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“Yes.” Morgan was shivering again. “I used both my keys to open it.”
Stockton glanced around the outside of the building. “You have a door around back?”
“Leading to the terrace, yes. But it’s dead-bolted from the inside. That’s the only way it’s accessible, not from the street.”
“So it’s doubtful the perp got in that way. Same with these lower-level windows. They’re all barred. Which suggests he broke in either through an upstairs window, or through the front door by picking the locks. Do you have a security system?”
Morgan shook her head. “It was on our when-we-have-money list. But, frankly, this neighborhood is very safe, so we didn’t have a sense of urgency. Plus, Jill and I were trying to hold off for a while, not incur any more huge expenses.”
“By Jill—you mean, Jill Shore?”
“Yes.”
“The front door locks were picked,” Monty announced. He’d squatted down and was examining the keyhole area. “There are scratch marks here—” He pointed. “And here. Whoever did this is a pro. A confident SOB, too. He took the time to reengage the bolts into the jambs before he took off. You’d think he’d run like hell the minute he finished robbing the place. He didn’t.”
“Yeah,” Stockton agreed. “You’d think. So maybe that torn page wasn’t planted. Maybe he dropped it.”
“What torn page?” Monty demanded.
Wordlessly, Morgan produced the ripped page containing a laser-printed photo of Elyse and Arthur.
“It flew out from underneath Morgan’s doormat,” Lane explained.
At that moment, the other two cops emerged. “All clear,” one pronounced. “Wrecked and with a pretty pointed message left behind, but the perp’s gone.”
Morgan made a raw sound.
“In that case, would it be possible for us to continue this inside…” Lane shot a quick glance at Stockton’s badge to ascertain his rank. “…Sergeant Stockton? It’s freezing out here, and Ms. Winter looks like she’s about to collapse.”
“Of course.” A brusque nod. “Just don’t touch anything.”
“I know the drill.” Lane wrapped an arm around Morgan’s shoulders and escorted her inside, closely followed by Monty and the four officers.
“I’ve got to call Jill.” Morgan halted in her tracks as the realization struck. “She’s at her parents’ apartment. She needs to know about this.”
Stockton’s green-around-the-gills coloring was a vivid indication that he recognized the ramifications of that statement. Congressman Shore was about to become involved, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
“Go ahead and call,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “We’ll start a thorough search of the place.” He cleared his throat. “Tell Ms. Shore that we’ll wait till she gets here to examine her room.”
“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.” Morgan made the phone call, bile in her throat.
Elyse answered, a gasp of shock escaping her when she heard what had happened. Three times, she asked Morgan if she was okay. Wh
en she was convinced of that, and of the fact that Lane, Monty, and four policemen were all with her, she regained control and announced that she, Arthur, and Jill would be right over.
Morgan could hear Arthur and Jill firing questions in the background as she ended the call.
IF TELLING THE Shores was bad, viewing the apartment was worse.
The damage could be fixed. It required only the investment of time and hard work. The cost would be negligible since, as Morgan suspected, nothing had been stolen.
But the anguish, the sense of violation, that was something else.
The invasion of her personal space—her night table and dresser drawers having been rifled through, her intimate apparel having been touched by a stranger, an intruder—that alone made her skin crawl.
It didn’t come close to the wrenching of her insides when she saw the chilling message the police officer had referred to. It was more graphic and more devastating than Morgan had ever imagined.
A series of visual horrors had been carefully arranged on Morgan’s bed.
