I’m sure he was capable of walking across the lawn to the trash cans on his own, to look for himself, but he didn’t say so.Instead he just followed as I led the way across the grass to the next driveway and around the house.“There.”I pointed to the trash can and recycling bin lined up under the carport.“Empty.Just like I told you.”
Mendoza checked for himself, wrinkling his nose at the residual stench, just as I had.I did my best not to admire his rear view, but I didn’t succeed very well.
Once he had satisfied his curiosity and turned back to me, I gestured to the house.“All the curtains are drawn.I’m sure you noticed.There’s no way to look inside.”
Mendoza nodded.
“If Mrs.Grimshaw had been living here instead of next door, I wouldn’t have seen her through the window.She could have been lying there for days before anyone noticed she was dead.”
Mendoza gave me a look.He was clearly following the train of my thoughts.“Do you have any reason to suspect that the inhabitant of this house has been shot?”
“Not a reason,” I admitted, “per se.But if you consider that the inhabitant of the house next door was shot, and the inhabitant of this one isn’t answering the door, I think it bears looking into.”
Mendoza contemplated me for a second.“You just want a look inside.”
I did.But— “I’m still right.”
“You might be,” Mendoza said.“It’s a long shot.But under the circumstances, I can make a case for opening the door and taking a look.”
“Great.”I refrained from rubbing my hands together gleefully.
He eyed me.“I saidIcan take a look.Not you.”
“That’s mean,” I said.
His lips twitched.“Just stay back.”
I made a face, but I stayed out of the way as he pulled a key chain out of his pocket and chose what I assumed was a universal key.The first thing he did, was knock on the back door.“Hello?Anybody home?”
Nobody answered, of course.So Mendoza called out again.“This is the police.If you’re in there, please answer the door.”
Nobody answered the door.Mendoza inserted the key in the lock and twisted it.“Metro Nashville PD,” he called out again as he pushed it open with one hand and dropped the keys into his pocket with the other.“I’m coming in.”
He pushed the suit jacket aside to pull a gun from the holster at his hip.My breath caught in my throat.He looks like a matinee idol to begin with, with that gorgeous face and sleek, black hair.Add in the gun and the heroic expression, and it was like watching James Bond in action, right in front of me.
Mendoza slipped through the door.I followed, all the way up to the threshold, and stuck my head into the room.
The back door opened into a kitchen, circa 1950s vintage.Original to the house.Wood, slab-front cabinets, Formica counters with an aluminum edge, and fake brick vinyl on the floor.
There was no sign of occupancy.No dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter, no trash in the can I spied sitting next to the plain, white fridge.
Mendoza had disappeared through the doorway to the right and couldn’t see me.I slithered through the open kitchen door and into the house.
When he came back three minutes later, he found me standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.“I didn’t go beyond this point,” I told him.“I know you said to stay outside, so I only went as far as the kitchen.”
He didn’t answer, just holstered the pistol.
“I didn’t hear you scream, or shoot anyone, so I guess the place is empty?”
“You could say that,” Mendoza said.“Come and take a look.”
“Really?”I stuck my hands in my pockets.“Thank you.And don’t worry, I won’t touch anything.”
“I’m not worried,” Mendoza said and led the way through the door into the dining room.
I could see why.There was nothing to touch.As we moved from room to empty room, our footsteps echoed hollowly.
“I don’t understand,” I said when we were back in the kitchen.“There’s nothing here.”
