The Nitrogen Murder(64)

Reminiscing, philosophizing. Sure signs that I’d found nothing of interest in the present moment.

I decided to give the grounds in the back a quick sweep and then leave. The area behind the house stretched to about twenty yards, not large by mansion standards. It was nicely landscaped with bushes and flowers of modest proportions. It was also empty—no toys, bikes, swings, outdoor furniture, barbecue grill. There was no sign that anyone lived here recently.

I turned to make my getaway, calling myself lucky I hadn’t gotten arrested, and spotted two medium-sized garbage containers.

No, I told myself.

But I lost the argument.

I stayed close to the walls of the house and approached the small, raised wooden pallet that held the cans. I lifted the top of the first one and peered in.

Empty.

On to the second one.

Not empty; in fact, quite full.

I stepped back and slammed the lid shut, as if the contents might attack me. I thought back. Patel died almost a week ago, on a Friday. There must have been a garbage pickup since then. Both barrels should be empty. The only way this one could be full was if pickup was last Friday, the morning of the day Patel died, and he’d managed to fill it up again in the hours before he was shot.

At the top of the refuse container was a thin white box. The unmistakable shape of a takeout pizza box. Was Patel’s last meal a pizza?

I lifted the cover of the trash barrel and tilted the carton so I could read the top. I noticed many more takeout containers underneath. The pizza place was an independent, evidently, named Giulio’s, on Ashby. A delivery slip, filled out in neat handwriting and marked with oil stains, was Scotch-taped to the top of the box.

128 WOODLAND RD., it read. Not Patel’s address but across the road. Under special instructions: leave outside by tree, pick up cash in mailbox.

The handwriting was clear cursive, like Palmer Method, except the is were dotted with small circles. I envisioned the writer as a sixteen-year-old girl with a tiny waist, earning money for her cheerleading outfit. Unfortunately, my imaginary minimum-wage employee wasn’t as careful with the date. In that section, she’d written only Wednesday. Probably only days of the week mattered at that age, I figured. Work Wednesdays, study Thursdays, party on Fridays and Saturdays. Since there were no mortgage payments or pension checks to keep track of, the month and date weren’t relevant.

No matter. Either someone had eaten pizza in Patel’s house last night or the folks at number 128 dumped their garbage here. I could look for that address on my way out. But in my single-mindedness, I discounted that possibility and others quickly. That the police had been snacking on the job, for example. Or teenagers partying in the neighborhood. Or that an empty box in a garbage can meant nothing in the first place.

Above the garbage pallet was a small window. The frosted glass said bathroom. It was transom-shaped and slightly open. Before I could talk myself out of it, I tipped the empty can over and, with great effort, lifted myself up and stood on it. There was no chance any human other than a toddler could slip through the opening, but I got a good look around the side of the metal frame, through the triangular gap. I felt I’d sunk to a new low, peeping through a man’s bathroom window. Fortunately, the shower curtain was open and the tub unoccupied.

I saw a razor, shaving cream, and a small bottle of aftershave on the counter around the sink. The fixtures seemed old, either original equipment or new faucets designed to appear old. I’d come to accept the Restoration Hardware look, though I couldn’t understand it. I knew I’d never own a telephone that had a 1940s look on the outside and the latest digital technology on the inside.

The door to the rest of the house was closed. A distinctive citrus smell wafted through the opening.

Nothing unusual—except the toiletry items were spread out on the counter in front of a black carrying case. And the toothbrush lay half inside a long blue holder, probably plastic.

Question: Why would a man groom himself out of a travel kit in his own home?

Answer: It’s not his own home.

Click.

The noise startled me. To me, in my edgy state, it rang out in the silence, sounding like an entire lab cabinet of beakers crashing to the floor. Someone was entering the bathroom. I ducked down and lost my balance, falling onto the ground, making another noise that thundered through the quiet Claremont afternoon.

I got up as quickly as I could and limped out of the yard. To minimize the sound of my footsteps, I moved out from the house onto the grass, aware that I could be seen more easily.

A cat. A raccoon. A squirrel. I gave these words emphasis in my thoughts, as if to put them into the mind of the resident of 127 Woodland Road. Let him think an animal tipped over his garbage can, I pleaded to no one in particular. My only saving thought was that no adult could fit through the bathroom window opening to pursue me. I wondered how long it might take for a person to run through the house and meet me as I crossed in front of the entryway My heart pounded in my ears as I slipped through the garden gate and out to the gravel sidewalk.