Page 32 of Bears Behaving Badly
This particular predator fed on rabbits, shrews, and Restaurant Alma’s roast duck special, had a grip equal to 400 psi, and a talon strike speed of 50 miles per hour.
“This isn’t the first time having an extrovert for a partner has come in handy,” Annette commented as a naked Nadia opened Lund’s front door and gestured them inside with a bouncy flourish.
“I’ll bet.”
“You were quite right, Annette,” she announced as they followed her pert backside into Lund’s living room. “Locked, but you can unlock it from either side. And I heartily doubt a Stable will scale a four-story building. Not a sensible one, at least.”
David snorted. “Arethere any sensible ones?”
“Of course there are. There must be. The law of averages and all that.” Annette tried to give Nadia her clothes back, only to be rebuffed.
“I’ll just have to disrobe again when I let you out the front, darling.”
“Yes, but it’s chilly in here,” Annette explained. “Surely you’ve noticed. Your boobs certainly have.”
“It’s even chillier riding a downdraft from ninety feet up.”
“Point.”
“You guys realize we’re going to get in a lot of trouble, right?” From David, who had pulled on gloves (where had he been hiding gloves?) and was now examining the bookshelves in the living room. Annette gave him points for not drooling all over Nadia’s sleek curves. Nudity, like preferences about when and where and how often to shift, was defined by individual taste. Annette wasn’t ashamed of her body, but she would have gotten dressed for the search. David, she’d noticed last night (and there was a lot to, um, notice), was matter-of-fact about his nudity but didn’t flaunt it.
And then there was Nadia. “I daresay the aerial yoga is paying off.”
“Is that something you do when you have wings,” Annette asked, “or are you talking about the kind where you suspend yourself in a sheet and wriggle around for half an hour?”
“The latter. And it’s a controlled wriggle. And it’s a thirty-foot ribbon hung from the ceiling, not a sheet.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“As for getting into trouble for our little B&E, file that under ‘duh,’” Nadia said, not unkindly. “Let us hope we find something here that will mitigate the damage to our careers.”
“Or we could just not get caught,” David suggested.
“Both sound ideas.”
The walls and much of the decor in Lund’s loft were pure white, doubtless considered chic and understated by people who weren’t Annette, who likened it to living inside a marshmallow. It was an open plan, with the living room, dining room, and kitchen in the same area, and the spotless gray floor shone, making the space feel chilly and unwelcoming. The large sectional sofa was also gray, and so were the armchairs flanking it. There was gray brick outlining the fireplace, which was spotless, and the matches set neatly to the side hadn’t been opened. Lund was either a hell of a chimney sweep or he never used it.
All space, no life. Literally. The only items breaking the monotony were the books on the shelves and the detritus of the investigators: fingerprint dust, amido black, titanium dioxide, and the like.
“This guy’s officially a psycho,” David announced, examining a white bookshelf that held about a dozen books. “He’s got these arranged by book spine color.”
“Truly a monstrous individual,” Annette agreed, and she was only half-kidding.
Stairs they were in no hurry to climb led to still more white walls and presumably the upstairs bedrooms and baths. The unvaried color was broken only by an occasional dark piece of furniture or framed landscape photograph.
“No personal photos,” David mused. “No junk drawer. Nothing on the bulletin board, not even menus. Nothing on the fridge or counters. And nothing in the fridge or cupboards. Not so much as a box of crackers.”
“No snacks? What kind of a monster lives like this? And for…how long has he lived here?”
“Ten months.” David closed the door of the spotless, empty fridge, then stepped to his left and opened a drawer. “One set of clean cutlery.” He closed it and shook his head. “Place looks like a movie set, not a home.”
Upstairs there was a small alcove for a washer-dryer combo so new it still had the Best Buy stickers on it. But no detergent. No fabric softener. No lint.
The first bedroom, also blinding white, held a perfectly made bed with a white-and-gray-striped comforter, a white chest of drawers, and a white end table. Nothing on the end table, not even a box of Kleenex.
“It’s clear that Lund didn’t live here,” Nadia ventured. “So, then, why spend a near-fortune on an apartment you rarely use but keep so sterile it could be an operating room?”
Annette could guess. “Something he didn’t want anyone to find out about. Something so awful he was killed for it.”
