Good People

“Well, just take a glance, see if you spot anything.”

They shrugged, started walking around. Tom figured unless the refrigerator was gone, he wasn’t going to notice much difference, but it gave him time to think.

What he’d said to A

Maybe they hit this unit instead of ours because it was on the ground floor. Maybe the place is torn apart because they were looking for cash, or for pills. Maybe they were thorough precisely because they were desperate. There’s no reason to think it’s more than that.

Except, of course, that there were reasons. Several hundred thousand of them.

DETECTIVE HALDEN made A

“Hello again,” as he shook their hands. “Officer Abramson gave me a rundown, but would you take me through it again, Mrs. Reed?”

“A

“A

She nodded, sitting at the kitchen table now, the three of them having coffee, the uniformed cops gone. Told him about ru

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

She thought back, remembered setting down the plastic bags to dig out her keys. “Yes.”

“And the windows were closed and locked as well.”

She nodded. Then caught where he was going, said, “Yes. So how did they-”

“Neither door shows signs of force. My guess would be that they either had keys or jimmied the lock.”

“Who would have keys?”

“A friend?” Halden stared at her. “Tell me, have you remembered anything else about your tenant?”

She made herself bite her lip before shaking her head, wanting it to look like she was thinking hard. “I’m sorry. We really didn’t know him.”

“You said the other night that you didn’t know what he did for a living.”

“No.”

“Did you ever notice him going to work? Bump into him in the hallway?”

She thought about it. “You know, I guess I didn’t, really.”

“Why do you ask?” Tom lifted his mug by the rim. “Could whoever broke in have something to do with him?”

Damn it, don’t go there. Why even plant the seed?

Halden rocked his head in a noncommittal gesture. “Hard to say.” He set his pen down on top of his notebook, the edges perfectly parallel, then leaned forward with his hands laced. “Usually we don’t disclose information about active cases, but given the circumstances, there’s something I should tell you. Your tenant, the man you knew as Bill Samuelson, that wasn’t his name. His real name was William Tuttle. When we ran his fingerprints, the record came up.” He paused. “I’m not going to lie to you. Tuttle was a bad guy.”

“What do you mean, bad?” Tom asked.

“He’d been arrested for assault. Did a little time, couple of years, on an armed robbery. He was questioned in several more, and was picked up on a distribution charge out in California, though that eventually fell apart.” Halden leaned back, spread his hands. “I should say that he wasn’t wanted for anything when he died. Just because he had a sheet doesn’t mean he was still a criminal. That’s why I was asking about a job.”

A

They had to get Halden out. The longer he was here, the greater the chance they’d slip in some way. She could tell that Tom half-wanted to just give in, to a

She realized that Tom and Halden had continued talking. Shook herself, tuned back in.

“… an overdose,” Halden said. “That prescription? It was a drug called fentanyl, a very serious painkiller. It’s not normally available in pills like that, but this was re-cooked for the street.”

“So it was suicide?”

The cop shook his head. “No. He probably figured it was something he could handle, OxyContin. But the dosage was powerful enough to trigger a heart condition. Chances are he didn’t even know he had heart problems. People usually don’t, until it’s too late. But here’s the thing.” Halden sipped his coffee. “To get his hands on stuff like that, he would have known people. Dealers, other junkies. It’s very possible one of them knew where he lived.”

“And decided to see if Samuelson – I mean, Tuttle – if he had any drugs to steal,” Tom said.

“Exactly.” The detective nodded. “That’s my thinking.”

She crossed her arms, leaned back. Looked away. Hitting the body language hard, trying to get the detective to see it was time he left. But Tom kept talking, asking, “Is there anything you can do?”

“Do?”

“To catch whoever was here. Fingerprints or something?”

Halden smiled, shook his head. “If you want, I’ll get a team out. They’ll make a big mess, stain up your nice white walls, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’m happy to do it.”

“There’s really no point?”

“Guy who knows how to pick a lock but not to wear gloves? Or even if he had keys.” Halden shrugged. “I mean, you think they don’t watch TV too?”

“So should we be worried?”

“That they’ll come back? No,” the detective said. “They’d have gotten a pretty good scare. Besides, they probably found what there was to find.”

Tom looked at A

A silence fell, and then the detective picked up his mug, took a last sip, set it down. “Well. I best be on my way. There will be some follow-up paperwork for your insurance, but you should be in good shape.”

They stood up, followed him to the door.

“Thanks again, Detective,” A

“My job,” he said. He tucked his gold pen inside his suit jacket. “One more thing.”

Tom cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Will Tuttle was a thief. Who knows what he might have stolen, what might have been lying around his place. Jewelry, drugs. Hell, maybe even cash.”

“So?”

Halden shrugged. “Life’s fu

“What does that mean?”

“Well, just hypothetically, say that someone found whatever it was Will had. It would be the easiest thing in the world to decide to keep it. I mean, he’s dead, so it’s not stealing.” The detective’s eyes were searchlights. A