X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“What happened?”

She sat down and then she got up again and began to pace. “When I got home from work, the back door was standing open. I will swear to you someone was in here. Not right then, but earlier. I turned around and went straight next door and called the police. Two officers showed up six minutes later.”

“Sounds like they took you seriously.”

“They did. Very much so. They were great. The older one—I think his name was Carew—could tell I was scared to death. I told him it was possible I didn’t close the door all the way when I left for work, but I know I did. I always push until I hear the latch catch, and then I try the knob to make sure it’s locked. Anyway, the other one—a gal named Herkowitz—did a complete walk-through, checked all the doors and windows, looked in closets, looked under the beds, checked for tool marks. There was nothing. House was empty, and as far as I can tell nothing’s missing.”

“Well, that’s good news. You think it was kids?”

“Doing what? I don’t keep cash or drugs on the premises.”

“Addicts will break in anywhere. If neighbors know you’re a nurse, someone might assume you keep narcotics on hand.”

“Doubtful. The medicine cabinets in both bathrooms were untouched. No drawers pulled out and dumped. No evidence that anyone tore through in search of valuables. My camera, TV set, and jewelry are all accounted for. Not that I have much.”

“Maybe someone was trying doors at random and found yours unlocked.”

“The police said the same thing. I can’t rule it out, but it doesn’t feel right. They wrote up an incident report and suggested I get someone in to change the locks. I called a locksmith with a twenty-four-hour emergency service, but I haven’t heard back.”

“Who else has a house key?”

“My next-door neighbor’s the only one with a spare. I have one for his house as well for occasions when one or the other of us is out of town,” she said. “Is it possible someone picked the lock?”

“Of course it’s possible, though picking locks requires more skill and practice than you’d think. You’d still have to wonder why anyone would bother.”

She finished her wine and then refilled her glass. Her hands were shaking so badly, she had to use both to steady the bottle while she poured. She carried the glass with her while she crossed the room and then came back to the table.

I took a few sips of my own wine, hoping to quell the anxiety I was feeling in response to hers. “Why don’t you give me the details?”

“Forget it. I’ll just get all riled up again.”

“Come on. You’ll feel better. It’ll be cathartic. What time did you get home?”

“I don’t know. Six thirty or so. I worked noon to six, covering for another private-duty nurse who had to be somewhere. I put the car in the garage and came in the back way like always. It wasn’t ’til I was halfway up the back porch stairs that I realized the door was standing open. And I’m not talking ‘ajar’ open. This was wide open. If my neighbor hadn’t been home, I don’t know what I would have done. I would not have stepped that first foot inside for any reason. Not on your life. The whole place was cold. Still is. I don’t know how long the house was open. A long time.”

I said, “Sit down. You’re fine. Take a deep breath. You’re doing great.”

She sank into a chair and I covered her hands with mine.

“Look,” I said, “we’ll have the locksmith come in, and once he’s done, you can spend the night at my place. If you stay here, you won’t sleep a wink.”

“I won’t sleep anyway. I feel like I’m hopped up on something . . .”

“Adrenaline.”

“Worse. Feels like my veins are full of Freon.” She put her hands between her knees and then leaned forward and put her arms around her waist, hugging herself.

“Are you feeling faint?”

She pressed two fingers to her lips and shook her head. “Might throw up. I shouldn’t guzzle wine on an empty stomach.”

“You have any cheese and crackers? You should eat.”

“Great idea.”

She got up and opened the refrigerator, rummaged in the meat drawer, and then seemed to lose track of what she was looking for. I moved over to the kitchen counter and opened one cabinet after another until I unearthed a box of Ritz crackers that I placed on the table.

I took her place at the refrigerator and found a block of cheddar while she took a cue from my action and pulled a slicer out of the utensil drawer. I took the slicer and began carving off chunks, which I mounted on crackers and passed to her in rapid succession. I couldn’t help but make one for myself while I was at it. I was still chewing, holding a hand in front of my mouth lest I spray her with crumbs, as I said, “At Rosie’s the other night, you mentioned the house giving you the creeps.”