"Of course I would. But it's true. We're in the dark on this, and Rick wasn't just a friend, he was a good friend." McPherson's eyes darkened. "It's damn hard to believe some punk wanting some quick cash for drugs could have gotten the drop on him like that and then not even take the car. It just doesn't feel right." No, it didn't. Medina had evidently been very good at his job. Marc thought of what he had learned from Dexter Whitlaw's military records: Whitlaw had been a Marine sniper in Vietnam, and he had evidently been very good at his job, too.
"Did you," he said slowly, watching McPherson's face, "also know Dexter Whitlaw?" McPherson stiffened, his eyes going flat and unreadable. "I know him. Are you saying you suspect him of killing Medina?"
"No. He was killed over on St. Ann the same day as Medina. Whitlaw was shot with a twenty-two. Did Medina and Whitlaw know each other?"
"Yeah. We all were in Vietnam at the same time." McPherson leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, pulling at his lower lip while he stared unseeingly at a spot on the floor. "So Dex is dead, too. Rick and Dex both. Same day, same caliber weapon."
"That's pushing coincidence a little too far," Marc said. "They know each other, they die the same day only a short distance apart, both killed with a twenty-two. Were they, say, maybe in the same line of work in Vietnam? And who would want both of them dead?"
"That's an interesting question." McPherson worried at his lip some more. "I'd like to know the answer to that myself. But, yeah, in a way they were in the same line of work. Both of 'em were damn good at it, too."
"Mr. Whitlaw was living on the streets, but he wasn't a bum; he was healthy, well fed, not on drugs or booze, so he had some means of income that I haven't been able to discover. Did Mr. Medina come
down here to meet him, and if so, why?"
"No one knows what Rick was doing here. Personal business, he said."
"Then we still don't know anything. We can compare the slugs, see if they were killed with the same weapon, but unless you know something you aren't telling us, we're still at a dead end."
"I wish I did know something," McPherson said heavily. "Anything. Because this does smell real bad, but damn if I know why."
The noise was slight, little more than a rustle. Karen paused, her head tilting as she listened for a repeat of the small, odd sound. She was in the bedroom, plucking yellowed leaves off the potted ficus tree she had placed in front of the window.
There. A whisper, like fabric. And from a different location.
Someone was in the apartment.
Her scalp prickled, and a jolt of sheer terror made her heart almost freeze in her chest. She didn't move, couldn't move.
The bedroom door was open. She stood to the side, out of a direct line of vision, but if anyone came into the bedroom, he would see her immediately, and she was trapped against the wall. The only way out of the bedroom was that door. Her apartment was on the second floor, so she couldn't even climb out the window. It was a sheer drop to the ground, too far to jump.
He came to the bedroom door. She couldn't see him, just the faint shadow he threw across the floor. If she hadn't been looking, she never would have noticed. Karen's chest constricted, preventing her from doing more than draw in quick, shallow breaths. She couldn't move, couldn't even have screamed. He didn't come in. After standing there for a moment, looking in, he walked on toward the kitchen, this time making much more noise, as if he thought there was no need now to be quiet. Her ears rang, and her bedroom tilted oddly. Karen forced herself to take a deep breath, silently dragging in oxygen past the tightness in her lungs. Why had he gone on? Why was he making so much noise now?
She stared at her neatly made bed, and slowly it dawned on her: he thought the apartment was empty. The curtains were open, since she hadn't yet gone to bed, so the room was flooded with sunlight, and she had no need to turn on a lamp. There were, she realized, no lights on in the apartment at all for that very reason. The television wasn't on; she had watched it for a little while, but the morning shows hadn't been very interesting, so she had turned it off again after a few minutes. She hadn't been making any noise while she plucked the dying leaves from the ficus tree; to all intents and purposes, the apartment must seem empty to the invader.
She heard him systematically opening and closing drawers in the kitchen, prowling in the refrigerator—God, was he hungry ? She should get out of the apartment, that's what all the experts said. Don't confront a burglar, just get out if you could, and call the cops once you were safe. The eating area of the kitchen had a clear view of the living room. If he were there, he would be able to
see her making for the door. What if he had a gun? He could shoot her where she stood. All of a sudden, she felt calm—or at least much calmer. Whether or not he was armed, she had a better chance of getting through this unharmed if she got out of the apartment. She eased toward the bedroom door, her bare feet silent on the carpet.
Just as she came even with the door, she heard his footsteps approach the eating area. She froze one step short of stepping into view. Once again, her breath hung in her chest, caught on the icy shards of terror. If he came on into the living room—
But furniture scraped across tile, and she knew he was still in the eating area. Her brow furrowed. It sounded as if he were turning all the chairs upside down.
Surely that wasn't normal behavior for a burglar. Look for valuables, take the television and small stereo, and get out. But he hadn't even come into the bedroom to look for jewelry, which was where most women kept their valuable bits and pieces.