“Ed gave it to you pretty good,” Wald said over the engine’s drone.
Trish wasn’t sure if Ed was really Sergeant Edinger’s first name or only a nickname. Somehow she hadn’t had the nerve to ask.
She frowned. “I was late.”
“You didn’t miss anything. No serial killers or terrorists in the area, at least as far as we know. Incidentally, Officer, your shirttail needs a little work.”
“Oh, God.” She groped behind her and felt a flap of fabric overhanging her waistband like a panting tongue. Hastily she tucked it in. “You mean I was running around the station like that” She wanted to die.
“I’m sure nobody noticed.”
Trish thought she saw a grin tucked away at the corner of Wald’s mouth. She couldn’t be certain, but the odds favored it. Pete Wald seemed characteristically amused by her.
Perhaps it was his prerogative to feel that way, a privilege of age and experience. He was a veteran officer, a twenty-year man, two decades her senior-big and gray-headed and molasses-voiced like some frontier patriarch.
She remembered his exaggerated astonishment upon learning that Reagan was the first president she distinctly recalled. “I watched Kennedy debate Nixon,” he’d said, chuckling.
“I saw a kinescope of that on PBS,” Trish had offered, but the comment merely elicited another, heartier laugh.
Smiles and laughter and lightly stressed superiority-that was Pete Wald. Trish almost preferred the screaming insults of her drill instructor at the academy.
The car cruised north on Sullivan. The lighted marquee of a movie theater glided past. Double feature, both films six months old, one of them already available on video.
A week ago, feeling restless and lonely on her first night in town, Trish had gone by herself to the movies. The screen sagged, and the picture had been projected out of focus. Fewer than a dozen patrons had occupied the wheezing straightback chairs. She left before the start of the second feature.
She watched the marquee shrink in the sideview mirror, a rectangle of light diminishing to a postage stamp, gone, and then there was only darkness again.
“He read you the L.A. speech,” Wald said, “didn’t he”
“Speech”
She saw his cheek dimple as the threatened grin was realized. “Every boot on his watch gets to hear it. Ed waits for the first mistake, then launches into his routine.”
Trish felt a little better.
“Of course,” Wald added, “he could be right.”
She flushed, her momentary relief fading. “About me”
“About L.A.-and here. A lot more happens in the city, you know.”
“I realize that.”
“Out here you’re a hundred miles from the nearest riot zone. Even Santa Barbara doesn’t have all that much going on, and when you get this far inland-well, it’s rural America. Strictly small-town.”
“I knew that when I signed up. But …” Trish looked away into the dark. “Sometimes bad things happen-even in small towns.”
For a moment she forgot the humiliation of roll call, the flush of shame, her beating heart. She was wrapped in old memories, memories that melted into half-remembered fragments of dreams.
Then she realized Wald was studying her, eyes narrowed and thoughtful.
She shrugged, as if the thought had been safely philosophical. “Or so I’ve been told.”
5
The dinner party was going smoothly, really wonderfully well, until Barbara Kent saw the prowler in the backyard.
At least she thought it was a prowler. She got only a glimpse of what appeared to be a dark figure moving furtively through the olive trees near the gazebo.
Then shadows swallowed the man-if it was a man-if it had been anything at all.
She flipped a wall switch. White glare spilled over the patio and the hedge-lined flagstone path to the gazebo, but the gazebo itself, pale and stark, was barely touched by the glow.
Though she leaned closer to the kitchen window, her nose brushing the screen, she saw nothing more.
Imagination She wasn’t prone to seeing things that weren’t there. Her father had called her a level-headed pragmatist while she was still in elementary school; she remembered looking up pragmatist in Webster’s and being pleased by the definition.
Daddy had been right too. She was a realist and a skeptic, and if she thought she’d seen someone in the yard, then surely she had.
She was turning toward the phone on the wall when Charles and Ally entered the kitchen, carrying the last of the dinner dishes.
“Sink or dishwasher” Ally asked.
Barbara put on a false smile. No need to alarm her daughter. “Sink.”
Ally deposited the dishes in the soapy water, and Charles did the same. Impatiently Barbara waited for them to go.
Her gaze ticked from the countertop Quasar television with built-in VCR to the Krups espresso machine on the central island, currently brewing four demitasses, then to the hand-rubbed pine cart laden with stainless steel Ottoni cookware, then to the matching hutch, its shelves lined with Waterford crystal.
Expensive things. She thought of what she was wearing-sterling silver earrings from Neiman-Marcus; a herringbone choker, eighteen karat, from Tiffany’s; a gold bangle on her left wrist from Eximious of London. There was more, much more, in her jewelry box and in the wall safe in the den.
“Great dinner, Mom.” Ally’s voice pulled her back to the moment.
“You helped.”
“I didn’t cook anything.”
“You helped by being here. And by lighting up the room.”
Ally blushed, and Barbara felt a blind surge of love for her, mingled with relief that Charles’s misgivings-and her own-had proved groundless.
At fifteen, Alison Kent was going through a rebellious phase. Of course, it was probably hard not to be rebellious when your parents argued all the time, when your home life was a succession of angry fights and ominous silences.
Still, there had been embarrassing incidents-that messy business at the Carltons’ cocktail party last Christmas, for one.
Fearing a similar disaster, Charles had argued for sending Ally to a friend’s home tonight. Barbara had stood her ground on that. Their daughter was good enough for the Danforths and for any other guests who might be hosted in this house.
But privately she’d fretted-and for no cause. Ally behaved beautifully. Wearing a sleeveless white cotton dress and her best manners, she charmed the adults, making not a single misstep. Perhaps her parents’ good behavior brought out her own.
Then in a wrenching shift of perspective, Barbara saw her daughter the way a desperate man might see her, a man who lurked in shadows and violated people’s homes. Her smile faltered.
The clock was ticking. She had to get on the phone.
“You’re the life of the party.” Barbara patted Ally’s arm. “Now get back in there and keep Philip and Judy entertained.”
“I think those five whiskey sours are keeping Philip plenty entertained as it is.”
“Naughty. Now scat.”
Ally left, giggling-she was still not too old for that-and Barbara turned instantly toward the cordless phone. She lifted the handset.
Charles, pouring espresso, arched an eyebrow. “Who are you calling”
“The police.”
6
Crouching low, Cain approached the bay window of the living room.
From twenty yards away he could hear the faint murmur of conversation and the clink of tableware, broken abruptly by a woman’s high-pitched laughter, brief and stabbing like a scream.
Sound carried easily here, in the mountain stillness. He hoped the others had the sound suppressors tightly screwed to the gun barrels, hoped they remembered his admonition to economize on gunfire. Even the best silencer was only partially effective, and then for no more than three or four shots.