Patrick Jane

The house was too clean. Patrick Jane noticed it before he even stepped through the front door. The little flowerpots lining the porch were arranged at precise intervals, each containing the same variety of white petunias. The brass knocker had been polished recently enough to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. Through the window beside the entrance, he could see a spotless living room, pale curtains, and a sofa with cushions arranged so symmetrically that he suspected nobody was permitted to sit on them. A silver wind chime hung beneath the porch roof. It moved gently in the breeze, producing a delicate, almost musical sound. Everything about the house suggested a family that had their lives together. Jane disliked it immediately. Not because he had anything against clean houses. He rather liked clean houses, actually. He liked clean houses, comfortable chairs, and people who made good tea. It was the effort behind this particular cleanliness that caught his attention. The lawn had been freshly cut despite the dry edges of the grass. There was a faint smell of lemon cleaner drifting through the open kitchen window. Even the children's bicycles, visible beside the garage, had been lined up neatly against the wall. Someone here cared very much about appearances. And, judging by the way the curtains shifted and fell still behind the front window, someone had noticed the CBI sedan pulling into the driveway. Jane adjusted the cuffs of his beige suit, smoothed down the front of his vest, and glanced over his shoulder. Teresa Lisbon was standing beside the car with a file tucked beneath her arm, looking at the house with the expression of a woman who had already decided that the paperwork was going to be unpleasant. "Are you coming?" she called. Jane turned back toward the door. "I'm building a relationship with the house." "Build it faster." "You're very demanding, Lisbon." "You're very annoying, Jane." He smiled. "That's why you keep me around." "Unfortunately." Jane rang the doorbell. They waited. He could hear movement inside: footsteps, a chair scraping against the floor, then a quick, uneven set of steps approaching the door. The lock turned. A woman in her early forties opened it. She was attractive in the carefully maintained way of someone who had little time for herself but made sure nobody noticed. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun. She wore a cream blouse and a delicate gold necklace, and her face held the sort of polite concern people practised in mirrors before attending funerals. Her eyes went first to Lisbon's badge. Then to Jane. Then back to Lisbon. "Agents?" she asked. "Teresa Lisbon, California Bureau of Investigation. This is Patrick Jane. We're here about your husband." The woman's expression faltered. Only for a moment. Then she stepped aside. "Of course. Please, come in." Jane entered first, his eyes moving lazily around the hallway. Three family photographs hung on the wall. In the first, a smiling couple stood beside a newborn wrapped in a pale blue blanket. In the second, the same couple posed with three children in front of a Christmas tree. In the third, the family stood together on a beach, everyone squinting into the sun. The woman had her hand resting on her husband's shoulder in every photograph. In the beach picture, the husband was smiling at the camera. The youngest was looking at him. Not smiling. Jane paused just long enough to notice. Then he followed the woman into the living room. "My name is Eleanor Mercer," she said. "I was told you might come by." She gestured toward the sofa. "Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?" "Tea would be lovely," Jane replied. Lisbon gave him a look. "What?" he murmured. "We're in a house. People offer tea in houses." "We're here to discuss a murder." "People also drink tea when discussing murders." Eleanor produced a small, strained smile. "I'll put the kettle on." She disappeared into the kitchen. Jane remained standing for a moment, looking around the living room. The curtains were open, but the blinds behind them were angled so that anyone outside would see mostly their own reflection. A knitted blanket lay folded over the arm of the sofa. On the mantelpiece sat a collection of family photographs, a ceramic bird, and a small wooden plaque bearing the words Family is Everything. He tilted his head. "Well," he murmured. Lisbon opened her file. "Don't." "I haven't said anything." "You're looking at the furniture." "The furniture is telling me things." "The furniture is furniture." Jane glanced at her. "That's what it wants you to think." She closed her eyes briefly, as though asking the universe for patience. Before she could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs. The eldest came down first. He was in his late teens or early twenties, there seemed to be a big age gap between the siblings. He had broad shoulders, dark hair, and a phone in his hand. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. His expression was bored, but his eyes sharpened the instant he saw Lisbon. Behind him came a girl, her long brown hair falling over one shoulder. She held a schoolbook against her chest and studied the agents with open suspicion. A third figure appeared at the top of the staircase. The youngest.