The Boyfriend by Thomas Perry Page A

probably been thoroughly searched before she got home. The boyfriend had undoubtedly left her bedroom untouched until after she was dead, and then scoured it. Her purse had been dumped out onto the floor, the drawers pulled out of the dresser, the closet opened and clothes thrown around.
    Till looked down at Kyra. He had seen many dead people in his life. It was always a terrible thing, the utter, irreversible destruction of a hopeful, busy, eager, selfish, sensitive, thoughtful, gregarious, lonely creature, already decomposing as soon as the heart stopped. An hour ago this corpse on the bed had been a lively, beautiful, generous young woman.
    Till studied the room, but touched nothing. There was no point in making things hopeless for the crime scene people. He knew that the boyfriend had done at least a fair job of staging a meaningless crime scene already. He could see that there were no visible signs that anyone other than Kyra had ever slept here, let alone lived here on her generosity. The boyfriend had proceeded this way before, and the results this time would be the same. The cops would make nothing of it, build no leads, get nowhere.
    Till saw the jewelry box lying open and on its side on the dresser. He looked inside and around it for the distinctive necklace and anklet, then on the floor and behind the dresser, but they were not there. He turned and went down the hall to the kitchen. He reminded himself that he shouldn’t wait too long with Kyra. He stopped, picked up a dish towel to keep his prints off the kitchen telephone, and then called 911.
    “Your name, please.”
    “Jack Till,” he said. “I’m at the home of a young woman who has been shot to death.”
    “Did you shoot her?”
    “No, ma’am. I did not. I just came to speak with her, looked in, and found her dead. I believe the person who shot her is a young male Caucasian driving a white Toyota Camry, about one year old. He is probably heading out of town. He drives fast.” He said, “I’m at 9344 North Murietta Terrace.”
    “I’m dispatching officers. Are you at the residence now?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Please remain there, because the officers will need to speak with you.”
    “I will.”
    “Are you positive that she’s dead?”
    “Yes, I am. I’ve seen a number of bodies, because I was a homicide detective for many years. She has a bullet fired through her left temple. She was right-handed.”
    “The officers should be reaching you shortly, Mr. Till. Are there any other people in the house?”
    “No. The only one I know of who was here this morning was the gentleman I saw leaving. Presumably he shot her.”
    “I’m getting word that the officers have reached your location. Do you see them?”
    “They’re parking in front of the house now. That’s incredibly quick. They must have been nearby.”
    The two cops who emerged from the car were both adjusting their utility belts as they came to the door. Till opened it and stepped aside so they could enter.
    “Are you Mr. Till?” 1 am.
    The first cop put a strong arm on his forearm. “Could you please put your hands on the wall and let me check your pockets?”
    Till leaned against the wall, spread his arms and legs while the cops verified that he was not armed. The cop said, “Thank you.”
    Till said, “I know this is a little tricky for you, but if you could call in a bulletin right away on a male Caucasian about twenty-five years old driving a year-old white Toyota Camry you might get him before he goes too far. He speeds, so that might help him stand out a little.” One cop walked deeper into the house while his partner spoke to Till.
    “I assume you think he’s the shooter?”
    “Yes.”
    “Does he have a name?”
    “Not yet,” Till said. “I think he was a live-in boyfriend. I saw him leaving when I arrived. His hair was dark, cut short and neat, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses. He drove the girl’s new silver Jag a few miles, parked in front of Tio