16

A S.   F L E T C H   W A L K E D by he noticed the boat still in the driveway, gleaming white under its fresh coat of paint under the three o’clock in the morning moonlight. Except for the street lights, there was only one light visible in the neighborhood, a coach lantern several houses down.

In bare feet he went up the Bradley’s driveway and into the opened garage. The door to the house was locked. He went around the house to the kitchen door, which was also locked.

The glass door between the livingroom and the pool area slid open with a rumble. Houses away, a dog barked.

The moonlight did not do much to lighten the livingroom. Fletch stood inside the door a moment, listening, letting his eyes become used to the deeper darkness.

Putting each foot forward slowly, he walked to the fireplace. The box of ashes was not on the mantel.

He went to the coffee table and stooped over it. With loose fingers he combed, slowly, the surface of the table. His hand identified Enid Bradley’s wine glass; he did not knock it over. Then the box of ashes.

Taking an envelope out of his back pocket, he opened it and held it in one hand. With his other hand he opened the lid of the filigreed box.

He took a pinch of ashes out of the box and put it in the envelope. He closed the lid, sealed the envelope.

Turning, he walked into the chair in which Enid Bradley had sat that afternoon, talking to him. It moved only a few centimeters on the carpet.

When he slid the sliding door shut, the dog did not bark.