Cereal Killer

make the coffee before you got up—a lovely luxury that she intended to treat herself to the next time she actually scored a paying job.
    Apparently, Kameeka had been able to afford such an extravagance because her pot was full of a dark, thick brew. The power light was off. Otherwise, everything appeared undisturbed by human hands.
    But then Savannah looked down at the floor with its snowy white, two-inch tiles.
    Reaching for Dirk, she grabbed his sleeve and prevented him from stepping from the carpet of the dining area onto the kitchen floor.
    “Wait a minute,” she said.
    “What?” He froze, recognizing her tone as all business.
    “The floor,” she said, pointing down.
    “Yeah. It’s clean. Really clean. You said that’s floor wax you smell, so—”
    “So somebody just mopped and waxed it.”
    “Okay. That’s unusual at my house, but..
    Savannah sank to one knee at the edge of the carpet and studied the dies before her. “And they did a lousy job.”
    Dirk squatted beside her and looked from one side of the floor to the other. “Looks pretty good to me.”
    “That’s ’cause you’re a guy. You figure if there’s no ketchup smears, coffee grounds, or beer puddles, it’s clean.”
    He nodded soberly. “That’s true.”
    “This house is perfect. Like I said, either Kameeka’s a neatnik or she’s got professional help.”
    “But...?”
    “But there are streaks all over this floor where the person who was spreading the wax missed spots. Look over there by the stove.” She pointed to a somewhat dull area that even looked a bit cloudy, as though it had a white film of some sort of chemical residue.
    She nodded toward the refrigerator. “And over there in front of the icebox. There’s a big patch that they missed.”
    “And your point is?”
    “My point is that any woman who would make sure that her windows were spotless, that the mirrors didn’t have a smudge, and that every speck of dust was off the furniture, wouldn’t have done such a slap-happy job of mopping. No way.”
    Dirk gave her a hard, sideways look. “So, are you saying something completely sexist, like—a man must have mopped this floor because they did a lousy job?”
    “Of course not. I’m saying it was either a guy who didn’t know any better or a woman who didn’t give a darn about housekeeping. Or maybe a woman who was in a big hurry.”
    “Like Kameeka?”
    “Nope. Even in a hurry, she would have done it right or not at all.”
    “What do you figure that white stuff is?” He pointed to the filmy area near the stove.
    “Some sort of disinfectant or detergent that wasn’t meant for floors.”
    They both studied the tiles for several long moments, thinking, evaluating.
    “Maybe we ought to get the crime scene investigators to Luminol the surface,” Savannah said.
    “That’s just what I was thinking.” Dirk’s lips tightened. “You figure it’ll fluoresce?”
    Savannah thought back on a number of crime scenes she had investigated where the CSU had sprayed sup-posedly clean surfaces with Luminol. The chemical reacted with blood, causing it to give off an eerie glow. Seeing clear evidence of blood spatter, where a moment before nothing had been visible, was startling.
    “Maybe we shouldn’t walk on it. They might be able to find a shoe print, too,” Dirk added, putting his face low to the carpet and peering across the surface.
    “Might could,” Savannah replied, doing the same, “although I don’t see anything.”
    “Yeah, but you never know what those guys can find when they set their minds to it.” Dirk rose, groaning a little. “Let’s check the rest of the house.”
    Savannah stood, stifling her own small moan as her joints complained. They might be getting a bit older, but she was determined not to broadcast the fact.
    It didn’t take long to investigate the rest of the one bedroom/one bath cottage. And, once again, they found nothing extraordinary in the clean, neat rooms.
    In the bathroom, Savannah glanced into a white wicker wastebasket next to the sink and saw only one item—a large cotton ball. Gingerly, she picked it up, sniffed it, and touched it with one fingertip.
    “What is it?” Dirk asked her.
    “Skin toner,” she replied. “Still a little damp.”
    “What’s skin toner? Something like aftershave?” Savannah smiled. If all consumers were like Dirk, Procter & Gamble would be out of business. A tube of toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a spray can of deodorant were his