Read Online An Eye for Murder by Libby Fischer Hellmann - Free Book Online

I glanced at the garage door, behind which I’d stacked the cartons of Skull’s clothes. They were gone.

 
     
    Chapter Ten
     
     
    Village detective Dan O’Malley was at my door by nine the next morning. Tall, fair, and freckled, he looked like Howdy Doody on growth hormones. I led him into the kitchen, where he leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the room. A trash bag heaped with broken china, food, and papers occupied the center of the room. Silverware covered the table.
    “Sorry.” I cleared off a section of table.
    He sat down gingerly and took me through last night’s events, jotting down notes as we talked. I pulled on a lock of hair. Hadn’t he read Fletcher and North’s report? But when I got to the missing cartons, he frowned. “Cartons? Those weren’t on the report.”
    What’s that they say about making assumptions? “Er…I didn’t realize they were gone until later.”
    “What was in them?”
    I explained.
    “So you had two boxes that belonged to a man you never knew.” He angled his head. “How long were they in your house?”
    “A couple of days.”
    “And the man they belong to is dead.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Do you know where was he living?”
    “Rogers Park. But the woman he was living with died of a heart attack a few days ago, a month or so after him.”
    “What about relatives?” I shrugged.
    He looked around, his fingers smoothing a carroty mustache that was longer on one side than the other. Then he dropped his hand, as if he’d considered and rejected whatever he’d been thinking.
    “Did you get any prints?” I asked. “The officers dusted.”
    And left a grimy residue over everything, Fletcher’s denial notwithstanding.
    “I wouldn’t hold your breath. They’re probably yours.” He wiggled his fingers. “Even junkies wear gloves these days.”
    “So you don’t need my prints? Or my daughter’s?” I had a set of Rachel’s prints from one of those Kid-Safe programs they held at the mall years ago.
    “I’m not going to lie to you, Ms. Foreman. Very few home burglaries end up in an arrest. You got off easy. Consider yourself lucky.” That was the second time a cop had told me I was lucky.
    “You’re convinced it was druggies?”
    “You have any workmen here recently?”
    “No.”
    “Maids? Landscapers?”
    “Not anymore.”
    He checked his notes. “What about your ex? Any arguments over visitation, alimony, that kind of thing?”
    “Doesn’t everyone?” He looked up. “I’m sure it wasn’t him,” I added hastily. “He has my daughter this weekend. And there’s nothing here he wants. Anymore.”
    I saw the trace of a smile. “You change your locks?”
    “Last night.”
    “How about an alarm system?”
    “I can’t afford it.”
    “Try to. It’ll give you peace of mind.”
    Before he left, he gave me some brochures on home security, part of the Police Are Your Partners program. As he pulled away from the house, I realized that I’d dealt with more cops in one week than I had in thirty years. They’d evolved from pigs to pals. Which probably goes to prove what my father always said: I would become more conservative when I had something to lose. I hate it when he’s right.
     
     
    I was hauling bags of trash out to the curb when Susan showed up. A willowy redhead who, even in sweats, manages to make me look shabby, Susan Siler considers herself an outcast in a village where all the women are blonde and wear Birkenstocks and pearls. Together. She cast an appraising look around the kitchen. “It doesn’t look that bad.”
    “I’ve been cleaning up since dawn.”
    “Then it’s time for a break. Come on, let’s walk.” She held the door open for me. “What’s the final tally?”
    “Besides what I already told you, nothing. The jewelry, two pieces of silver, and those cartons.”
    “Strange.”
    “I know.” We jogged over to Happ Road, the north end of our circuit. A weak sun penetrated the heavy overcast, but the air