X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

I made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn.

My entire office looked like a playful, slightly destructive breeze had rippled through, lifting items and setting them down askew. None of the angles matched. My copy machine was canted to the right. My two visitors’ chairs faced opposite directions, but only by three inches. Even my desk had been offset, leaving shallow indentations where the legs had formerly rested on the carpeting.

I went to the door and took in the sight of the outer office. Textbooks were tilted this way and that. My crummy travel posters had been removed from the wall and then retaped off the true. I walked down the short corridor to the bathroom, where the disarray continued. The small venetian blind hung from the box bracket on the right-hand side of the window frame. The entire roll of toilet paper had been unraveled and lay on the floor in a loose mound. The lid to the toilet tank was cockeyed, the seat was up, and a bar of hand soap floated on the surface of the water in the bowl.

I moved on, a whisper of dread roiling in my gut.

In the kitchenette, the back door stood open and all of the cabinet doors yawned, though the contents hadn’t been displaced. As it turned out, I hadn’t left the coffee machine on at all. Someone had filled the apparatus with an inch of water and then run a brewing cycle. The result was a layer of heat-laminated sludge in the bottom of the glass carafe that must have sat on the burner for hours. I flipped the button to the Off position. I’d probably have to toss the carafe, as there was no way I’d ever scrub it clean. The roll of paper toweling had been removed from the holder and now rested in the sink, where the hot water faucet had been turned on to a trickle. I turned the water off, wondering how much my water bill would jump in consequence.

I removed the plastic wastebasket from under the sink, intending to toss in the sodden roll of paper towels. As usual, I’d lined the waste bin with a plastic bag to simplify trash removal. A small gray mouse leaped ineffectually up the sides of the bag, frantic to escape, but unable to achieve sufficient purchase. This was made all the more problematic by the fact that the same man who’d gone to such lengths to touch everything I owned had also defecated in the bin.

17

I took the wastebasket out the back door, laid it on its side, and watched as the mouse skittered off and disappeared into a patch of grass behind the bungalow. Gingerly, I removed the plastic bag and deposited both the bag and its unsavory contents in the rolling garbage bin. I returned to the kitchenette and locked the door, using the hem of my T-shirt to preserve any latent prints the intruder had probably been too smart to leave behind. I went into my inner office and sat down.

This was the long and short of it, at least in my analysis: The mouse was free, so good news on that score. If I notified the police—a decision I hadn’t arrived at yet—it would not be because I expected anyone to be charged with breaking and entering, vandalism, or malicious mischief. Shitting on a mouse is not expressly forbidden under California law. A nice officer would arrive in response to my 9-1-1 call and he’d write up an incident report, much as the nice officers had done when Ruthie made a similar call. No APB would result. A forensic specialist would not perform a DNA analysis on the turd left in the wastebasket, nor would the turd data be entered into the National Crime Information Center database for comparison to criminal turds nationwide. Whether I called the cops or not, I’d have to have my locks changed and an alarm system installed. I had no doubt my intruder and Ruthie’s were the same man. Prove it, I could not, which meant I had no recourse. I was royally pissed off.

I heard the door open in the outer office.

“Kinsey?” The voice was Taryn Sizemore’s.

“Just the person I was hoping to see.”

She appeared in the doorway and then stood transfixed as she took in the sight. “Oh, wow. Poor you. Ned Lowe’s been here.”

“Thanks. I’d be interested in your reasons for saying so.”

She wore a starched white cotton shirt with the collar turned up, belted over tight jeans. Big bracelets, big earrings, high-heeled boots with buckles up the sides. I could still see the roller shapes in her shoulder-length curls. I’d look ridiculous in that outfit. She looked great. I envied her black leather shoulder bag, which was bigger than mine and appeared to have more compartments.

She dropped her bag on the floor. “It’s his style: hostile and aggressive. Wherever he is now, he knows what he’s done to you and he’s happy with himself. You’ll never walk in here again without bracing yourself on the off chance he’s been in while you were gone.”