Page 68 of Rage

“Wilma Borntrager wasn’t living here alone.”

“I think it’s safe to say she wasn’t driving that vehicle, either.”

He starts toward the kitchen. “I’m going to search the desk.”

“I got the living room.”

It’s a cramped space. There’s a ragtag sofa against the wall. A bedroom pillow that’s not quite clean. A high-end TV that’s too large for the room is mounted on the wall. There’s a chair with a torn cushion next to the front window. A stuffed animal on the floor. A coffee table piled with mail and advertisements. I page through the mail. A bill from a propane company. An ad from the local grocery store. Everything is addressed to Cassidy Robinette.

Finding nothing of interest, I continue on to the hall, take a right into the first bedroom. The space smells of dirty socks and mildew. There’s a full-size bed, unmade, the sheets dull from use. I remove the top blanket, looking for blood or anything out of the ordinary. Nothing but a stained sheet and a pair of wadded-up panties.

A small suitcase lies open on the floor, its top leaning against the wall. I go to it. A pair of women’s shorts. Yoga pants. Two T-shirts. Panties. There’s a zippered bag. Glad for my gloves, I open it, find a sequin bikini top and bottom inside. The same type of outfit I saw at The Cheetah Lounge.

I move on to the night table. There’s a small lamp without a shade. A week’s worth of dust. I pull open the top drawer, find a paperback novel, the pages dog-eared from use. A bottle of Tylenol. Lighter. The second drawer contains two boxes of condoms. Personal lubricant.

I go to the third drawer.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I hear Tomasetti rummaging around in the kitchen. I cross the room, go to the dresser, tug open the top drawer. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of the jewelry. A necklace and earring set by an upmarket designer. There are two turquoise-and-silver rings. I see a thin gold chain with what looks like a diamond pendant affixed. I’m no expert on jewelry, but these items look expensive. How does a single woman with limited finances afford so much nice jewelry?

I go to the second bedroom. This one is slightly more pleasant. A window-unit air conditioner pumps cool air into the room. The drapes are the kind used to darken a room for daytime sleeping. I start with the nightstand. I find a pack of clove cigarettes in the top drawer, two joints tucked in with the smokes. I mark the pot with a small evidence cone and keep moving.

The second drawer contains nothing of interest. I tug open the third drawer and do a double take at the pile of zip tie flex-cuffs. A quick count reveals twelve ties. They are the kind used by law enforcement. Not the kind of thing a single woman keeps in her night table. But if not Wilma Borntrager, then who?

I snap several photos of the zip ties and go to the final drawer. The only item is a neoprene laptop case. I pull the laptop out, set it on the bed, open it. The device begins to hum and prompts me for a password.

I try a couple of generic words. Pencil. Cassidy. Lost Creek. Robinette. Painters Mill. All with and without caps. No luck.

“Chief?”

I startle, turn to see Tomasetti standing in the doorway. “Looks like you had more luck than I did,” he says.

“Do you think your IT guys can outsmart a password on this laptop?” I ask.

“Is the bishop Amish?” He crosses to me, looks down at the device. “Might take some time, but I’ve no doubt they can crack it.”

I set the laptop on the bed, set another cone on it, and go back to the drawer containing the zip ties. “What do you make of that?”

His brow goes up. “That’s a lot of zip ties.”

“Bedroom fetish?”

“Odd thing for a female to have.” He looks around. “Clothes in the closet belong to a female.”

I motion toward the door. “There’s a lot of women’s jewelry in the other bedroom. Decent stuff.”

“Odd combination.”

“And it looks like someone was living out of a suitcase.”

“Female?”

I nod.

He goes to the closet, peers inside. “This place has something of a transient feel to it.”

“People coming and going,” I say.