“Cozy room,” she said, glancing around.
Larson and his partner had it ready to welcome a guest, with an antique iron bed with a small mountain of pillows, a patchwork quilt tossed across the foot. There was a small dresser and an upholstered armchair, and bedside tables draped in lace.
“Thanks,” Larson said, then his smile dropped. “You don’t think the killer shot him from here, do you?” he asked, torn between horror and excitement at the thought.
“No,” Nikki said. “We know the shots came from the park. The victim’s daughter was in this room at the time. I just wanted to know if she might have been able to see something.”
She imagined the world beyond the lacy curtains dark and cold, Jennifer tucked up against the pillows with her foster sister Angie reading in the amber glow of the bedside lamps.
That wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t been close, Nikki thought. What teenage girl would go out of her way for a lonely little bookworm if she didn’t feel a connection to the girl? Certainly little Jennifer had looked up to her surrogate big sister. Certainly she would have known if Angie Jeager had a boyfriend, or if she had been friends with the boy next door.
Nikki looked across the backyard to the second story of Donald Nilsen’s house.
“How well do you know your neighbor? Mr. Nilsen?”
Bruce Larson rolled his eyes dramatically. “Better than we would care to. He’s a horrible, hateful old homophobic geezer. That’s the Discovery ID show we’ll probably end up on—the one where the neighbor from hell ends up killing us.”
“That bad?”
“You have no idea. The first thing he did when we moved in was tell us he doesn’t approve of our lifestyle—and I’m phrasing that politely. Then we started remodeling the house, and he was a nightmare. He was constantly complaining about the noise, about the workmen’s trucks. He kept reporting us for whatever imagined infractions he could come up with—which only prolonged the project of course.
“When we took that stump out, he tried to get us in trouble for that. We planted a vegetable garden. He complained about the tiller.
“Every time we have guests over for a cookout or a party, and we’re in the backyard, he calls the cops to complain. And it’s not like we’re out there dancing naked and having a Roman orgy. We’re quiet guys. We like to cook and eat, and drink good wine. Our friends are professional people. We talk about books and movies and politics. I’m sure Donald Nilsen hasn’t read a book since Mein Kampf.”
“If it’s any comfort, he doesn’t like heterosexual couples with families, either,” Nikki said.
Larson shook his head. “He hates everyone. He’s the most miserable man on the planet.
“We had a big Labrador when we first moved here. Duck was his name. Nilsen constantly complained about Duck. The dog barked too much, the dog jumped over the fence and shit on his lawn. Nilsen actually threatened to shoot him! And he meant it! He was raving like a lunatic one day, waving a rifle around! It was crazy! I took pictures of him on my phone because I was afraid no one would believe us. David called the police. They talked Nilsen down and told us to keep the dog away from him, and put up a better fence. We should have pressed charges is what we should have done.
“We put up the privacy fence, and Nilsen complained about that. I wanted to go over there and shit on his lawn myself.”
“What happened with the dog?”
“He died. I would bet money the old man poisoned him, but we couldn’t prove it. What kind of person does that? Sick bastard.”
“You could move.”
“The hell with that,” Larson said. “We’ve put heart and soul into this house. We like it here. The neighborhood is in an upward transition. He’s an overweight old man with rage issues. He’ll stroke out one of these days, and a gay couple will buy his house, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”
“In the meantime, stay on your side of the fence,” Nikki said, moving toward the door.
“You don’t think he’s the killer, do you?” Larson asked, following her down the stairs. “Oh my God!”
“I really can’t comment on the case,” Nikki said, stepping back into her shoes. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Larson.”
“No problem. Come back if you need to.”
He handed her a business card on her way out. “Just in case.”
“Wishful thinking.” Nikki took the card and slipped it in her coat pocket. “The only way I’m getting a personal chef is if I marry one.”
“Sorry, I’m taken,” he said with a smile. “I bat for the wrong team anyway.”
“My luck,” Nikki said. She started for the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Do you by any chance still have the photo of Donald Nilsen with the rifle the day he threatened to shoot your dog?”
“Sure, of course. I never delete photos unless I look fat in them. Everything else gets put in a folder on the computer.”
“Could you show me?”