“Do you know where Jack Packard is?”
“No.”
“What were you doing at his place on Friday?”
“You mean Monday. Yesterday.”
“No, I mean Friday—the Friday Mr. Packard seems to have disappeared.”
“I wasn’t doing anything at his place.”
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Come on, Robin. Let’s be straight with each other. You know I’ll cut you all the slack I can.”
I knew he’d give me all the rope I needed to hang myself, but I said, “I am being straight. I wasn’t there.”
“A witness says you were.”
“That old woman in the housedress and army boots?”
Jordan’s mouth quirked despite himself. “Is that what she was wearing yesterday?”
“She had plenty to say, but she didn’t say anything about having seen me there before yesterday.”
“Her signed statement says she saw you.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
Jordan was watching me closely. “I hope you’re telling the truth.”
I’d made my denials, and I didn’t repeat them.
“The D.A.’s taking a look at it, trying to decide what kind of case he can make against you. I think he’s decided to wait, at least for now, see if you get even more tangled up in things than you are already.”
“Sometimes I don’t think Aubrey likes me very much.”
Jordan sat back with a bark of laughter. “No, it’s safe to say Aubrey Biggs doesn’t like you very much. He’s let it be known that every time your name comes up, he wants to hear about it.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t guess there’s any way to make nice with him? He’s not single, is he?”
“Far from it.”
“What does that mean?”
“The woman he’s married to is about twice his size and built like an NFL linebacker.”
“Sounds like there's not much room to exercise my feminine wiles.”
“Probably not,” Jordan said. He slapped the desk as he got up, but in the doorway he turned back. “My impression of you is that you’re fairly truthful…”
“Thank you.”
“…but that I have to parse your words carefully. You said you don’t know where Jack Packard is.”
I nodded encouragingly.
“Do you know anywhere he’s been in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether he’s alive or dead?”
“What kind of question is that?”
He waited.
“Sorry. Question avoidance is kind of automatic with me. No, I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”
“God help you if you’re not being straight with me on this.”
I held up my right hand, palm out. “So help me God,” I said.
He studied me a moment longer, shook his head, went out.
When it seemed unlikely he was coming right back, I went over to Rodney’s office.
“What are you working on?” I asked when he looked up from his computer.
“Nothing for you. Fortunately, I have a few other clients.”
“I guess that is fortunate. Don’t worry, though. With any luck, this will turn into a paying job for both of us.”
“That is reassuring,” he said with a completely straight face.
I took a seat in front of his desk. “Let me ask you a hypothetical question. If someone just walked away from his house…”
“Someone like Jack Packard?”
“How do you know about that?”
“It was in this morning’s paper.”
“Good grief.” I was going to have to start subscribing to the Richmond Times-Dispatch. “Do you have a copy?”
He turned to one of the stacks on his credenza and extracted a folded newspaper from near the bottom. A picture of Jack Packard’s house was on the front page of the local section. The headline of the accompanying article was “Local Man Missing”—innocuous enough.
Richmond man Jack Packard seems to have been missing from his home since at least some time Friday. Yesterday afternoon one of his neighbors called police after noticing suspicious activity at his residence. When the police arrived, they found Richmond attorney Robin Starling in the house and spatters of blood on the floor. Jack Packard’s car was in the driveway, but he himself was nowhere in evidence. Starling, who told police she had found the door of the house unlocked, had dialed 9-1-1 only minutes before the police’s arrival…
It went on for several paragraphs. Though it was a bit dramatic, the article was not as bad as it could have been. At least it didn’t accuse me of breaking and entering.
“You were hypothesizing that Jack Packard walked away from his house,” Rodney said.
I looked up. “Okay,” I said. “Suppose Jack Packard walked away from his house, and he didn’t want to be found. How long could he reasonably expect to stay in hiding?”
“Once the police started looking for him? Not long. As soon as he used a credit card or got money out of an ATM, they’d have a general idea of his location. If he rented a car he’d have to use a credit card, so the police would know what he was driving pretty quickly.”
“Could you find him any faster than the police?”
He shook his head. “Not without some incredible piece of luck. I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Maybe he has more than one car. Could you find out?”
“That I can do,” Rodney said.
I stopped in his doorway on my way out. “Jack Packard is old, but he’s a big muscular guy.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“No, that’s not it. There was something from Gold’s Gym in his mailbox. Could you find out if he’s a member, and if he is whether he works out regularly?”
“Okay.”
“And whether he’s been in since Friday,” I said. “If he’s used to working out, he may not be able to give up his workouts for long.”
“You should know.”
I smiled. “Why thank you. I think.”
I’d only been back in my office a few minutes when my cell phone rang. Dr. McDermott’s name and face were on the screen, causing me instant alarm, because Dr. McDermott never called me at work.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked, raising the phone to my ear.
“I think we’re all right. Deacon may have gotten bit by something he’s allergic to, my guess is some kind of bug.”
“A rattlesnake?” I felt a surge of guilt, having never gotten Deeks a shot of the vaccine. My office phone buzzed, but I ignored it.
