I started at the sound of the doorbell. John’s posture stiffened. I guessed John had the same concern as I did: that the visitor was Detective Manny Hatch, clutching hand-cuffs and a warrant for John’s arrest.
I calmed down when I realized it was too soon for Hatch to make a move against John. He didn’t have evidence other than John’s confrontation with Ingram. Thanks to my early morning burglary, he wouldn’t find a motive for John to have killed Ingram.
“It’s probably just Phil, or someone from his office,” I said. “He’s having the dress I wore last night picked up.”
I started toward the front door. John got up and followed me.
Through the living room window I saw that the person pressing my bell wasn’t Detective Hatch. I let out a little sigh of relief.
I opened the door to be ignored by Hugh Weaver, John’s LAPD partner. Without so much as a blink in my direction, he looked past me at John.
“We gotta talk,” Weaver said.
“Has there been progress in the investigation?” I asked.
“One of the SID guys found the smoke bomb foil balled up and shoved down into one of those palm tree containers.”
“Prints on the foil?” John asked.
Weaver grunted in frustration. “We got zilch.”
“Come into the kitchen and have breakfast,” I said.
Weaver’s scowl cracked, and he almost smiled.
A few minutes later I was cooking for the three of us. Scrambled eggs and bacon for me, and the same plus large pancakes for John and his partner. I’d learned years ago that John liked pancakes the size of a salad plate. No “dollar size” griddlecakes for this crime-fighter.
“The f***in’ captain-excuse me, Della.”
“That’s okay. I’ve heard the word before.”
“Anyhow, he put me on deskwork, taking calls from our grateful public.” Weaver’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Grateful, my left nut. Nothin’ we do is good enough or fast enough for the knuckle-draggers who scream when we can’t send detectives to find their missing dogs, or when they’re given the wrong order at McDonald’s.”
“At least you aren’t a murder suspect,” John said.
“ ‘Big whoop,’ as my ex-wife used to say. I’d rather been suspended than turned into a desk jockey, ’cause then I could get out of payin’ Candy her f***in’ final year of alimony. Hell, she’s makin’ more now at her hairdressing job than I take home.”
Weaver calmed down when I put a plate of bacon and eggs and a platter of the large pancakes in front of him. He inhaled the aromas and sighed with pleasure.
“Candy cooked up a storm when we were goin’ together,” Weaver said. “She stopped after the ring went on her finger. I shoulda sued her for false advertising.”
Before the first forkful of eggs reached his lips, Weaver’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the faceplate he said, “The house.”
I knew that was cop shorthand for their station house.
After listening for a few seconds, Weaver said, “Does anybody know what was taken?”
John and I put down our forks. I looked at John, but he was staring tensely at Weaver.
Weaver grunted, nodded at John, told the person on the other end, “Keep me in the loop,” and ended the call.
“That was Duff. A neighbor who was looking for a lost dog went into Ingram’s backyard and discovered some windows in the house had been knocked out. He called in to report it. Hatch and forensics are on the way over there to search the place.”
“Doesn’t he need a warrant to go inside?” I tried to keep my voice steady to make the question seem innocent, but guilt had caused a sudden ringing in my ears.
“Exigent circumstances,” John said. “When the home of a murder victim is burglarized that makes it an ancillary crime scene. No warrant necessary.”
Weaver and John put down their napkins, pushed their chairs back, and got up, leaving their food untouched.
“I’m going back to work,” Weaver said.
“I’m coming with you. I’m sidelined, not barred from the premises.”
“You need to eat.” I quickly filled two of the large pancakes with scrambled eggs and strips of bacon, rolled them into pancake burritos, and wrapped the concoctions in paper napkins. I handed them to the two detectives “Here. Mobile meals.”
“Thanks, Del,” John said.
Weaver immediately took a big bite. Nodding, with his mouth full, he mumbled something that sounded like “good.”
At the front door I watched them get into their separate cars and speed away. With the discovery that someone had broken into Ingram’s house, I was both elated and worried. The elation came from my hope that the police would find evidence to point them toward the murderer.
In another part of my mind, I was praying that I hadn’t left any trace of myself behind. I told myself that I was being silly to worry. I knew I’d been careful in Ingram’s house.
But I also knew there was no such thing as a perfect crime.