It was a rural part of the state, and Madison was not surprised to see a four-wheel-drive pickup truck parked by the front door.
She pulled in at the end of the drive and closed her car door without slamming it but making it clear for anyone who was listening out that she wasn’t interested in stealth. Jerry Wallace had lived out here for fourteen years, give or take; however, she was reasonably sure that the ingrained habits of a lifetime hadn’t quit the moment he had retired. The front-door light came on, courtesy of a motion sensor, as Madison approached, and she rang the bell.
The two-story wooden house looked neat and well kept; Wallace hadn’t made millions trading information, but he had made enough to live comfortably in a town with two shops and one church. A clear semicircle of bare dirt demarcated the driveway, but Madison felt sure that the woods would reclaim it just as soon as Wallace looked away. Something small scuttled through the undergrowth, and she tracked it as it moved deeper into the gloom.
A couple of minutes went past. Madison could hear muted voices inside the house, maybe a television. Her breath puffed white before her. She rang the doorbell again and looked around. No pretty flowerpots by the door, no other car tracks on the ground.
She stole a glance inside the pickup: it was old, its cabin was clean, and there was no sign that more than one driver ever used it.
When it became clear that no one was coming to answer the door, Madison decided to walk around the right-hand side of the house. Wallace was sixty-nine years old, and it was perfectly possible that he hadn’t heard the doorbell above the sound of the television.
The lights were on downstairs, and the voices from inside became louder as Madison walked down the side. A brief memory of another house and blaring music came back to her, a case from a lifetime away, and she paused.
Maybe it was the darkness of the woods pushing against the house, maybe it was the memory of a fresh-faced police recruit who had once found herself in a situation they didn’t teach you about at the Academy, but Madison’s hand went to her holster, and she flicked off the safety on her piece.
She proceeded to the first window that looked into a living room that ran the length of the house: she saw French doors into the backyard and a dining table in one corner, and on the television someone was interviewing someone else about something, and they were both having a wild time of it. Then she saw a four-foot floor lamp that had been knocked onto the rug, the lampshade rolled to one side and the lightbulb in pieces.
Damn. In one gesture Madison cleared leather, settled into a two-handed grip with the Glock pointing at the ground, and stepped quickly around to the French doors. Even in the gloom she could see that the backyard was empty.
She grabbed the door handle and turned. It was unlocked.
“Mr. Wallace,” Madison called out. “Jerry Wallace.”
The television continued its bouncy chatter. Madison stepped into the living room.
“Mr. Wallace, this is Seattle Police.” Madison’s gaze went over the room. The table was set: scrambled eggs, bacon, and a slice of toast on plain white china. A tumbler lay on its side, a few drops of milk still in the bottom. A paper napkin was on the floor by the chair.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have the time.”
The eggs were congealed, and the milk had become a stain on the cotton place mat.
“Mr. Wallace . . .”
It would have taken some hours for the milk to dry; the glass was upturned but not broken. The lamp, close to the French doors, had been knocked to the floor on someone’s way in or out.
Madison noticed the remote control on the table near the plate, picked it up, and pressed the Mute key. Now there was nothing except the quiet susurration of the trees finding its way in through the chimney. Madison stilled, listening to the house and its unfamiliar creaks and hums from the heating system.
“Mr. Wallace . . .”
Everything else in the living room seemed to be in place: the sofa cushions were plumped, and a landscape painting was hanging straight above the fireplace. Under the table, though, abandoned on its side, rested a single navy woolen slipper, as if Jerry Wallace had been lifted clear out of it and out of this house.
Madison walked to the kitchen and leaned on the door; it opened slowly and revealed nothing more than a pan on the stove, where someone had cooked the eggs and bacon.
A hallway led to the stairs. Madison turned on the lights. There was no sense now in calling out, only in paying attention to whatever the house wanted to tell her.
Madison peeked ahead, around, and behind her as she climbed each step. She reached the landing; her heart beat fast but steady. Maybe cars were streaming past on Highway 165, but there in Jerry Wallace’s house, there was only silence and Madison’s soft steps on the carpet.