“How did you come to be here? Did Macy call you?”
“No.”
“You just showed up at her house.”
He nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
“So Rupert Propst convinced you Macy had run off with Uncle Robert’s money?”
“No.”
“Did he convince Whitney?”
“No. She’s busy with her coffee shop. If any money comes to her, she’ll be happy to get it, but she doesn’t lose any time thinking about it. She didn’t want me to hire you in the first place, you know. I was just looking out for her, or trying to.”
I nodded. “So you didn’t kill Macy.”
“No. She was dead when I got here.” He scrubbed at the beard on his chin.
“Was the door standing open?”
“Wide open. Just inviting me in.”
“The storm door, too?”
“No, the storm door was closed, but you could see in.”
“What could you see?”
“Nothing really. The living room.”
“No one in it? Nothing disturbed?”
“Just a normal living room. I rang the bell, knocked, pulled open the storm door to shout, ‘Is anybody home?’ But nobody answered.”
“So you went in?”
After a moment he said, “I found her in the kitchen. All the lights were on. It was…She was lying on the floor, kind of on her side. The ice blood…” He stopped.
“Did you see any kind of weapon?”
“No.”
“Could it have been underneath her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Describe the room to me.”
“It was a kitchen. Tidy enough. A drawer may have been open, a little rug rucked up in front of the sink. The main thing was the blood.”
“Any chance it was an accident? That she’d gotten a knife or something out of the drawer, tripped on the rug, fallen on the blade?”
He seemed to be studying me in the darkness. “I suppose so.”
“But you didn’t react like it was an accident. You didn’t call 9-1-1. You got out.”
“It…there was an air of violence about the whole thing.”
“And Whitney had been there.”
“Who told you that?”
“You called her. Was it from here?”
After several seconds he said, “Right about this spot. I wanted her to know what had happened.”
“Wanted to reassure yourself she hadn’t had anything to do with it?”
“Look. She didn’t. You need to leave that alone.”
“Okay. When you were in the house, did you touch the body?”
“No.”
“Did you get any blood on yourself at all?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Everything about it seems surreal now, but I don’t see how I could have.”
“How do you explain the blood in your apartment?”
“I can’t.”
“You just went in and saw the jeans. You changed shirts, and you left.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t change shirts. I was wearing what I’m wearing now.”
“So the bloody T-shirt the police found in your apartment…”
“All I know is what they told me.”
“Did you tell them it wasn’t yours?”
“I told them my name. I figured they were going to get that from my driver’s license anyway.”
“When you called Whitney, was it on her cell phone?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t have a landline.”
“But she was at home?”
He nodded. “She lives in a duplex on Grove Avenue in the museum district.” Not more than ten minutes from Brian’s apartment, maybe no more than five. Of course, she could have been anywhere when Brian called her on her cell.
“When you got to your apartment, was the door locked?”
“Yes.”
“And the blue jeans were…”
“Lying on my bed like someone had tossed them there.”
“Not where you had left them.”
“No, that’s why I noticed them. I picked them up and saw the blood, and that’s when I knew we were in trouble.”
“We?”
“Me.”
“How was Whitney in trouble?”
“She wasn’t.”
“But she had a key to your apartment, and her sunglasses were at Macy's house.”
“She had nothing to do with any of this.”
“So she left her sunglasses at your apartment? When?”
“Could have been anytime.”
“But not this afternoon.”
There was a tap on the glass behind me, and I jerked like I’d been shot. The door opened.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Counselor.” It was Hernandez, and I was inclined to doubt him. “We’re ready to go to the station. Your client going to make a statement?”
“No.”
“Come on, Robin. We’ve got a murder to solve here.”
“And if he told you he didn’t do it, you could refocus your investigations on other, more promising suspects?”
“You know better than that.”
“You’re right. I do.”
I turned back to Brian. “They’re going to charge you, I think. You’re going to be presented before a magistrate, then you’re going to be spending time in the city jail. Don’t talk to anyone—not the police, not a cell mate, not anyone. Can you do that?”
He gave me a lopsided smile.
“Good man,” I said.
Chapter 9
The red and blue lights of the cruiser were still strobing the house and the small, boxy Honda that was in the driveway. James Jordan had paused in the doorway to say something to someone behind him, and I started up the sidewalk toward him.
“Hey,” Hernandez said behind me.
Jordan came down the steps and stopped at the bottom to strip off a pair of latex gloves. The holly bushes along the front of the house, stretching out on either side of him, consisted of twisted branches with a few leaves sprouting from them.
“Where are you going?” Jordan asked me.
“Since we’re working this case together, I thought maybe you’d let me have a look at the crime scene.”
Behind me, Hernandez gave a snort. Jordan’s upper lip rose, and there was something speculative about his gaze I didn’t like.
“Have you ever been in this house before?” he asked me.
“I have not.”
