Anthony DiRisio stood in front of the windows, arms at his side. Hell of a view. The skyline to the south, Lincoln Park spilling east, beyond that, the lake, blue-gray water dotted with colorful sails.
Elena Cruz lived pretty good for a policewoman.
The jerkwad cops that had searched the place earlier had closed up behind them, but the lock on the door was junk. He'd jamb-popped it with his knife and strolled in.
The apartment was a sizable one-bedroom with curved brick ceilings and a Murphy bed that folded back into the wall. He pulled it out just for kicks and lay down, his shoes up on the covers, fingers behind his head. A faint girl smell lingered in her pillows. After a moment, he sat up, opened the night table drawer. An Ondaatje novel, The English Patient. He'd seen the movie, liked it all right. A tube of lip balm. A snapshot of a Hispanic woman with a moustache. A silver vibrator. He turned it on. The batteries were low, the thing barely humming. He smiled, turned it off, put it back.
The cops had been after evidence, bundles of hundreds or sacks of weapons. They'd have checked the toilet tank and tapped for loose floorboards, felt the pockets of coats and the seams of the sofa. DiRisio was hoping for something more abstract, something that hinted where she might be.
He worked steadily but swiftly. Skipped the bathroom, skipped the kitchen. There was a mound of dirty clothes on her closet floor. Her dresser contained folded shirts and jeans, a tangle of underwear. He held up soft thong-cut panties, Vickie's Secret, size small. A potpourri sachet made them smell like cinnamon. Nice. If Palmer was tapping her, he was in for a treat.
No diary, no appointment book, no day planner.
He moved to the living room where she kept her desk. Sifted through paper clips and pens. A silver half dollar. A small chunk of amber. A rabbit's foot. An abandoned network cable ran from the wall to the desk. Shit. The cops had her computer. He'd like to have gone through it.
"Where are you, honey?" Looked around the room. Opened a cabinet. DVDs, a board game. "Come to daddy." Checked the fridge. A couple beers, some mismatched takeout containers, a bottle of Sriracha, a lime that had seen better days, a quarter-inch of milk in a gallon jug. Not a homebody, then.
Something moved behind him.
DiRisio spun fast, dropping as he went, right arm swinging out in an arc, pistol leading the way.
An orange and white cat with green eyes stared at him over the SIG's dot-and-bars. The cat blinked. The cat yawned.
Anthony DiRisio smiled.
"Hi, kitty," he said. "Come here."