Too long, if he was only picking up a bag and coming back out. And there had been that clatter earlier. One of the officers Frome had brought along had muttered something about him probably knocking things over in his haste, but now Frome was starting to feel more and more uneasy.
“Mr. Wurz?” he said, calling out loudly, knocking on the door for good measure. He listened then, holding up a hand to silence one of the officers when he opened his mouth to speak. There was no sound from inside. Not even the creak of a floorboard.
“What should we do?”
Frome glanced at the man who had asked. “We’re going in,” he said, drawing his gun. He didn’t like to use it. In fact, he’d never had to discharge it on duty. He had this horrible, horrible
feeling like this could be the first time. But it wasn’t like they could just stand outside. Frome was in charge here, the senior of the three of them, and he had to do something.
He reached out for the door handle, nodding to each of his colleagues to check they were ready, and then flung it open. He peered inside, searching for any sign of anything off. The house was still silent, despite his intrusion.
He inched down the hallway, holding his gun up in his hands like he’d been told to in training. Should he call out? He didn’t know whether it was better to give the killer, if there was one, enough time to get away, or to avoid accidentally shooting the homeowner when he emerged unexpectedly from one of the rooms. In the end, he stayed silent. He wouldn’t fire, he told himself. Not without looking.
There wasn’t a single sound anywhere in the house except from behind him, his backup following him along the hall. He could barely breathe. He felt like he was holding his entire body tense, trying to stop even the sounds of his own heartbeat, straining to catch any little bit of noise.
He moved toward the bedroom door, the most obvious choice, and signaled the other two officers to peel off to either side. One to the bathroom, one to the kitchen and living room area.
He stepped a few places closer, and the sight of something gleaming darkly underneath the door made him pause.
Whatever it was, it was a liquid. A liquid reflecting back the lights of the hallway, so dark it was almost black…
Blood.
He couldn’t be sure, but something in his gut told him it was. His heart was in his mouth, beating so hard he felt he might throw up. He moved closer slowly, pace by pace, heading for the half-closed door. He walked right past the opening, throwing himself against the opposite wall so that he could peer around without staying in the line of fire. He pushed the door open tentatively, reaching out with just his fingertips.
It hit something on the floor and rebounded back.
There was nothing for it. Detective Frome stepped forward, throwing out his gun in front of him at the same time as he pushed open the door. This time, whatever it caught on made it stop dead, but he was able to see the whole of the room beyond. There was no one in it, no one standing looking at him. Just an open window.
And on the floor, the body of the man he had been sent here to save.
“He’s here!” he roared, turning and yelling it in the direction of the hall, letting the sound carry to the other officers. “Don’t let him get away!”
He swung in all directions himself, searching for the killer. Now it felt like every shadow could hide a sinister secret, someone lunging out to kill them. He checked the shower behind the curtain, looked behind the door. There was no point in trying to check on Kenneth Wurz. It was already beyond clear that he was dead.
Frome stuck his head out of the open window, looking down. There was a smear of blood on the windowsill, a print left in the rough shape of a large hand but with a texture that was not fingerprints. Gloves, instead. Then below, a drop that wasn’t so far he could imagine a human male wouldn’t make it.
He swore under his breath. The killer was gone. This right here was the only piece of evidence he’d left behind, and it was probably useless. Frome scanned the alleyway behind the apartment block rapidly, looking for any sign of a camera, but there was none. Maybe they’d get lucky and find one out the front.
He grabbed his cell phone. Time to call it in.
That FBI agent had been right. The killer had struck right where she’d expected.
And he’d failed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Laura’s cell phone buzzed quietly in her pocket, the only setting she’d allowed it to stay on. As quiet as possible in case they ended up having to silently stalk the killer. But she’d known she might need to hear it ring—and it was ringing now.
“Hello?” she said, casting her voice low. Her eyes strayed to the windows again, making sure there was no shadow leaning into view that might disappear when her voice was heard.
“Agent, this is Detective Frome.” The dejected sound of his voice brought Laura crashing down into despair as well. She knew what he was going to say next even before he said it. “We’re with Kenneth Wurz. Uh… what was Kenneth Wurz. The killer got to him.”
Laura’s hand flew to her head, her eyes closing. “How long ago?” she asked. She needed to know, now, when he was coming. When he would be here.
“In the last five minutes,” Frome said. “We… we were here. We told him to get his things and bring them to the station. When he went back inside—the killer must have… must have already been waiting. He left out the back window, eh.”
“All right,” Laura said. The time for recriminations would be later. He should have gone inside with Kenneth like they had, checked the home for any signs of an intruder. In any case, it was too late now. Now, she had to focus on catching the guy when he came here. “Call it in, get everyone on scene to begin investigating. We’ll wait here to see if he comes by next.”