Carter was definitely not in the room.
On impulse, I reached for the 9-millimeter handgun in my purse still strapped across my shoulder. Had I been anywhere other than home, my instincts would have kicked in long before now. But, for some reason, the comforts of familiar surroundings caused me to let my guard down.
If Carter was an uninvited guest, he was starting to scare the hell out of me. He'd better have a damned good explanation for being here and not bothering to respond, I thought as I moved cautiously through the house.
I followed the sound of Ollie's barking through the kitchen and down the hall till I came to the utility room door that was closed. I could hear Ollie jumping up against the door, trying to get out. When I opened it, he practically attacked me.
"Whoa, boy, what's wrong? Who put you in there?" Carter seemed the obvious choice, as he had never been an animal lover, but Ollie wasn't confirming it in so many words. I was taking no chances, keeping the gun out, just beyond Ollie's reach.
He was barking like crazy, clearly trying to tell me something.
"What is it, Ollie?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat. "Where's Carter? I know he's here, his car's in the driveway. Is he hurt?"
As if he understood me, Ollie darted away and headed down the hall toward the stairs leading to the second floor. I followed, not sure what to expect, but somehow fearing the worst.
At this point I still had no reason to believe there was real cause for alarm, other than my dog's follow-me routine. I called out to Carter again, hoping he had simply failed to hear me while snooping around my house, which I really did not believe. There was no response.
I watched Ollie dart in and out of the bathroom, urging me to go in. As I approached, I could hear the jets of my Jacuzzi bath churning. I sucked in a deep breath and, with my gun drawn, turned the corner to come face to face with what had really spooked my dog.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.
Carter was in the bath, his head was under water, and water was spilling out onto the ceramic tile. I noted that his clothes and shoes were tossed about the floor, getting soaked, as though he could care less.
Not knowing if he was alive or dead, I immediately rushed to his aid, screaming Carter's name frantically. I turned off the water and the jets and lifted his head up, trying to make sense of this. His naked body was cold and rigid and it looked like there were scratches on his legs.
It was one of those times where in the space of a heartbeat your entire world took an inexorable left turn into the depths of hell.
The sheer grief of the moment took on an added dimension when I noticed between barks that Ollie, who had never left my side, had blood dripping from his mouth. Had he bitten someone? Carter? Or was Ollie the victim of an assault?
Returning my attention to Carter, I noticed that there was something protruding slightly from his grayish blue lips. Carter's eyes were wide open, but it didn't take a forensic examiner to know that they had lost their sight forever—
* * *
The jury was still out on Ollie. I avoided cleaning him up so I wouldn't destroy any possible evidence before the police arrived, took pictures of the dog, and then took him to the vet for treatment. The verdict on Carter was far more ominous and conclusive. The former attorney and ex love of my life was dead! Almost as unsettling was the sight of him as a corpse. Drawing on my police training and common sense, I managed to refrain from further corrupting what I believed to be a crime scene once I determined that Carter was no longer amongst the living.
In my mind, this was a homicide perpetrated by an unknown assailant in my house. Unfortunately, the early indications suggested otherwise.
Inside Carter's mouth was apparently a suicide note, according to police, who had taken over my house—routine for incidents that could at the very least be described as suspicious circumstances. The note was typed and read:
"Skye, sorry to have to dump myself on you like this, but I really didn't feel like I had much choice. At least with you, I knew I could count on a decent burial. Recently, my life's been going to hell! Between the pressures of work and home, it just got to be too damned much. This—killing myself—seemed like the only halfway dignified way out. I'm sorry for everything...
Carter"
At this point, I was like a walking zombie. If Carter really did write that note, not only was his death undignified, but the apology was totally unacceptable. In my gut, I was sure there was far more to this than met the eye.
But that was to come later. For now I was still grief stricken and waiting for Ridge to arrive, whom I'd called right after calling 911. I needed him now more than ever to get through this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Dammit!" Ridge Larsen cursed after he learned that Skye had found Carter Delaney in her bathtub, the victim of an apparent suicide.
Why the hell would he commit suicide and at Skye's house of all places? Ridge thought as he drove his department-issued dark sedan to the house.
He felt awful for Skye. She was the toughest woman he'd ever known when dealing with adversity. But this was different. This was a man she had once been married to. And she had been working for him, with Ridge's encouragement.
It wasn't going to be easy to simply push it out of his mind, as cops tended to do in the course of routine homicide investigations of nameless strangers. This figured to be an investigation that was far more personal than Ridge was used to.
Especially since it involved the woman he was currently seeing. They seemed to get along as well as anyone could expect, and certainly much better than he got along with his ex-wife. He had no idea how long things would last between him and Skye. Maybe months or even years. They hadn't placed any parameters or prerequisites on their relationship. All that really mattered at the moment was that they enjoyed each other's company, were a perfect match in bed, and left the door wide open for whatever the future may bring.
