A vacant place; it seemed airless, incapable of sustaining life.
I made myself take a deep breath. Milo was still in the center of the room, fingers drumming his thighs.
“Cozy,” I said, understanding why he’d wanted me to see it.
He turned very slowly, taking in the open area to the left that led to a small kitchen. A single oak stool at an eat-in counter. White Formica laced with a gold threadlike design, also bare except for black fingerprint-powder smudges. Same for the other counters and the cabinets. On the far wall hung an empty wooden spice rack. Four-burner white stove at least twenty years old, refrigerator of matching color and vintage. No other appliances.
He opened the fridge, said, “Yogurt, grapes, two apples, baking soda… baking soda for freshness. She liked things neat. Just like Richard… simplifying.”
He began opening and closing cabinets. “White ironstone dishes, Noritake, service for four… Ditto stainless-steel utensils… Everything full of fingerprint powder… One skillet, one saucepan, containers of salt, pepper, no other spices
… Bland life?”
On to the stove burners. Lifting the grill, he said, “Clean. Either she never cooked or she was really compulsive. Or somebody else was.”
I stared back at the empty front room. “Did Crime Scene take furniture back to the lab?”
“No, just her clothing. This is the way we found it. My first thought was someone cleaned the place out, or she’d just moved in or was in the process of moving out.
But I can’t find evidence of her leaving, and her deed says she’s been here over two years.”
I pointed to the virgin floor. “Either she was planning to redecorate or never bothered to furnish.”
“Like I said, grabbing air. C’mon, let’s take a look at the rest of the place.”
A hall to the left led to one bath and two small bedrooms, the first set up as an office. No carpeting, the same pristine hardwood, harsh echoes.
Milo kneeled in the hallway, ran his finger along the smooth, clean oak. “Maybe she took off her shoes. Like in a Japanese house.”
We started with the bedroom. Box spring and mattress on the floor, no headboard, four-drawer pecan-veneer dresser, matching nightstand. On the stand were a tissue box and a ceramic lamp, the base white, ovular, shaped like a giant cocoon. Swirls of white fingerprint powder, the telltale concentrics of latent prints.
“Her linens are at the lab,” said Milo, “along with her clothes.”
He moved the mattress around, slid his hand under the box spring, opened the closet.
Empty. Same for the dresser.
“I watched them pack her undies,” he said. “No hidden stash of naughty things, just your basic white cotton. Small wardrobe: dresses, sweaters, skirts, tasteful stuff,
Macy’s, some budget-chain stuff, nothing expensive.”
He righted the mattress, looked up at the ceiling, then back at the empty closet.
“She wasn’t moving out, Alex. This is where she lived. If you can call it that.”
In the office, he put his hands together prayerfully and said, “Give me something to work with, Lord.”
“Thought you already went through it.”
“Not thoroughly. Couldn’t, with the criminalists buzzing around. Just that box.” He pointed to a cardboard file on the floor. “That’s where I found the divorce papers.
Near the top.”
He approached the desk and studied the books in the cheap plywood cases that covered two walls. Shelves stuffed and sagging. Volumes on psychology, psychiatry, neurology, biology, sociology, bound stacks of journals arranged by date. White powder and prints everywhere.
Milo had emptied the top drawer of staples and paper clips, bits of paper and lint, was into the second drawer, rummaging. “Okay, here we go.” He waved a red leatherette savings account passbook. “Century Bank, Sunset and Cahuenga… Well, well, well-looks like she was doing okay.”
I went over and looked at the page he held out. Balance of $240,000 and some cents.
He flipped to the front of the booklet. The initial transaction had taken place three years ago, rolled over from a previous passbook, when the balance had been ninety-eight thousand less.
Accrual of nearly a hundred thousand in three years. The deposit pattern was repetitive: no withdrawals, deposits of three thousand at the end of each month.