She examined the ground floor. The house was immaculate--except for the fireplace. It was a gas model, she noted, but inside there was a lot of ash. With gas logs, there was no need for paper or kindling. Had the burglars set a fire?
Without touching anything inside, she shone her flashlight over the contents.
"Did you notice if those men had a fire going when they were here?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
There were also streaks of mud in front of the fireplace. She had basic crime scene equipment in the trunk of her car. She'd dust for prints around the fireplace and desk and collect the ash and mud and any other physical evidence that might be helpful.
It was then that her cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen. An urgent text message from Lincoln Rhyme. She was needed back in the city ASAP. She sent an acknowledging message.
What had been burned? she wondered, staring at the fireplace.
"So," Greg said. "Like, can I go now?"
Sachs looked him over. "I don't know if you're aware of it, but after any death the police conduct a complete inventory of everything in the house the day the owner dies."
"Yeah?" He looked down.
"In an hour I'm calling Westchester County Police and having them check the list against what's here now. If anything's missing they'll call me and I'll give them your name and call your parents."
"But--"
"The men didn't steal anything at all, did they? After they left, you went in through the back door and helped yourself to . . . what?"
"I just borrowed a few things is all. From Todd's room."
"Mr. Creeley's son?"
"Yeah. And one of the Nintendos was mine. He never returned it."
"The men? Did they take anything?"
A hesitation. "Didn't look like it."
She undid the handcuffs. Sachs said, "You'll have everything back by then. Put it in the garage. I'll leave the door open."
"Oh, like, yeah. I promise," he said breathlessly. "Definitely . . . Only . . ." He started to cry. "The thing is I ate some cake. It was in the refrigerator. I don't . . . I'll buy them another one."
Sachs said, "They don't inventory food."
"They don't?"
"Just get everything else back here."
"I promise. Really." He wiped his face on his sleeve.
The boy started to leave. She asked, "One thing? When you heard that Mr. Creeley killed himself were you surprised?"
"Well, yeah."
"Why?"
The boy gave a laugh. "He had a seven-forty. I mean, the long one. Who's going to kill themselves, they drive a BMW, right?"
Chapter 4
They were terrible ways to die.