Nobody answered, so Jacob ducked back under a low-hanging American flag baked to translucency and circled the property, attempting to extrapolate from the crime scene photos which of the windows belonged to her bedroom. Best guess was one overlooking the backyard. He flattened himself against the siding and waited for the scene to speak to him.
Clover and bluegrass and dew-jeweled dandelions.
Sprinkler heads.
A fence.
Beyond it, the rear neighbor, a dented play structure.
Above, electrical lines sagged under the weight of crows, black as the wires they sat on.
He waited and waited for inspiration to strike.
Wrong time of day?
Something once there, now missing?
As the thrill of revelation faded, he felt a pang for the prophets of old, their loneliness and disorientation when, touched by God or imagining they were, they ended up stumbling in the turbulence left by a deity’s receding hand.
All at once, the crows raised up, shrieking and flapping and vanishing east.
Jacob took some photos, walked back to the Honda, and drove to Christa Knox’s old place in Marina del Rey.
The unshaven man who came to the door refused to admit him without a warrant, loudly turning the deadbolt.
Quarter after ten a.m. He texted Divya.
She failed to answer and he sent her another text, immediately regretted it.
Katherine Ann Clayton’s El Segundo studio apartment had been demolished to make way for a strip mall. On the corner where she’d lived and died, a Starbucks dispensed its wares. Jacob used the camera’s panorama mode to stitch together a 270-degree view, bought a 470-calorie bran muffin and a decaf that tasted of charred cardboard, hopped back on the freeway to Santa Monica.
His luck improved: Cathy Wanzer’s old condo was vacant, for sale. He phoned the listing agent and made an appointment to see it later that day.
As he was getting off the phone with her, call-waiting beeped: his father.
“Hey, Abba. What’s up?”
“I wanted to see how you are,” Sam said.
“Me? I’m okay.”
“Good,” Sam said. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yeah. Okay. Everything okay with you?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“Well, good.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “Just terrific.”
“That’s great, Abba. You know what, though, I’m right in the middle of something, so—”
“What’s that.”
“What?”
“What are you in the middle of?”
“I’m working,” Jacob said.
“Yes. Of course. On the case.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s it coming?”
“Not bad. Slowly but surely. Look, can I call you back later?”
“Yes, of course... But — Jacob? I’m out of milk. Do you think you’d have time to pick some up for me?”
“Milk,” Jacob said.
“I need it for breakfast,” Sam said.
“Nigel can’t do it?”
“I haven’t asked him.”
“Well. Can you ask him, then?”
“I could, but I don’t know if he’ll have time.”
“Abba. It’s noon.”
“Tomorrow,” Sam said. “Breakfast tomorrow.”
“I’m sure he can get it to you before then. And if he doesn’t I’ll bring some by tonight, okay? I need to go.”
“Yes. All right. Take care.”
He hung up.
Bewildered, Jacob stared at the phone. His father had never been a nudge. He was an even more hopeless liar.
Milk? Really?
Why he would be pestering Jacob about the case was unclear, unless Sam truly was concerned about Jacob’s stress level. It unsettled Jacob to realize that perhaps there was something to be concerned about. The nightmares; the boundless, electric zaps powering him through the day.
He wrote them off. Occupational hazard. He had a right to nightmares. He was staring down wickedness. He had a right to be excited. He was making progress.
He opened up the phone’s settings and assigned his father a unique ringtone so he’d know which calls to ignore.
Laura Lesser, R.N., had lived in a Tudor-style cottage. The present owner, a middle-aged woman, listened to Jacob’s pitch, wrote down his badge number, and asked him to wait on the porch.
He stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, thought about the last few days, and decided a three-day marathon work session, a crash, a smaller spike, and a gentler ebb was simply doing the job well. Mania didn’t follow that pattern or cycle that rapidly. Right? Right.
The owner returned looking wary. LAPD had confirmed that Jacob was a cop, but not what department he was with or why he might want access to her house. Before allowing him in, she pelted him with questions, which he answered as evasively as possible. Even after she’d relented and let him in, she persisted.
“What sort of crime did you say it was again?”
He hadn’t. “A break-in.”
“Oh my God. Should I be worried?”
“Not at all,” he said, coming to the end of the hall.
“How can you be sure?”
“It occurred several years ago.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“It relates to some newer crimes, but nothing that’ll ever connect to you.” Smiling as he made a beeline through her house. “Promise.”
He found what he was looking for: Laura Lesser’s former walk-in closet.
It had been restored to a bedroom, a preteen girl’s. Tufted fabric letters above the bed spelled ISABELLA.
Jacob superimposed Laura Lesser’s savaged body on the purple rug.
Knelt on her back and gazed out the window at a stop sign.
He snapped a picture.
“What are you looking at?” the woman asked.
“Thanks, finished, sorry for the inconvenience.” He made his way back to the front door. He was beginning to take grim satisfaction in finding nothing of interest. A negative pattern could be useful, in its own way.
The woman said, “We picked this neighborhood because it’s safe.”
“It is.”
“My husband’s been talking about getting a gun.”
Thinking of the girlish accoutrements, Jacob said, “Tell him to keep it locked up.”
At Cathy Wanzer’s condo, the real estate agent said, “It’s been completely redone. Fabulous open-concept living-eating space.”
“What about the master bedroom?”
“Also brand new,” she said, striding off. “Right this way.”
Quick-stepping up a corridor lit by shabby-chic sconces, the agent began to extol the virtues of wallpaper.
“... really in right now...”
Jacob followed her into the master.
“Don’t you adore these floors?” she said.
“They’re nice,” he said.
“Reclaimed teak. The previous owners got inspired by a trip to India and they found a school in Mumbai that was going to be knocked down, so they were able to—”
“Did they move any walls or windows?”
“In here? I don’t think so. You can see they deepened the closet, perfect for a young... couple, or if you...” She watched him kneel and snap pictures. “We have a website, you know.”
“Mm,” he said.
“Do you want to see the master bath?”
He ignored her and walked to the window.
Across the street, a preschool.
“What can you tell me about that place?” he asked.
“The school? Oh, it’s fabulous. It’s less than four years old and the facilities are top-notch. There’s a gifted track. Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Oh... Well, from what I gather, they’re very considerate neighbors. They confine the pickup to the opposite side, so you won’t have traffic, and as far as noise goes... eh...”