Chapter 4
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The houses on Greenview drive were nice, to say the least. Large and spacious houses with large and spacious lawns. Each held a basketball hoop on the driveway and probably hid a pool in the backyard. Country-club district, Don thought, and suddenly found himself wondering at Kate Richard's financial status. What exactly did she do? Or, maybe, what had the late Mr. Richard done? Don made a mental note to find out at his next meeting with Kate. Then, worrying that it might be forgotten if more questions bombarded him inside, he took out a small yellow notepad and was about to scribble down the questions, when he realized that a scratchy, childlike print was already occupying the page. I'm going to see him today, it said. Don drew his eyebrows together and tried to remember if he had been around children anytime lately. He didn't think he had. With a frown, Don flipped the page and scribbled his notes there. He kept the notebook in his hand as he unlocked the door and stepped into the Richard home.
The inside of the house had the air of one that no one had been in for a very long time. There was no dust, in fact, the entryway was spotless. But it was the kind of clean that looked forced and definite, like a house that had been put on the market once long ago and never even hosted an open house. Don gave an involuntary shiver. The heat wasn't running, but that wasn't what had made him cold. Don closed his eyes for a moment and made all the humane parts of himself disappear. PI mode. He opened his eyes again. The entryway was large, good for welcoming company or impressing guests. Don couldn't make out any footprints on the marble floors. A curving stairway beckoned him upstairs. Don tried to think like a criminal. It was likely that money or anything worth stealing would be here on the lower level. Upstairs much more likely held a couple bedrooms, maybe a game room or a reading room. The offender would have known this. But he had gone upstairs anyway. So it wasn't the valuables he wanted. This house held something else of value to him.
With this in mind, Don turned toward the stairs and climbed. The walls were a creamy white. Don scanned them, but the criminal had not left any marks. A large upstairs entry-type room greeted Don atop the stairs. Dolls and toys were scattered across the floor, the flawless cleaning had not reached the upstairs. Don breathed a little easier. People had lived here after all. The toys lay in the simple scatter of daily life, though, and gave no hint to the reason of the crime. Don passed through the room and entered a short hall lined with three doors. He opened the first.
Don stood face to face with Luke Skywalker. . . a life size cardboard cutout of him anyway. Three more cardboard cutouts occupied the room, one for each corner. Don didn't know the others, but assumed they were actors who were famous in the pop culture world for one reason or another. A pale blue paint covered the walls along with a few posters of rock bands. The bed and bedspread were plain, but looked comfortable. Nothing about the room jumped out at Don, except for the fact that its owner was a fourteen year old girl who was hanging between life and death.
Don quietly shut the door and faced the empty hall. He opened the second door. The room looked completely useless to Don. Two half-full bookshelves sat insignificantly against the back wall and a cushioned rocking chair hovered in one corner, looking toward the window as if wishing to fly away. Other than those three items, the room was empty. Not even a stray doll or a lost shoe was in sight.
Again, Don closed the door and looked down the empty hallway. This time a bit more tense. Once more, he turned on the criminal mindset. He crept silently down the hall, his breathing barely audible, even to his own ears. He reached out and placed his hand (which would have been gloved, the part that was still Don thought) on the doorknob. He turned it and pushed. An ear piercing screech made Don gasp and swear. "What in the hell?" he asked the hallway. He stepped back from the door and closed it again. He opened it, it squealed. He closed and opened it, it creaked like it was a million years old. "How is that possible?" he said. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled down a note reminding himself to ask Kate if the door had always squeaked. On impulse, he jotted down a question about the empty room too. He pocketed the notebook and shifted his gaze to the room before him. Once, it had probably been adorable and fitting for a six year old girl. Now it looked like a scene out of a horror movie.
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