Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

  Sam turned back to Blaine. “Good of you to come forward. Please step into the conference room.” He glanced at Detective Weitz, who immediately moved toward Blaine.

  The tall, gangly lawyer gripped Megan’s arm. “Hell of a thing to happen. Hard for you. I’ll talk to you in a little while.”

  “Thank you, Blaine.” Her face and posture were suddenly stronger.

  I understood. His arrival here meant she didn’t have to be afraid, very afraid, that his departure from Graham’s house last night implicated him. She, of course, believed what Blaine said. Would Sam Cobb? Or would Sam suspect Blaine equally with Megan?

  Blaine followed Detective Weitz to the oak door.

  Inside the conference room was a long golden oak table with chairs at the head and foot, four on either side. A pad of paper and pen sat in front of each place. Quickly I grabbed a pad, wrote: The ring case was in Graham’s desk last night at shortly before midnight. I ripped off the sheet as the door opened. I heard Sam’s carrying voice. “After I speak with Mr. Smith, I’ll see each of you in alphabetical order. Please do not make or receive any telephone calls or texts until the interviews are done.”

  I felt a deeper quiver of worry. The alphabetical listing might seem simply an easy matter of order. I doubted that was Sam’s reasoning. Megan Wynn would be the last person to be interviewed. Before then, Sam intended to dig for any and every scrap of information that could be negative for Megan.

  I stood next to the head of the table, holding my sheet below the table surface out of sight.

  Detective Weitz held the door for Blaine Smith. “Please take a seat on one side.”

  Blaine walked to the near side, settled in a chair. He looked determined and combative.

  Detective Weitz went around the table. She was carrying a dark briefcase. She pulled out a tape recorder, placed the black plastic machine on the table, lifted out an electronic fingerprinting machine that scanned fingerprints digitally, and positioned it to one side. She slid into a chair as Sam and Hal entered. Hal closed the door to the hall. He strolled around the table and sat next to Weitz.

  Sam pulled out the end chair, lowered his bulky frame into the high-backed chair.

  As soon as Sam was seated and had one hand below the surface of the table, I slipped the note into his hand. I admired Sam’s presence of mind. He never changed expression, instead took a quick glance down, gave an infinitesimal nod.

  I returned to the hallway. Anita, Nancy, and Lou huddled close together near the back entrance.

  Brewster Layton walked up the hallway, placed a gentle hand on Sharon King’s shoulder. “I’ll ask Chief Cobb if he could see you first. I know how many years you’ve worked for Doug.”

  Sharon King managed a tremulous smile. “That’s all right, Mr. Layton. I want to stay and try to help. I’ll see about his work, send it to you or Megan.”

  “Thank you, Sharon.” He lifted his voice. “Everyone might as well go to their desk until the police are ready for you. I’ll be in my office.” He turned and walked, shoulders slumping, toward his door.

  Megan looked at Sharon with sympathy. “We’ll all do whatever we can, Sharon. I’ll be in my office.” Her face still somber and drawn, she walked briskly to her office. She paused with her hand on the knob.

  I knew she was girding for an encounter with Jimmy. I was interested to know what brought him here, other than Megan and murder, of course. But first I wanted to see if I could discover the reason for the slight bulge in Brewster Layton’s jacket. When I reached his office, he was turning away from a far corner of the room. He looked like a man relieved of a burden. There was an element of satisfaction in his long face. He walked to his desk and sank into his chair.

  I was pleased to see he was in his shirtsleeves. I spotted his jacket on a coat tree near the door. I watched him carefully as I eased my hand down the lapel to the pocket. The left pocket had bulged.

  No bulge.

  I slipped my hand into the pocket.

  Empty. Nothing there.

  Could I have been mistaken? Was it the right pocket?

  Nothing.

  I was too late. The moment I’d taken to alert Sam about the ring had been enough. Brewster Layton entered his office, closed the door, immediately removed something—a packet, a letter—from his pocket. He’d come early to the office, knowing his partner was dead. He’d had a ready explanation for fingerprints on the center drawer to Doug’s desk. I was convinced Brewster arrived early intent upon removing something from Graham’s desk. The material could be hidden anywhere in this room, possibly secreted deep within a file. As I struggled with disappointment, I scanned the room. My gaze stopped at the corner where he’d stood when I’d entered. A small machine sat there.

  In an instant, I was at the corner, studying the lid. There were two slots, one larger than the other. I glanced over my shoulder.

  Brewster cupped his goatee, his expression intense. He looked like a man with a problem, working out how to respond. Was he struggling with a legal challenge or did he have murder on his mind?

  I ran my fingers across the top of the small machine. Why had he come directly to this corner when he entered his office? His pocket was now empty. Something about this machine . . . I looked at a button marked Power. I pushed with my index finger. A loud whirr shocked me. I yanked my hand back. The whirr ceased.