Now he'd been assigned the investigation into a possible homicide that took the life of the man who had been lucky enough to marry Skye then, like a damned fool, threw it all away. Ridge contemplated how this set of dynamics might play in taking on this case, rejecting any thoughts of a conflict of interest. He would treat the case like any other insofar as being professional enough to see it through.
* * *
Ridge pulled up to the curb in front of Skye's house. There were already squad cars there and an ambulance. He got out of the vehicle, thought a moment longer about what he would find inside, and went up to the front door. He was wearing his usual cheap navy suit, loafers, and a deadpan look. He identified himself to a young uniformed officer, and went inside.
The first thing Ridge noticed when he got to the bathroom was the only thing he couldn't miss—Carter Delaney's nude body partially slumped over the side of the now empty Jacuzzi. As he assessed the former prosecutor's remains, it was hard to imagine this stiff being Skye's ex-husband. But death did that to you, he realized. It took away your physical stature and vitality, and left nothing but a pitiful shell. This was made even worse if it came by way of a criminal offense.
Ridge closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw one of the crime scene investigators who indicated that they had finished collecting the evidence from the victim and his immediate surroundings.
He stepped into the hall where a team from the medical examiner's office was standing by. "Get him the hell out of here," Ridge ordered them.
"Will do," muttered one tonelessly.
Ridge bypassed them and approached a young female officer who was standing guard to prevent any tampering with evidence.
"Where is Ms. Delaney?" he asked her anxiously.
"In her bedroom, sir."
Ridge headed in that direction. He wondered if anyone at the scene was privy to his relationship with Skye. They hadn't exactly tried to keep it a secret. But Skye seemed in no hurry to let the cat out of the bag, as if it would somehow complicate his sometimes-unofficial assistance with
her private detective work. From his standpoint, he would be happy to be the man in her life for the whole world to see.
But, for now, there were more important things to be concerned about, starting with Skye's well being.
Then he could turn his attention to the mysterious death of Carter Delaney.
CHAPTER NINE
"Why would Carter kill himself?" I cried out to Ridge as the reality of this tragedy really began to sink in. "It just doesn't make any sense..."
Certainly not where it concerned the Carter Delaney I knew. But perhaps he wasn't the same man anymore. Maybe his personal and professional demons had driven him over the edge.
Or not.
Ridge had been assigned the case as a possible homicide. In walking a tightrope, he was also playing the role of sympathetic boyfriend. Though I hadn't always embraced the idea of our romance being public, for reasons that were more professional than personal, it had to take a back seat to my overwhelming need to feel connected to someone after such a tragedy.
"I've never heard of a suicide that did make sense," he replied in his detective-like voice as we sat on the comforter atop my Queen Anne bed, away from the activity outside the room. "But that doesn't stop people from taking their own lives all the time, Skye—" Ridge said, putting a comforting arm around me. "Obviously Delaney was having some marital problems. Maybe he just decided it wasn't worth the aggravation."
Maybe. But I wasn't buying it. Not in my house.
"If so," I said, "why would Carter go through the trouble of hiring me without giving me the chance to give him the information he paid for?"
Ridge scratched his chin, as if searching for answers there. "The note said he had work pressures. Maybe he had reached the point where he no longer gave a damn what you found out about his second wife—"
Even in my hour of grief, I couldn't help but think like a private detective and ex-cop. My mind kept coming back to the alleged suicide note. I had never known Carter to type anything in his life, especially when there was always someone to do it for him. Why start now?
I looked into Ridge's deep eyes, which were already trained on me, and asked: "Don't you find it just a bit odd that Carter chose to leave a typed suicide note rather than a handwritten one that would be easier to verify? After all, he was a former prosecutor who had to know what suspicions this note would leave behind."
Ridge thought about it for a moment or two, then said: "Have you considered that he wasn't thinking like a onetime prosecutor who wanted to leave no room for doubt?" His arm tightened around me. "If this was a suicide, I'd say your ex was thinking more like a desperate man whose only intention in coming here was to die...and for you to find his body."
I broke away from Ridge's warm embrace and looked at him with annoyance. "Is that why Carter agreed to meet me this afternoon at my office? To keep me preoccupied so he could break into my house and drown himself in my bathtub with a suicide note stuffed in his mouth? I don't think so..."
Ridge seemed to reflect on my argument against suicide, while lightening up. Unfortunately, his counter argument was even stronger. "The spare key you kept under the plant holder on the porch was on the kitchen counter," he pointed out. "There was no indication of forced entry. Hell, apparently your alarm wasn't even set, practically inviting anyone to come in. And you admit yourself that it's at least possible Delaney might have thought your meeting was supposed to be here."
My body tensed as I contemplated this against my better judgment. I still wasn't sure why the security system wasn't on. At this point, I had to assume that it had been tampered with.
Ridge looked me in the eye and said evenly: "I'm talking to you right now as a cop. And I'm telling you that right now it looks like Carter Delaney planned to kill himself when and where he did..."
"What about the blood we found on Ollie?" I asked, still doubtful about the suicide angle. "Was Carter planning to kill him too, but for some reason decided to lock him in the utility room instead?"
