The sun had hidden behind the oddly regular treeline, and a purplish sky had fallen, dropping a final curtain on the day. Modest brick homes with attached garages and large front lawns lined the street, which seemed unusually quiet, with only a few kids playing. It could have been the heat, but Mary was guessing that families were away on vacation, since more than one garden needed weeding or the lawns looked especially dry.
Mary pulled in front of Simon’s house and turned off the ignition, remembering when Simon had thrown a housewarming party here, years ago. His wife, Ellen, had been alive and Rachel was the adorable dark-haired infant they all believed was healthy. But even then, a deadly disease was lying in wait, written into the baby’s DNA, which would darken to a poison that shared the same veins as her lifeblood, like a lethal best friend. Cancer was a murderer. Mary hated cancer, but working on Simon’s case had brought her to the epiphany that cancer came in many forms—and even in allegedly healthy people. Murderers had a form of cancer, too. It was hate beneath the surface, waiting for its chance to strike and kill. And it had to be stopped.
“This it?” Bennie asked, looking out the window.
“Yes. Let’s go.” Mary came out of her reverie, slung her messenger bag on her shoulder, and got out of the car. Humidity saturated the air, even at this hour, but she fell into step beside Bennie as they walked up the front walk, scanning the house. The front door, which was black, was closed. “I wonder if the cops broke the lock to get inside?”
“They usually do. Sometimes they leave the door wide open, which sucks. I know a case where they left the door open and the resident was burglarized. But not in a nice neighborhood like this.”
Mary got out the house keys that Simon had given her anyway, and they made their way up the walkway. Predictably the front yard looked unmowed and the house needed some maintenance. It was a brick colonial with traditional black shutters and a white portico over the front door, but the shutters looked faded and white paint peeled on the roof of the portico.
“Here we go.” Bennie opened the door as they reached the front step, and it swung open, so they went inside.
“His home office is to the left,” Mary said, remembering the layout, with the stairwell to the second floor directly ahead but the living room off to the left, then a kitchen, followed by the home office that led to the garage.
“Gotcha.” Bennie flicked on a wall switch, and they both looked around with dismay. The police search had obviously been thorough because the cushions on the sectional couch in the living room had been upended, books and CDs had been taken from an entertainment center and scattered willy-nilly on the sisal rug, and artwork and family photos had been unhooked from the walls and stacked on the floor.
“They weren’t kidding.” Bennie frowned, looking around.
“Right.” Mary looked away, pained. She had such nice memories of this house and she hated to see it this way. She picked her way through the living room and went to the kitchen, followed by Bennie, and it had been searched thoroughly as well. Every cabinet door hung open, exposing stacks of dishes and mugs with sayings on them, among them WORLD’S GREATEST MOM.
“Here’s what they’re looking for,” Bennie said, standing in front of an open drawer that held kitchen knives in a long wooden block.
“The murder weapon, right?”
“Yes. Obviously they wouldn’t expect to find it in the drawer. But we need to know more about it. Does Simon hunt?”
“No.”
“Then I’m guessing it was a common kitchen knife. Whoever framed him would use a knife Simon would have owned.”
“What if it’s one of a set that he had? And that one could be missing? The killer could have made it look as if Simon had taken the knife from home.” Mary looked through the knives in the drawer, and there were a few with black handles that appeared to be steak knives, possibly from a set. “But a steak knife wouldn’t do it, would it?”
“No.” Bennie looked up. “And anyway, I doubt Simon entertained much, agree? It’s not as if people would be aware of what knives he had, or if he’d been given a set.”
“I agree.” Mary glanced around the kitchen, and for the first time noticed a black smudge of fingerprint dust on the white Corian of the counter. “They dusted for fingerprints.”
“Yup.” Bennie straightened up. “And they’ll find Simon’s prints in Todd’s car, too. On the door handle and on the inside. Where’s the home office?”
“This way.” Mary led her through the open doorway into a square, windowless office, which held a wood workstation in the corner with cubbies partway up the wall. A blue router remained connected, so the wireless was probably still active, though Simon’s desktop computer was gone and must have been seized. Its mouse had been left behind, on top of a pad that was an enlarged photograph of Rachel as a baby.
“He said top drawer on the left. Look for the Phillies schedule.”
“On it.” Mary beelined for the drawers, which hung open, their contents having been dumped in a large messy pile on the dark rug. There was nothing left in the top drawer, so she crouched down and started sifting through the pile, and Bennie crouched down opposite her. They searched through packs of new checks, bills, pens and pencils, stale gum, gas receipts, and random business cards.
“I hope the cops didn’t find the passwords.” Bennie kept looking, and so did Mary, rooting through the paper, one bill after the next. If the police had dumped the drawers out in order, the contents of the first one would be on the bottom of the pile.
“They would have to be incredibly lucky to have found it. Who looks inside a Phillies schedule?”
“Phillies fans?” Bennie moved some papers aside, suddenly exposing a trifold Phillies schedule with slick graphics. “Go, Phils!”
“You got it! I hope the passwords are inside!” Mary scrambled over as Bennie opened the schedule, and they both cheered. Inside was a narrow piece of paper on which Simon had written twenty-five passwords in his characteristically neat printing. The passwords were incomprehensible and listed beside their respective websites. Mary skimmed the list quickly until she got to the tenth password, 8sj2s77Tuyx1, for PensieraNet.
“Bingo!” Bennie said excitedly.
“Let’s get busy.” Mary reached into her messenger bag, pulled out her laptop, and powered it on and sat cross-legged on the floor with it, firing it up. Her heart began to beat faster.
“Now we’re cooking with gas.” Bennie sat beside her, and Mary logged into settings, joined PensieraNet, and after a process of trial and error, used the password to open Simon’s emails.
“Wow.” Mary watched as thousands of emails piled onto the screen, organized by year. She narrowed the search to the current year, filtered them using the name Ray Matewicz, and still came up with a screenfull. “I guess there were more than Simon remembered.”
“But I’m sure a lot of them won’t be relevant.”
“Right.” Mary scanned the first one, which was about scheduling a meeting. “And it looks like some have Ray as a copy, which isn’t all that helpful. I would refine the search further but I don’t want to miss anything.”