He nodded, almost to himself, as he pulled back on the latex gloves he had removed. “Okay, Starling. We’ll go in.”
I followed him up the two steps onto the porch, and Hernandez came behind me.
“Wait here,” Jordan said. He went through the door and paused just inside to pull on a pair of baby blue booties over his shoes and tie them at his ankles, then he disappeared into the back of the house. Through the storm door and the picture window, I could see a threadbare Oriental carpet surrounded by a few pieces of worn furniture that might have been of the same vintage as the house. There was no carnage that I could see.
When Jordan came back carrying another set of booties and a box of latex gloves, Hernandez reached past me to hold open the door. I went through.
Jordan handed me the booties. “You know how it is, Starling. If any of your prints show up in this house, I want to be able to say they weren’t put there tonight.”
“These booties should help with that,” I said as I bent to pull them over my shoes. I reached for the gloves, but he held onto them.
“You haven’t been back there in the kitchen,” he said.
“No. I told you I haven’t.”
“You haven’t seen the body and haven’t touched it.”
I rolled me eyes and exhaled in audible exasperation.
“No?”
“No.”
“Tara? We’re ready for you,” he called over his shoulder.
The woman who came out was wearing coveralls wit
h a gold shield stenciled on the left breast. She had a utility belt around her waist and was carrying a plastic bottle with a spray trigger. A young man carrying a camera followed her.
“What is this?” I said.
“Just a little demonstration. I thought you’d like to witness a quick and dirty method for determining the presence of blood. Have you heard of luminol?”
I thought about the jeans I had handled, remembering the feel of the wet fabric. Had I touched the dark stain? “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Hold out your hands. See? They’re perfectly clean. Nothing visible at all. Now turn them over. Still clean. Okay, Tara.”
I could hear my heartbeat or maybe I was just feeling it in my neck as she sprayed the backs of my hands.
“Turn them over,” Jordan said.
I followed instructions, and Tara sprayed my palms and the tips of my fingers. My hands looked wet, but still clean. I was drawing a deep, calming breath when the lights went out and I yelped.
“Keep your hands out,” Jordan said. There was enough light coming from outside and from the back of the house for us to see each other, but only as shadows. “Turn them over.”
“What are we looking for?” I asked.
Tara answered. “Luminol reacts with the iron in hemoglobin. If trace amounts of blood are present, it should give us a striking blue glow.”
“A human glow stick,” I said. “I don’t see anything.”
The lamp beside us came back on. Hernandez had a hand on the switch.
“Nope,” Jordan said. “You’re clean.”
“I have to say it wasn’t much of a demonstration.”
“It was for me, and I have to tell you, I’m relieved, Robin, I really am.” He handed me the latex gloves.
I put them on, taking a few more careful breaths as my heartbeat subsided to normal levels.
“Let’s go back,” he said.
We went through a dining room that contained a round table with a chipped mahogany veneer and four chairs. In the kitchen was a smear of blood on the black-and-white tile floor. Dr. Pavlicek, a doctor with the medical examiner’s office, stood at the counter making notes on a clipboard. He wore a striped polo shirt under a bluish sports jacket that had a brown leather yoke and patch pockets. It looked about as stylish as it sounds. Bits of tape and powders of various colors were scattered here and there. Tara and her male assistant went back to their work, loading a measuring tape, plastic baggies of this and that, packets of gauze and wipes, and other oddments into a case that looked like a big tackle box.
“Where’s the body?” I said.
“Taken to the city morgue.”
“So this was all about testing my hands for the presence of blood.”
“I wanted to reassure myself you hadn’t been in here tampering with the crime scene.”
“I wanted to see the crime scene.”
“And here you are.”
There was a small, rumpled rug in front of the sink, but the drawers were all pushed in, and no sharp object or weapon of any kind was in evidence. “I have to say it’s a disappointment.”
“Life is full of those,” Jordan said.
“It was a blade of some sort, wasn’t it? Not a gunshot.”
“No, not a gunshot.”
When we were back on the sidewalk, I stopped and said, “When are you going to take Brian before a magistrate?”
Jordan turned back toward me. “Could do it as soon as we finish questioning him.”
“You’re done. He’s not going to be answering any questions.”
“You realize this looks bad for him. He’s got a lot to explain.”
If Brian was telling the truth, there was blood in his apartment he couldn’t explain. If it turned out to be Macy Buck’s blood—and they’d be able to match the blood-type before the night was out—then the failure to explain that made all other explanations pointless. “Don’t we all?” I said.
“We have to ask him to talk to us, make him go on record as taking the Fifth.”
“What do you mean, go on record? His refusal to answer questions can’t be introduced into evidence, and a jury isn’t permitted to draw negative inferences from his failure to testify.”
Jordan smiled. “I expressed myself badly. I mean, if we don’t document ourselves asking him if he’ll talk to us, our chief’s not going to think we’re doing our jobs. You’re allowed to be there, of course. And a magistrate is available around the clock. We can get him presented, get bail set, get him transferred to the custody of the city jail—all tonight.”
