The Crime Writer

I had been here many times in my life, in reality, in dream, in memory. This late-night visit felt like a melding of all three.

Fast Teddie picked the front-door dead bolt in about three seconds.

Chic pressed the door open, handed me a flashlight, and said, "We'll be where we're at. Keep your cell phone on."

I moved inside, closed the door behind me.

Alone in Genevieve's house.

A memory attached to every object. Baccarat candy dish, sleek to the touch. Blank spot on the side table where a Murano paperweight used to rest. Pink-and-white striped scarf slung over the banister, bearing the faintest scent of Petite Cherie. The marble tiles of the foyer were hard underfoot. The knife block stared at me from the kitchen's center island, five stainless handles and one empty slit. Thinking about that bleach wash given to Broach's body, I checked the sink and the bathtubs and strayed into the dark garage. I searched the living room and the carpeted alcove that Genevieve used to refer to as a dining room, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Only the upstairs master remained. My legs tingled as I ascended. Adrenaline? Fear? The door had been left ajar. Even in the dim light, it was clear a broad-ranging blob, lighter than the surrounding carpet, where industrial cleaners had bleached the beige fibers.

The bed had been made, a detail that drove my emotion to the surface. Who had pulled it together during the aftermath? Genevieve's mother? Had a thoughtful criminalist turned up the sheets before withdrawing?

I blinked myself back to usefulness and checked the closet, the sink, the luxurious pink bathtub with its inflatable headrest, touched now with mold.

I returned to the spot on the carpet and sat cross-legged.

Here Genevieve had met the curved boning knife.

Here her life had been extinguished.

Here I had sat with her body, dipped my hands into the bloody well, tumbled into seizure and blackout.

Somewhere the memory lurked, lost in the coralline whorls of my frontal lobe.

I wanted answers. I wanted a sudden flash of recognition, the thunderbolt of epiphany. Instead it was just me and the stainless quiet of a deserted bedroom.

After a few moments, I picked up on the faintest hiss. I stood, spinning to source it, wound up with my ear pressed to the built-in speaker beside the headboard.

I moved downstairs to the edge of the dining room, where a wall of fine-wood cabinets arced toward the kitchen. A picture window, the largest in the house, showed off a view of the hillside and intervals of the street below as it twisted down to Coldwater. The leftmost cabinet, where through some flight of bizarre Gallic logic Genevieve hid the stereo components, opened readily under my touch, releasing a wave of electronic warmth. Glowing from the dark stack of hardware, a green pinpoint. The CD player had been left on. Playing something the night of her death? Maybe that music I'd heard in my dream-memory as I'd stumbled up onto the porch hadn't been merely in my head, like the sharp scent of smoldering rubber. The digital counter showed that the CD had run its course. I clicked "eject," the tray sliding out to offer an unlabeled disc, something Genevieve had burned from her iTunes library.

I was about to thumb the tray back in to play the CD when my cell phone chimed, breaking the tense silence. My gaze rose to the window.

Down the hill two dark SUVs with tinted windows and no running lights turned off Coldwater onto Genevieve's street, starting up the hill.

Chic's voice came rushing through my cell phone "Get outta there."

I flew from the house, the pavers rocking violently in my aftermath. Leaping into my car, I slid Genevieve's unmarked CD beneath my floor mat. As I zoomed away from the curb, I popped in my headset, watching Chic's taillights blink on the stretch of road visible down the hillside to my left.

"Where are they?"

"A block down from me," Chic said. "Teddie just executed the world's slowest three-point turn to hang 'em up. Can't see who through the tint. You got your piece?"

I set the. 22 on the passenger seat. "Yep."

"Nice and easy. You drive right past 'em heading down. The road's narrow they'll need time to turn around. We hit the bottom of the hill, we go in five different directions."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. I wedged the. 22 in the gap in the seat break; if chaos ensued, I didn't want it sliding out of reach.

Blind turn followed blind turn, and then finally, a sweep of headlights illuminated a thicket of chaparral on the left shoulder. I slowed, hugged the wall of the canyon, and two black Tahoes flew by, rocking my car. No time to see a license plate. The windows looked uniformly black.

I was almost around the curve when, in my rearview, I saw the back Tahoe's brake lights flare. My stomach surged.

Accelerating down the dangerous road, I said to Chic, "They spotted me."

"Okay. Keep me in your ear. Tell me where you are."