The living room was dimly illuminated by thin strips of sunlight that found their way around the edges of the heavy drapes. As far as Tony could tell, all of the lumpy shapes were couches and chairs and tables. The place appeared to be full of big, expensive, and utterly tasteless Americanized Mediterranean furniture. A narrow shaft of sunlight fell across a red velvet sofa that had a large and thoroughly grotesque wrought-iron fleur-de-lis bolted to its imitation oak side.
“Bobby?”
No response.
A clock ticking somewhere.
“We don’t want to hurt you, Bobby.”
Only silence.
Tony held his breath.
He could hear Frank breathing.
Nothing else.
Slowly, cautiously, he stood.
No one shot at him.
He felt along the wall until he located a light switch. A lump with a garish bullfight scene on its shade came on in one corner, and he could see that both the living room and the open dining area beyond it were deserted.
Frank came in behind him and motioned toward the door of the foyer closet.
Tony stepped back, out of the way.
Holding his revolver at gut-level, Frank gingerly opened the sliding door. The closet contained only a couple of lightweight jackets and several shoe boxes.
Staying away from each other in order to avoid making a single easy target of themselves, they crossed the living room. There was a liquor cabinet with ridiculously large black iron hinges: the glass in the cabinet doors was tinted yellow. A round coffee table was in the center of the room. a mammoth eight-sided thing with a useless copper-lined brazier in the middle of it. The sofa and high-backed chairs were upholstered in flame-red velvet with lots of gold fringe and black tassels. The drapes were flashy yellow and orange brocade. The carpet was a thick green shag. It was a singularly ugly place to live.
And, Tony thought, it’s also an absurd place in which to die.
They walked through the dining area and looked into the small kitchen. It was a mess. The refrigerator door and a few of the cupboards were standing open. Cans and jars and boxes of food had been pulled off the shelves and dumped onto the floor. Some items appeared to have been thrown down in a rage. Several jars were broken; sharp fragments of glass sparkled in the garbage. A puddle of maraschino cherry juice lay like a pink-red amoeba on the yellow tiles; the bright red cherries gleamed in every corner. Chocolate dessert topping was splashed all over the electric stove. Cornflakes were scattered everywhere. And dill pickles. Olives. Dry spaghetti. Someone had used mustard and grape jelly to scrawl one word four times on the only blank wall in the kitchen:
Cocodrilos
Cocodrilos
Cocodrilos
Cocodrilos
They whispered:
“What is it?”
“Spanish.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Crocodiles.”
“Why crocodiles?”
“I don’t know.”
“Creepy,” Frank said.
Tony agreed. They had walked into a bizarre situation. Even though he could not understand what was happening, Tony knew there was great danger ahead. He wished he knew which door it would pop out of.
They looked in the den, which was as overfurnished as the other two rooms. Bobby wasn’t hiding in there or in the den closet.
They moved warily back down the hall toward the two bedrooms and two baths. They didn’t make a sound.
They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in the first bedroom and bathroom.
In the master bedroom, there was another mess. All of the clothes had been taken out of the closet and strewn about. They were piled on the floor, wadded into balls on the bed, draped over the dresser where they had fallen when thrown, and most if not all of them were badly damaged. Sleeves and collars had been stripped off shirts. Lapels had been torn from sports jackets and suit coats. The inseams of trousers had been ripped open. The person who had done all of that had been functioning in a blind rage, yet he had been surprisingly methodical and thorough in spite of his fury.
But who had done it?
Someone with a grudge against Bobby?
Bobby himself? Why would he mess up his own kitchen and destroy his own clothes?