Free Lucky Thirteen by Janet Taylor-Perry Page A

at first. Molding dishes sat in the sink. Chris opened the refrigerator. “Oh!” she gasped, closing it fast. “The stench. It smells like sour milk and rotten bologna.”
      Ray sighed. “The rest of the house is spotless except for a thin layer of dust.” The living room contained a sofa, a recliner, and a fine entertainment center with tables that matched. Two barstools stood at the bar which separated the kitchen from the dining area. A glass and black wrought iron dinette set with four chairs filled the dining room. The only decorations in the house were a pen and ink drawing of a medieval castle hung over the fireplace and an oil painting of a Victorian village on the wall between the two windows in the dining room. Ray continued his observation. “Orderly. Not cramped.”
    Chris agreed with a nod . “Yes, he seems to be uncomplicated. It makes me wonder about his mindset.”
    “How?”
    “Getting his meds the way he did. He seems to be coming to his senses.”
    They walked through the rest of the house . The bed in what appeared to be the master bedroom was made. Chris opened the closet. “His clothes are hung neatly. Suits and silk ties. He’s a professional.”
    Ray opened the drawers of the dresser and chest of drawers . “These things are sorted by color. Boxer briefs, just like me.” He laughed. “There’s a drawer of socks missing a mate. I keep mine in a clothes basket.” He opened the valet on top of the dresser. “Must make real good money. Onyx and diamond cuff links and tie tack. Money clip with about fifty bucks.” He picked up a watch. “It’s a Rolex!”
    Chris agreed . “Yeah, he must make good money. Nice suits—nothing off the rack. One’s an Armani .”
    Ray whistled his appreciation. The FBI agent crossed the hall while Ray checked the bathroom. The second bedroom appeared to serve as an office and home gym. It contained a desk with state-of-the art computer equipment, a drafting table, a treadmill, and a Bowflex. Several finished and unfinished blueprints lay on the table. All were initialed “R. G.”
    The downstairs half -bath appeared never to be touched while the upstairs bathroom, which could be entered from either bedroom, had everything in compulsive order; toiletries were arranged methodically.
    “He’s been here,” Ray said.
    Chris stuck her head in the door . “How do you know?”
    The cop pointed to two small clean circles in the dusty countertop of the upstairs bathroom. “But he didn’t stay. He came long enough to get his medication bottles. That’s where they sat. Where has he been staying?”
    “I don’t know,” Chris said. “I think we need to get a description of him to all the local pharmacies.”
    “Yeah. ” Ray nodded. “I can just walk in and say, ‘Hey, I look just like a mass murderer. Take my picture.’”
    Chris snickered in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “We still need to get it out there.”
    “I know.”
    “Then,” Chris continued, motioning Ray into the office/gym, “we need to go to Bertram and Associates. That’s the name on the blueprints.” She fingered one of them. “It appears our whacko is a brilliant architect. I would give my right arm to live in this house.”
    “It is nice,” agreed Ray, looking over Chris’s shoulder. Returning to the bathroom, he bagged the toiletries to obtain fingerprints and DNA and confiscated the computer from the office.
    As they left the house, the next door neighbor and her daughter arrived home. The little girl squealed in delight, “Mr. Ray!” and flung her arms around Ray’s legs. The mother seemed pleased, too, to see the man she thought was her neighbor.
    “Mr. Gautier, it’s nice to have you home again . You’ve been gone such a long time that I thought you had moved.” The woman eyed Ray’s holster and gun strangely.
    Ray looked at Chris and shook his head in disbelief. Juggling the computer, he reached into his pocket and took out his badge. He extended