“Still there?”
“Yeah. It’s easy to find and wasn’t touched. How weird is that?”
“What was he after?”
“Good question,” I replied, stuffing the envelope back in the drawer. “Maybe he wants us to know he can break in.”
“Or she. I know a woman who can wield a mean crowbar.”
“Your wife?”
“Precisely.”
Turner grinned and headed down the stairs, and I took a final mental inventory as I roamed the upstairs rooms.
Nothing. Zip.
Downstairs I surveyed the kitchen—pots, pans, cups, and plates, taking extra time to scrutinize the food in our fridge—as Gilroy made a cup of coffee with our precious Keurig.
“I don’t think he’s trying to poison us,” I said, shutting the refrigerator door.
“Are the cream puffs okay?” Gilroy asked.
“Unscathed.”
“Turner, take photos of the door and the back yard. I don’t think there’ll be prints, but give that a go, then head to the station,” Gilroy said.
“You got it, Chief.”
Turner went outside to his squad car, and I sat at the table, pondering the envelope of cash in my office. The intruder hadn’t pawed through everything in the house or he would’ve found the cash. That was a tad reassuring. His—or her—reason for breaking in was specific, targeted. He came for something, found it or saw it, then left.
“We’re installing an alarm system,” Gilroy said.
“Okay.”
The break-in was not a coincidence. It had to be connected with Laura’s and Dalton’s murders. So what did that tell me?
“And we’re reinforcing the locks.”
“Okay.” Laura, Dalton . . .
“And getting three dogs.”
“Good. Absolutely.”
No. Something had changed. Last night . . . I rose and went to the living room.
Gilroy followed me.
“James, did you move Dalton’s landscape? We left it on the coffee table.”
“I didn’t touch it. It’s not upstairs?”
I wheeled back to him. “No. It was right there, and now it’s not. That’s what the break-in was about.”
He scratched his head. “The painting?”
“Shasta and Isak really wanted it for the gallery.”
“It’s useless to them. They can’t show a stolen painting.”
“Maybe they found an outside buyer.”
Gilroy wasn’t fully on board with the idea, and neither was I. “What would a landscape like that fetch after Taylor’s death? Enough to make it worth the risk?”
I shrugged. “Ten thousand, maybe? I’ve no idea.”
“It still reminds me of something, but I can’t think of what.”
“Dalton called it a study of a study. He was embarrassed by the charm of it, I think. It was too pretty, and there mustn’t be beauty in our lives.”
“All right, I’ll file the report. Let me know if you notice anything else.”
I followed Gilroy to the kitchen, where Turner was busy trying to lift fingerprints from the back door’s frame, lock, and knobs.
“The lock’s busted,” Gilroy said. “I’ll get a locksmith out.”
I gestured at the small jar of fingerprint powder on the floor next to Turner’s knee. “Are you optimistic?”