I sighed. “Okay, let’s do it,” I said.
By the time we were done, it was after two o’clock, and I was beat, but I’d left Deeks at Paul’s apartment. I punched Paul’s name on my phone as I crossed the James River.
“Hey, Robin. How’d it go?”
“Not good. You sound like you’re still up.”
“More or less. I walked Deacon. He’s letting me lie on the bed with him.”
I was too tired to laugh, but I felt myself smiling. “He’ll push you around if you let him.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ll be there in about five minutes so you can have your bed back.”
“It’s all right. I didn’t mean to be in bed at all. I was going to nap on the couch while I waited for you, but it turned out there wasn’t room on the couch for the two of us.”
I did laugh, despite my fatigue. “I guess he thinks I left him in charge.”
“Yes, and it makes him uneasy, being in charge. He keeps looking for you.”
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” I said.
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“Henry the Fourth, I think. One of the Henrys.” I’d been an English major, but Shakespeare had written plays about four of the Henrys, and multiple plays about two of them. When he had a hit on his hands, even the great Bard himself hadn’t been above putting out sequels. “I’m pulling in now,” I said.
I parked, entered Paul’s building, and took the half-flight of stairs down to his door. He opened it, looking almost skinny in gym shorts and a T-shirt, and Deeks ran past him and jammed his head between my knees, his tail going ninety to nothing. I leaned over to scratch the top of his head.
“Thanks for looking out for him.”
“Glad to do it. You want to come in and tell me about it?”
“I’m beat, but the short of it is, Brian’s in jail. They’ve charged him with first degree murder, and bail’s been set at 750 thousand dollars.”
“How did Brooke take it?”
“I haven’t called her. I’m thinking she may be asleep, and it’s not like anything I have to say will make her feel better.”
He nodded. “You too tired to drive home? You can crash here, if you want.”
“Better to wake up in my own place.”
Deeks spun away from me and shot between Paul’s legs back into the apartment.
“Deeks! Where’s he going?” I went to the door and stood next to Paul as Deeks circled the weight bench in the middle of the living room, then darted back toward the bedroom. He reappeared holding something white with colored stripes at one end. It crackled as his jaws moved.
“What is it, buddy?”
He came and dropped it at my feet, and I bent to pick it up.
“Is this a tube sock?”
“I don’t wear it anymore,” Paul said.
“I don’t blame you.”
“I put a water bottle in it and tied a knot in the end. Kind of a homemade chew-toy.”
It crinkled when I squeezed it. Deeks went up on his hind legs reaching for it, and I gave it back to him. He trotted back around the corner.
“Hey,” I called. “It’s time to go.” I looked at Paul. “It’s late.”
“There’s an IHOP out on Midlothian. I’ll take you to breakfast if you’re still here when I wake up.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I can len
d you a T-shirt and pair of gym shorts to sleep in. And I have an extra toothbrush, never been opened.”
“You’ve bought your next toothbrush, and you don’t need it yet? Tell me the truth. You’re half female.”
“I do have an X chromosome,” he said modestly. “But actually, I went to the dentist last week. They gave me a toothbrush, a small toothpaste, and some dental floss. You’re welcome to all of them. You and Deacon can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.” His eyebrows were raised, his eyes appealingly wide.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be magnanimous and let you sleep on the couch in your own home.”
Paul had a full-sized bed with two pillows, a quilted spread, and rumpled sheets that looked like they hadn’t been washed in a week. I looked at it and sighed, while Paul got the promised shorts and T-shirt out of a bureau drawer. I took them from him and went into the bathroom, stepping over Deeks, who was still crunching on his improvised chew toy.
The T-shirt was an extra-large, somewhat shrunken from many washings. I put it on and slipped my bra out from underneath, an entirely unnecessary precaution behind the locked door of a bathroom, but I was in a strange place. The shorts were skin-tight and didn’t cover much more than my panties. I opened the door and went out.
“How long have you had these shorts?” I demanded. “Don’t tell me they fit you.”
Paul’s eyes traveled down my legs and back up again. He grinned. “I think they came with the tube socks,” he said. “I might have been in middle school.”
“I’m going to need something a little bigger.”
“Are you sure? That’s a good look for you.”
“No, it’s a good look for you. But you’ve had your look, and I need something to sleep in.”
He went back to his bureau, still grinning, and pulled out another pair of shorts. “These may hang off you, but you’re welcome to them.” He tossed them to me, and I snatched them out of the air.
I came out of the bathroom again with the shorts covering me, but only because I was holding them up by one hand. “You’re a man of extremes,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have something in between this pair of shorts and the last one.”
He shook his head.
“How about the ones you’re wearing?”
He looked down, then back up at me again. “You’re asking me to take off my pants?”
Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 9