“I don’t think so,” Dr. McDermott said. “He’s got bumps all over, and his fur is standing up in tufts, but it’s not the localized kind of swelling you’d expect from a snakebite.”
I was on my feet, slapping my laptop shut and stuffing it one-handed into its carrying case. “Are you on your way to the vet?”
“I’ve given him a couple of Benadryl wrapped in deli meat. If he’s having an allergic reaction, the Benadryl may calm it. I’d like to give it an hour. If he doesn’t improve, I can still get him to the vet before five.”
Carly was at my door. “There’re a couple of men,” she whispered, rolling her eyes toward reception.
“I’m on my way,” I told Dr. McDermott.
“If you’d like me to take him now, I will,” he said. “They might be able to give him a shot that would act faster.”
“Here to see you,” Carly mouthed, almost silently.
I held up a hand to ward off further attempts at communication on her part. “Is he in pain?” I asked.
“He’s restless, and he’s rubbing up against things like he itches.”
“I trust your judgment,” I said, though I wondered whether dogs were allergic to Benadryl, and whether a retired people-doctor like Dr. McDermott would know it if they were.
“Well, I’m glad you’re able to come. I’ll feel better with you being part of the decision-making
process.”
I ended the call. “Who is it?” I asked Carly.
“Two men. I think they said Charles and Darrell?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know a Charles and Darrell. “Can you make an appointment? My dog’s having an allergic reaction to something, and I’ve got to get home.”
“Little Deacon?”
I gave her a nod and a sick smile.
When I entered the reception area, two men who looked as if they were in their middle sixties stood, but I barely slowed. “I’m Robin Starling, but I can’t talk now,” I said. “My secretary can make you an appointment for tomorrow if you’d like.” The outer door of The Executive Suites was swinging slowly shut behind me almost before I got the words out. I bypassed the elevator and pushed through the fire door into the stairwell.
I had seen those two old men before, but I didn’t place them until I was at my car, swinging into the driver’s seat. They were the two old men I’d seen with Jared Walsh at Robert’s funeral.
Chapter 16
I parked on the street in front of Dr. McDermott’s house and ran up the sidewalk to his front door. It opened as I reached it, and Dr. McDermott was there, Deeks beside him. Deeks’s head was down, but his tail started wagging when he saw me.
I knelt and smoothed his fur as I looked him over. “It doesn’t look as bad as I imagined,” I said.
“It’s better. I think the Benadryl is working.”
“You don’t think we ought to take him in?”
“I really think he’ll be all right. You can give him another pill before you go to bed and another one in the morning.”
“Benadryl’s all right for dogs? You’re sure?”
He nodded. “I’m sure. I looked it up.”
“Okay. We’ll go with it.”
“I’m heating up a Costco lasagna, and I’ve got salad and of course kibble for the big guy, if you and Deacon would like to join me.”
“We’d be happy to,” I said.
Dinner would be ready at six, he said, so Deeks and I went to drive my car around to the garage. Deeks walked slowly, though, and when we got to the car, he just stood at the open door and looked at me until I bent and scooped him up to set him inside. There’s something about a woebegone dog that will just about break your heart. In the garage, I lifted him out of the car, and he followed me into the house.
He stayed on his feet as I changed into sweats and sneakers. It was already getting dark—and colder—when he and I walked back across the street and rang Dr. McDermott’s doorbell.
“It’s open,” he called.
We found him in the kitchen. He offered me a glass of Chianti, which I accepted, and I sat at the kitchen table and sipped it as Dr. McDermott bustled about the kitchen, taking a sip from his own glass and setting it down to get a couple of plates, taking another sip before getting out the silverware. Deeks eased down on the floor by my chair, resting his head on one of my sneakered feet. I picked out what I thought was the most entertaining part of my day and told Dr. McDermott about Paul trying to teach feminine wiles to Brooke and me. He laughed out loud several times, throwing in a one-liner here and there that had me laughing, too. It was all very companionable, all very family.
By the time we finished our meal, Deeks was noticeably better. I got his kibble out of the pantry and put a cup of it in his bowl. Dr. McDermott started the decaf and got two more wineglasses out of the refrigerator that looked like they might be filled with banana pudding.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Banana pudding.” He squirted whipped cream on his and held the can over mine, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.
“Please,” I said. It proved to be pudding from a can, but it did have real bananas and real vanilla wafers added, and the presentation was nice. I ate the pudding to the bottom of the wineglass, resolving to start the next day with a three mile run. Then while Dr. McDermott sat and sipped his decaf, I cleaned up the kitchen.
“Thank you for dinner,” I told him when everything was put away and it was time to go. “It’s been a wonderful evening.” I gave him a hug, then headed home with Deeks, Dr. McDermott standing in his doorway and hugging himself against the cold as we crossed the street.
When the doorbell rang, I was sitting on the couch with Deeks’s head pillowed on my thigh where I could stroke his head and play with his ears. He wasn’t completely himself, but this rare, lethargic interlude matched my own mood. How often do we take time to sit and simply be?
