“Officer, tell you what. I’ll probably need to ask you a couple of things after I’ve finished looking around here. Maybe you could help me out then.”
“Sure. If I can—”
“Good, okay. Let’s wait and talk then. I have to think about this right now.”
“No problem, there.”
The bedroom was bright, with a sunny, drowsy quality Starling liked. It was done with better fabrics and better furnishings than most young women could afford. There was a Coromandel screen, two pieces of cloisonné on the shelves, and a good secretary in burled walnut. Twin beds. Starling lifted the edge of the coverlets. Rollers were locked on the left bed, but not on the right-hand one. Catherine must push them together when it suits her. May have a lover the boyfriend doesn’t know about. Or maybe they stay over here sometimes. There’s no remote beeper on her answering machine. She may need to be here when her mom calls.
The answering machine was like her own, the basic Phone-Mate. She opened the top panel. Both incoming and outgoing tapes were gone. In their place was a note, TAPES TBI PROPERTY #6.
The room was reasonably neat but it had the ruffled appearance left by searchers with big hands, men who try to put things back exactly, but miss just a little bit. Starling would have known the place had been searched even without the traces of fingerprint power on all the smooth surfaces.
Starling didn’t believe that any part of the crime had happened in the bedroom. Crawford probably was right, Catherine had been grabbed in the parking lot. But Starling wanted to know her, and this is where she lived. Lives, Starling corrected herself. She lives here.
In the cabinet of the nightstand were a telephone book, Kleenex, a box of grooming items and, behind the box, a Polaroid SX-70 camera with a cable release and a short tripod folded beside it. Ummmm. Intent as a lizard, Starling looked at the camera. She blinked as a lizard blinks and didn’t touch it.
The closet interested Starling most. Catherine Baker Martin, laundry mark C-B-M, had a lot of clothes and some of them were very good. Starling recognized many of the labels, including Garfinkel’s and Britches in Washington. Presents from Mommy, Starling said to herself. Catherine had fine, classic clothes in two sizes, made to fit her at about 145 and 165 pounds, Starling guessed, and there were a few pairs of crisis fat pants and pullovers from the Statuesque Shop. In a hanging rack were twenty-three pairs of shoes. Seven pairs were Ferragamos in 10C, and there were some Reeboks and run-over loafers. A light backpack and a tennis racket were on the top shelf.
The belongings of a privileged kid, a student and practice teacher who lived better than most.
Lots of letters in the secretary. Loopy backhand notes from former classmates in the East. Stamps, mailing labels. Gift wrapping paper in the bottom drawer, a sheaf in various colors and patterns. Starling’s fingers walked through it. She was thinking about questioning the clerks at the local drive-in market when her fingers found a sheet in the stack of gift wrap that was too thick and stiff. Her fingers went past it, walked back to it. She was trained to register anomalies and she had it half pulled out when she looked at it. The sheet was blue, of a material similar to a lightweight blotter, and the pattern printed on it was a crude imitation of the cartoon dog Pluto. The little rows of dogs all looked like Pluto, they were the proper yellow, but they weren’t exactly right in their proportions.
“Catherine, Catherine,” Starling said. She took some tweezers from her bag and used them to slide the sheet of colored paper into a plastic envelope. She placed it on the bed for the time being.
The jewelry box on the dresser was a stamped-leather affair, the kind you see in every girl’s dormitory room. The two drawers in front and the tiered lid contained costume jewelry, no valuable pieces. Starling wondered if the best things had been in the rubber cabbage in the refrigerator, and if so, who took them.
She hooked her finger under the side of the lid and released the secret drawer in the back of the jewelry box. The secret drawer was empty. She wondered whom these drawers were a secret from—certainly not burglars. She was reaching behind the jewelry box, pushing the drawer back in, when her fingers touched the envelope taped to the underside of the secret drawer.
Starling pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and turned the jewelry box around. She took out the empty drawer and inverted it. A brown envelope was taped to the bottom of the drawer with masking tape. The flap was just tucked in, not sealed. She held the paper close to her nose. The envelope had not been fumed for fingerprints. Starling used the tweezers to open it and extract the contents. There were five Polaroid pictures in the envelope and she took them out one by one. The pictures were of a man and a woman coupling. No heads or faces appeared. Two of the pictures were taken by the woman, two by the man, and one appeared to have been shot from the tripod set up on the nightstand.
It was hard to judge scale in a photograph, but with that spectacular 145 pounds on a long frame, the woman had to be Catherine Martin. The man wore what appeared to be a carved ivory ring on his penis. The resolution of the photograph was not sharp enough to reveal the details of it. The man had had his appendix out. Starling bagged the photographs, each in a sandwich bag, and put them in her own brown envelope. She returned the drawer to the jewelry box.
“I have the good stuff in my pocketbook,” said a voice behind her. “I don’t think anything was taken.”
Starling looked in the mirror. Senator Ruth Martin stood in the bedroom door. She looked drained.
Starling turned around. “Hello, Senator Martin. Would you like to lie down? I’m almost finished.”
Even exhausted, Senator Martin had a lot of presence. Under her careful finish, Starling saw a scrapper.
“Who are you, please? I thought the police were through in here.”
“I’m Clarice Starling, FBI. Did you talk to Dr. Lecter, Senator?”
“He gave me a name.” Senator Martin lit a cigarette and looked Starling up and down. “We’ll see what it’s worth. And what did you find in the jewelry box, Officer Starling? What’s it worth?”
“Some documentation we can check out in just a few minutes,” was the best Starling could do.
“In my daughter’s jewelry box? Let’s see it.”
Starling heard voices in the next room and hoped for an interruption. “Is Mr. Copley with you, the Memphis special agent in—”
“No, he’s not, and that’s not an answer. No offense, Officer, but I’ll see what you got out of my daughter’s jewelry box.” She turned her head and called over her shoulder. “Paul. Paul, would you come in here? Officer Starling, you may know Mr. Krendler from the Department of Justice. Paul, this is the girl Jack Crawford sent in to Lecter.”
Krendler’s bald spot was tanned and he looked fit at forty.
“Mr. Krendler, I know who you are. Hello,” Starling said. DeeJay Criminal Division congressional liaison, troubleshooter, at least an Assistant Deputy Attorney General, Jesus God, save my bod.