
Dulac rolled his eyes. “Ok, so nobody hears the shot because the units on both sides are empty. Fine. That makes his job easier. But did you look at the door?”
“I did. Will you check the slider? I’ll check the windows in here.”
Dulac’s steps moved away on the laminate, and the synthesized alarm on the iPad cut off. Somers moved around the bed, carefully to keep to the far side of the room, where he was least likely to contaminate evidence. When he got to the large windows that backed up to the patio, he raised the blinds, intending to check the locks.
Movement in the patio stopped him.
First, he swore.
Then, he sighed.
He rapped on the glass as Emery Hazard dropped down on the inside of the privacy fence. Hazard’s reaction was immediate and startling: the big man grabbed for his gun, jerking around pressing his back to the fence. A year ago, Hazard would have had more control. A year ago, Hazard wouldn’t be white and panting, leaning against the fence like it was the only thing holding him up.
“Shit,” Somers said, waving through the glass. “Don’t shoot me. I’m sorry.”
“Uh, dude,” Dulac called from the other room. Then a lock clicked, and the sound of the slider opening reached Somers. Dulac’s steps moved back through the apartment, and from the bedroom door, Dulac said, “I guess I’m going to check