"Stupid," said Mark, looking at Karen.
Cardoza came to her defense. "Those old window locks are easy to force. Too bad people around here are so set on their antiques; the wooden frames are so warped you can get a crowbar in the crack between the sashes."
"Fingerprints," said Mark. "Footprints."
"Mark, we've been over this a dozen times," Cardoza said patiently. "The back yard is all grass and graveled paths and nice neat mulch. Not a patch of handy mud anywhere. The guy got on the roof of the garden shed and went over the wall. As for fingerprints-sure, they'll check, but most crooks know enough these days to wear gloves."
"In the middle of the summer? Your favorite junkie, who is supposedly too strung-out to know which end his head is on?"
"What are you trying to suggest-that Mrs. Nevitt has a secret enemy who's out to strangle her?" Cardoza demanded.
Karen's eyes opened wide. "Hey, wait-"
"No, of course not," Mark muttered.
"He was alone," Cardoza said. "Cheryl only saw one person-nothing more than a shadow, actually. If there had been two of them or more, they might have… well, they might not have run away. So it wasn't a gang. Gangs go after TV sets, hi-fi's, things like that. This guy tore up the bedrooms, not the downstairs. He was looking for money or for jewelry-something small and portable he could hock. That's the obvious, rational conclusion, and I'm damned if I can see why you're trying to make something more out of it."
"I'm not. I just don't understand why-"
The telephone rang, and Mark reached across Karen and picked it up. "Hello? Yes, she's here, but she isn't able to talk right now. May I take… What? My name is Brinckley. Mark Brinckley. Who is this?"
In the silence that followed they heard the far-off voice quacking unintelligibly. A wave of dull crimson moved slowly up Mark's face from the base of his throat to his hairline.
Karen sat up. She had seen the phenomenon before. It was not a sign of shame or embarrassment; Mark was never embarrassed. It was pure red rage.
"Give me the phone," she said, and took it from his hand. "Hello, Jack."
"I've been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?"
"Out."
"Obviously. Why haven't you answered the letters from my lawyer?"
The cool incisive voice, with its peremptory tone, affected her as it always had. Instead of replying in kind, she heard herself mutter feebly, "I haven't been… I was a little upset…"
"Not too upset to console yourself, I see. It was rather careless of Brinckley to answer the telephone at this hour of the night. Adultery is still grounds for divorce in this state, and some judges are influenced by it when it comes to alimony."
"But I didn't-"
"Not that I have any objections. Being a fair-minded man, I felt obliged to point out the legal complications you may incur. Personally I'm relieved that you have found a protector. You are quite incapable of managing your life by yourself. It's decent of Brinckley to take you back. Some men might be more particular about secondhand goods. But he never was very fastidious."
His voice had risen in pitch and in intensity. "Hang up," Mark said suddenly.
"What?" Karen felt dazed. Jack was still talking; he sounded shrill and hysterical.
"Hang up the phone."
"Oh." Karen obeyed. She wiped her hand on the bedspread.
Said Cardoza, staring into space, "You can get a restraining order, you know."
The telephone rang again. Mark picked it up. He was about to slam it back into the cradle, unanswered, when Cardoza said casually, "Do you mind if I…"
Mark's angry color subsided. Smiling grimly, he handed over the telephone. Karen said nothing. She felt bruised and sick with shame. She had a good idea of what Jack had said to Mark.
"This is Detective Cardoza of the D.C. police," Cardoza announced. "Who's this?"
The reply was inaudible. Cardoza grinned and winked at Karen. "Mrs. Nevitt's home was broken into tonight and she was assaulted. Where did you say you were calling from? I see. You have witnesses who can verify that, I suppose?"
The quacking began again. Cardoza's smile broadened, displaying even white teeth. "Yes, I'm sure you are concerned. I'll tell her that. Good night, Mr. Nevitt." He hung up. "That should take care of him."
"Mr. Cardoza," Karen said earnestly, "I think I love you."
"In that case, you'd better start calling me Tony."
"If you two have quite finished the compliments," said Mark, through tight lips, "I'd like to return to the case at hand."
"There isn't any case," Tony said, his patience wearing thin. "At least there's nothing we can follow up. If we had a description…"
"I didn't even see him," Karen said. "He grabbed me from behind and it was pitch-dark in the hall."
"You're sure it was a man?"
"Well, of course… No. No, I'm not sure of anything except that he, she, or it had two hands."
"No distinctive smell? After-shave, unwashed body…" He glanced at Mark. "Marijuana, alcohol?"
"I can't remember."
"Did you feel anything other than the hands? Cloth, hair, mustache, fur? Big hands or small? Calloused?"
Karen kept shaking her head. "I didn't see him or smell him or feel him or… Oh!"
Tony sat up alertly. "What?"
"I heard him," Karen said slowly. "He whispered. Right in my ear, the same words over and over, like a recording. 'Where is it, where is it, where is it?'"
CHAPTER SIX
THE memory of that obscene whisper was Karen's last coherent recollection. She was vaguely aware of voices and movement as Cheryl shooed the men out of the room, and she half-heard Cheryl's statement that she intended to spend the night. She was too drowsy to protest the offer even if she wanted to, which she emphatically did not. Once recalled, the whisper went on echoing in the corridors of her mind; she was almost afraid to go to sleep for fear it would follow her into her dreams.
However, she slept heavily and dreamlessly until she was awakened by a thud that shook the bed, and by a hot and not particularly sweet-smelling breath on her face. It was, of course, Alexander. The sight of his prize-winning ugliness only inches from her eyes was so horrible she promptly closed them again. Alexander bit her on the nose. Karen sat up with a shriek. Alexander retreated to the foot of the bed, where he sat down and began to bark.
The gist of his comments would have been plain to the slowest intelligence. When Karen looked at the clock she was forced to agree he was right. It was after nine o'clock. This was a workday, and she was supposed to be at the shop at eleven.
She got out of bed. Except for a sore throat, she felt remarkably well, and the sight of the confusion that still reigned in her room filled her with a burst of anger that sent the adrenaline pumping healthily through her veins. Cheryl had not had time to do more than fold and hang the crumpled garments over the chairs and bureau. The empty dangling sleeves and limp skirts looked pathetic. Most would need washing and ironing; at the thought of all her hours of wasted work, Karen stamped her foot and swore.
The door opened a crack before she had finished swearing and Cheryl's voice remarked, "I don't blame you, but maybe you should save your strength. Ready for breakfast?"
"You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble," Karen said.
"No trouble." Cheryl put the tray on the desk, which was practically the only uncluttered surface in the room. Sadly surveying the confusion, she shook her head. "It sure is a mess. But you know, you're lucky in a way; they're just dirty and wrinkled. I've heard of cases where the burglars got mad because they couldn't find drugs or money and they slashed everything with knives and-well-got them dirty…"
"I know." Karen sniffed appreciatively. "That coffee smells great. You are going to join me, I hope."
"I brought two cups." Cheryl pulled up a chair. Alexander, smelling bacon, came out from under the bed and squatted at her feet.
Karen scowled at him. "My, my, how charming you are when you smell food."