The doorbell rang again. “The world always intrudes,” I murmured to Deeks, supporting his head as I eased it off my leg and lowered it to the couch. He followed me with his eyes as I went to the door.
Through the peephole I saw the two men who had been in my office and who had been giving Jared a hard time at the funeral. I stepped away from the door, glancing back at my dog. A Rottweiler he was not.
“Come see me in my office,” I called through the door.
“We did. You seemed reluctant to talk to us.”
“I had an emergency at home.”
“Since we’re all here now, why can’t we visit a bit?”
“I’m not going to open this door,” I said. I put a hand to the knob to make sure it was locked and turned the thumblatch to engage the deadbolt.
I went to a window and looked out at the street. A sedan was parked at the curb, maybe one of the big BMWs. Something that sounded like keys rattled at the front door. It was a scary sound, and it was followed by the sound of a key being inserted into the lock, which was even scarier. There was another jangle of keys, and my gaze ran over the room in search of a likely weapon. I had a softball bat in the front closet. I was heading toward it, but stopped when the doorknob turned. There was a tap, and the door opened to reveal the two white-haired men on my doorstep.
My phone was somewhere behind me on the couch or the coffee table, and I had an urge to turn and lunge for it. Instead, I said, “How did you do that?”
“We’ll show you,” the shorter of the two said. “My name, by the way, is Darrell Strumpf. This is my brother Charles.” The door swung further open, and I saw that key rings hung from both the doorknob lock and the deadbolt.
I grimaced. “I would say that I’m pleased to meet you, but under the circumstances I’m really not. How did you get keys to my house?”
“They’re not keys to your house,” Darrell said, stepping to the inside of the door. “They’re bump keys. Your doorknob lock is a Kwikset, and your deadbolt is Schlage. Schlage makes a bump-resistant lock, but this isn’t one of them.” He pulled the key out of the deadbolt. It looked like my key except that the stem was narrower.
His brother said, “You insert the key just one notch short of full insertion, then you give it a tap with a bump hammer.” He pulled a flat tool with a rubber face from his pocket and held it up using only two fingers so as to better display it. “The driver pins bounce off the key pins for just an instant, and if you’re applying a light rotational force to the key, the cylinder turns and, voila, you’re inside.”
“There’s no damage to the lock,” Darrell said. “No one can tell you’ve been inside.”
I thought about Brian’s apartment, where, if his story was true, someone had entered and left, leaving no trace other than a bloody pair of jeans on Brian’s bed and a bloody T-shirt in his clothes hamper. Of course, Brian had had a spare key that seemed to have gone missing.
“Can you open any lock that way?” I asked.
“Pretty much any key-pin lock, as long as you have the bump key.”
“Or a blank you can file down,” Charles said. “We first heard about bump keys about ten years ago. Useful things for a landlord, let me tell you.”
Deeks plodded past me, his tail wagging hopefully.
“Hey, you’ve got you a dog,” Darrell said, squatting to rub his ears. “Labs are great dogs. I’ve had ’em off and on all my life. Don’t have one now, though. How are you, little fellow? You’re going to be a big thing, aren�
��t you?” He straightened, saying, “I can tell by those big ol’ paws of his.”
“You might as well come in,” I said, rather unnecessarily, since they were both already inside. When I had retreated as far as my couch, I saw my phone on the end table, and I snagged it. “What is it you want?”
“We don’t want anything at this point. We just wanted to get a bit acquainted.”
“You picked a heck of a way to do it.” I’d thumbed my phone awake and was doing my best to tap in the passcode without being obvious about it. The phone vibrated in my hand, indicating I’d gotten it wrong.
“Never liked locked doors,” Charles said. He took a seat in my club chair and crossed his legs. “Least not when we’re on the wrong side of ’em.”
“Now we find ’em more of a challenge than an obstacle, if you see what I mean,” Darrell said. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the back of the loveseat. I remained on my feet on the far side of the sofa opposite it, the back of the sofa just shielding my phone, I hoped. Deeks came and lay on the floor next to me.
“So now I know something about you. I still don’t know what your interest in me is.” My phone didn’t vibrate, and I glanced down. I’d gotten the passcode right. I touched the phone icon.
“You’re Whitney Foster’s lawyer,” Darrell said.
“Okay.”
Charles waved a hand. “We know you’re representing her on that murder charge, but we don’t care about that. That doesn’t affect us.”
“It would if she were convicted of killing her uncle,” Darrell said.
“She isn’t charged with killing her uncle.”
“She could be, depending on how this plays out. That would increase her cousins’ inheritance by a good bit.”
“Her cousin Jared?”
The Strumpf brothers glanced at each other. “It’d help both cousins equally, it seems to me,” Charles said.
“Suppose Jared were convicted of killing his uncle,” I said. “Then he wouldn’t be able to inherit at all. You wouldn’t like that.”
“I told you she was smart,” Darrell said.
Charles, enthroned in my club chair, nodded. I tapped 9-1-1 into my phone’s keypad. I could tap Call, and I’d be connected, something that made me feel marginally better, though until I did I’d have to keep tapping my screen to keep it from going to sleep.
Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 16
