In the dining room, I spotted an elegant leather handbag that had been emptied on the floor: her wallet, a makeup pouch, a pill bottle, hairbrush. Ned was probably looking for her house keys, which would have included the key to the elevator. My arrival must have cut short the rampage, forcing him to flee down the back stairs. Who knew how long he’d been gone before I rang her call bell that first time? Or maybe it was my buzzing that told him it was time to leave.
I could hear the high, thin wail of two sirens, which diminished and finally shut down abruptly as the vehicles pulled up outside. Moments later, I heard the low wind of the ascending elevator and then the doors opened. Erroll led the way into the apartment, followed by a uniformed officer and three paramedics bearing a collapsible gurney. They needed space to work effectively, so I held out a hand to Erroll, who pulled me to my feet. The medics were already checking her vital signs, assessing her injuries in preparation for moving her.
I turned aside, unable to watch as one of them started an IV line.
“I want to take a look at the third floor,” I said and headed for the stairs. I thought Erroll might follow, but his attention was fixed on Phyllis. The paramedics conducted a murmured conversation as they applied first aid measures.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I turned to the right. I looked into the master bedroom and bath, both of which were untouched. Retracing my steps, I peered into one of guest rooms, where she’d stacked the moving cartons she hadn’t yet unpacked. Ned had done the job for her, slashing at the packing tape, then dumping out the contents, which he’d flung in all directions. He’d managed to rip open ten of thirteen cardboard U-Haul boxes, tossing books, files, and office supplies. The scene looked chaotic, but I could see a certain systematic order to the disarray. He’d dispatched her first, knocking her out cold so that he could proceed without interruption. Three boxes remained sealed, which meant he’d been forced to abandon the task. He’d made two attempts to search my premises for his trinkets: first at my office, where he’d failed to gain entry, and the second time when he’d come to my studio and found Pearl and Lucky on hand. He must have changed the focus of his hunt from me to Phyllis. I crossed the hall and did a quick eyeball search of the second guest room, which she’d set up as her in-home office. Ned hadn’t gotten this far because the room was untouched.
When I returned to the second floor, Erroll was in conversation with the uniformed patrol officer who’d responded to the 9-1-1 call. The officer was taking notes, but paused while the paramedics lifted Phyllis onto the gurney and immobilized her with straps. Erroll accompanied them as they maneuvered the gurney into the hall. A third paramedic, this one female, carried the IV bag, keeping pace as they eased into the elevator. The officer and I remained in the living room while Erroll stepped into the elevator and keyed in its downward journey.
The officer introduced himself as Pat Espinoza. He was in his thirties, clean-cut, physically fit, and he carried himself with confidence. They should have posted his photograph on a billboard promoting employment with the Perdido Police Department because he was just exactly the sort you’d want showing up at a crime scene while you were still trying to get your head together.
Erroll had filled him in on the basics while I supplied the back story. He told me a detective was on his way and asked if I’d stand by, which I was happy to do. What seemed odd to me later was that I couldn’t reconstruct the sequence of events and conversations with any continuity. I remembered most of it, but there were gaps that I had to write off as having been gobbled up piecemeal by emotions I was trying to repress.
I realized Erroll had returned but I wasn’t sure how long he’d been back. He stood rigid against the wall, his head back, eyes closed. I heard voices in the foyer and then a tap at the door, which stood open. He roused himself as a plainclothes detective appeared. He was in his sixties, with fly-away gray hair, rimless bifocals, unruly eyebrows, and a salt-and-pepper mustache.
Erroll moved away from the wall. “Erroll Price,” he said.
“Detective Crawford Altman. Perdido Police Department.”
The two shook hands as Erroll said, “That’s my place across the hall. This is Kinsey Millhone, a friend of Phyllis’s. She’s a private investigator from Santa Teresa.”
The detective turned his attention to me and we shook hands. At close range, I could see all the lines in his face, including a six-inch silver scar that distorted the lid on his left eye. He looked more like a mad scientist than any detective I’d ever seen.
“Why don’t you have a seat? We’ll chat as soon as I’ve talked to Mr. Price.”
“Sure thing,” I said.
I wandered into the kitchen, too restless and hyped up to sit down. Through the bank of kitchen windows, I could see the waterfront a block away. The sun wouldn’t actually set for another hour and the cloudless blue sky was a contradiction to the events that had transpired. The one-story houses on the block between the condominium complex and the waterfront did nothing to obscure the view. The masts from the boats moored in the harbor swayed and tilted gently as a motorboat putted along behind them. Since this was a Saturday, there were tourists on the boardwalk and I counted the businesses that filled the wedge I could see: a fish-and-chips place, a T-shirt shop, a small art gallery that probably sold nautical scenes by local painters.
I turned around and looked past the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. Erroll and Detective Altman were still talking. I’d done a quick survey of the third floor, but I hadn’t seen the back stairs. There were two doors to my left. The first opened into a spacious combination pantry and laundry room. I moved to the second door and used my shirt hem to open it, thinking Ned might have laid a hand on the knob. I found myself looking at the interior stairway that led down to the ground floor. I followed the stairs down, keeping my hands to myself. If Ned had left prints anywhere, I didn’t want to smudge them and I certainly didn’t want to add mine to the mix. At the bottom, there was a door with an automatic lock, which had been wedged open with a car jack. On the floor, miscellaneous pieces of sterling-silver flatware and been dropped and abandoned. The two-car garage was empty. The car jack was a nice touch, implying a burglary in progress with the intruder making sure he could load the car and then get back into the apartment for whatever additional items he might steal. This was Ned being subtle.