"We don't know yet if Ollie bit Delaney or even if Delaney bit the dog," Ridge offered humorlessly. "For all we know, Ollie's injuries may have been self-inflicted. Dogs can get stressed out too when they encounter unexpected situations. Maybe he got a little crazy there."
I had to admit even in my despondency that the circumstances surrounding Carter's death did not as yet add up to murder. But the part of me that felt I knew him deep down inside refused to believe he would take such a macabre means to end his life. I told Ridge as much.
He rolled his eyes at me and said: "Maybe the man you knew, or thought you knew, died a long time ago."
We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Ridge got to his feet almost instinctively in that moment. I felt obliged to do the same. The last thing either of us needed was to let our personal relationship compromise the investigation in any way.
A thirty-something crime scene investigator walked in. "We're about ready to dust this room for prints," he told us. "You know, standard procedure and all..."
Ridge frowned. "Can't that wait? I doubt you'll find anything useful in the lady's bedroom."
"It's all right," I told Ridge, knowing this was a reaffirmation of our relationship that Carter was strictly in the past where it came to intimacy. But since the issue on the table was his death and possibly a homicide, I didn't want to stand in the way of progress. I turned my attention to the investigator. "Do whatever you have to. The sooner this thing is over with, the sooner I can reclaim my life and house."
He nodded and went for help.
Ridge looked a little embarrassed at the notion that the very real possibility existed that the only prints they would find in the room belonged to the two of us, and Natsuko. He put a hand on my shoulder. "Until we get this thing sorted out one way or the other, I think it's probably a good idea for you to stay at my place."
I had no doubt that this was the homicide detective speaking and not the man I was seeing romantically. Either would have been warmly received under the circumstances. I nodded at him and said: "I accept your offer. I'll just grab a few things..."
Ridge gave me a pleased look before saying: "I'll be outside—"
I watched him close the door and wondered what this whole mess meant to our future, if anything. I have to try to keep a level head here and not allow my emotions to get too off track, I told myself. Then my thoughts turned to Ollie and the fact that the extent of his injuries was still not known.
* * *
"Has anybody notified the wife yet?" Ridge asked a burly detective as I watched the covered body being carted out the front door, giving me the chills.
"We haven't been able to reach her," he answered.
Ridge gave me an I'm-not-surprised look and told him: "Well keep trying! She must be somewhere in this damned city!"
Yes, somewhere, I agreed. But where and with whom? Her lover or her drug dealer?
I seriously wondered if Darlene Delaney would even care that Carter was dead. That he was an apparent suicide victim. If Carter really had killed himself, I couldn't help but think she had driven him to it.
Right now, I still had far more questions than answers.
As if the nightmare of having my house turned upside down by the people I used to work with wasn't enough—in addition to the trauma associated with seeing your ex-husband go from a strong man to a soft corpse—waiting outside was more unexpected grief. The overzealous media had gotten hold of the breaking news story and were out in droves.
One hulk of a man in a Hawaiian shirt and denim jeans said as though he really cared: "My heart goes out to you, Ms. Delaney. Can you tell us exactly what happened here?"
I met his eyes and responded tersely: "I think that would best be answered by the authorities. Now if you'll excuse me..."
He backed off respectfully with a nod and another inquisitive journalist quickly took his place.
With an overnight bag in hand, I successfully managed to "no comment" my way through all but one particularly persist
ent reporter—a tall, slightly built male in his mid thirties with curly dark hair, intrusive gray eyes, and a crooked mouth.
"Ms. Delaney," he said, matching me step for step in a wrinkled brown suit as I headed for Ridge's official cruiser, "why did Carter Delaney kill himself in your house?"
I shot him an angry glare. "I think you'd be wise to wait for the autopsy before you start drawing conclusions as to the cause of his death."
Regardless of what I thought about Carter's death, I was not about to let some hotshot reporter looking for a story turn speculation into fact.
He persisted to irritate me. "Is it true that your ex-husband, Carter Delaney, hired you to spy on his current wife?" he asked.
How the hell did he find out about that? I wondered, feeling bile begin to rise in my throat. I could imagine him replying, "I have my sources."
Which didn't tell me anything. All I knew was that Carter's life was about to become an open book and there was little I could do about it, except try to limit the damage where it concerned me.
I pinned my eyes on the reporter and told him: "What a client hires me for is privileged information."
He stood in my path as though determined to get an answer that he could make something out of. "So, is that a yes then?"
I sucked in a deep breath while glancing at his press badge that identified him as Liam Pratt. "Look, Mr. Pratt, if you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell out of my face!"
We got into a brief staring match before he backed off. I had put it down as a victory until I realized I had been assisted by the intimidating presence of Ridge who had come up behind me.
"Is there a problem here?" he asked toughly.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," I told Ridge with a scowl as the reporter wisely walked away.
Liam Pratt stopped for a moment and said over his shoulder: "The truth is going to come out one way or another, Ms. Delaney—"
Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Page 5