  Brewster’s chair whacked back against the wall. He was on his feet and striding across the room.

  I quickly moved out of the way, bent forward to watch.

  He stared at the now-silent machine, his face furrowed with concern. He reached down, grabbed a handle, lifted. He tilted the gray metal base, looked inside.

  I looked, too, and saw shredded shiny strips in a mound at the bottom of the plastic container. Other strips hung from the bottom of the lower portion of the lid.

  Still frowning, he eased the obviously heavy lid with its undercarriage back into place. He turned away, paused, looked back, shrugged.

  It is always helpful to know that ordinary people, when confronted with the inexplicable, work their way to an answer. A short circuit. Something wrong with the machine. He gave a decisive nod. He hurried to his desk, pulled free a couple of sheets of lined yellow paper from a legal pad, returned to the corner, folded the sheets, punched Power, fed the sheets into the machine.

  How clever. The machine reduced pages into thin narrow long strips. I had seen enough of the previously shredded material to have a very good idea what Brewster Layton had hurried to destroy. Sam would be interested.

  Out in the hallway, I hesitated. I wanted to find out why Jimmy had tugged at Megan in the hallway, but I decided first to see how the crime techs were doing in Doug Graham’s office. I hovered just inside the doorway to Graham’s office, now the scene of painstaking forensic investigation. The short red-haired tech was checking the grayish residue of fingerprint powder on the surfaces of the broken window. “Bunch of smudges mostly. I’ll see what I can pick up.”

  The big guy grunted. “Maybe there will be some microscopic glass particles in the perp’s shoes. If he wore sneakers.”

  The redhead was wry. “Got to find the perp first. Can’t check all the sneakers in Adelaide.”

  I scarcely heard. Next the techs would check the desk drawer. I suspected last night’s silent intruder had been careful, very careful, the drawer pulled out by a gloved hand, the ring case scooped up, a quick turn, a cautious check of the alleyway, then out into the night, running lightly, the ring case securely in a pocket, or possibly a cautious exit from Doug’s office to the hallway and out the back door to melt into the shadows.

  I looked at the gleaming surface of the desk and a silver-framed photograph of a quite beautiful older woman, elegant, patrician. I felt sure it was a portrait of Lisbeth Carew. Doug Graham had planned to give her a magnificent ring. What was her feeling for him? He w
as handsome and could be charming. Perhaps he was entertaining and interesting, a good companion. If he had lived and they had married, she might never have known that he was a man who had little compunction for others if they failed to please him. I imagine he would have continued to be charming to Lisbeth Carew.

  I realized with dismay that I’d not until this moment paused to think about those who might grieve for Doug Graham. His ex-wife had once loved him. His children knew him as their father. I took a moment to wish his soul well. Requiescat in pace.

  For now, my focus was on the living. I wondered about Rhoda Graham. The expression on Lou Raymond’s face told me Lou knew something she did not want to divulge about the ex-wife. Detective Don Smith was likely at Rhoda Graham’s house or office at this moment, telling her of her ex-husband’s death. I would give him time to finish his visit and then I intended to see what I could find out.

  Out in the hallway again, I hesitated. I could not be everywhere at once. Not even a ghost can manage that feat. I would check with Sam later to see if he discovered anything new from the interviews. And Jimmy might know something helpful.

  In Megan’s office, she stood with her back to the door, glaring toward the window. “. . . out of your mind?”

  Jimmy’s young voice was offended. “You should start paying attention to what I say. I told you not to go to Graham’s house last night.”

  The fight drained out of Megan. She walked tiredly across the room, dropped her cotton shoulder bag onto the desktop, slipped into her chair. “I thought I had to go. For Anita.” She lifted her chin. “How was I supposed to know somebody was going to kill him?”

  “Okay, okay.” Jimmy was exasperated. “I get it. But one of these days you have to stop riding to the rescue of widows and orphans. But hey”—now his voice was soft—“I guess that’s why I love you. But you should do what I say now. Hold a press conference. You need to get your side of the story out. The mayor dumped on you big-time at the news conference this morning. Right now reporters are sending in their leads, like: Megan Wynn, associate at the law firm of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse, claims senior partner Doug Graham was dead when she arrived after dark at his house in response to a text ordering her to come. New paragraph. The text sent on Graham’s cell phone to Ms. Wynn’s cell phone threatened to proceed with the termination Graham and Wynn discussed that morning. Wynn refused to explain the text and denied she faced dismissal from the firm. This will convince readers your arrest is pending.”

  Her voice was stiff. “I hope to practice law for about fifty more years, and notoriety doesn’t become lawyers. Besides”—now her tone was practical—“what am I going to say to reporters? I got a text. Yes, that’s what the text said. No, it wasn’t my termination. So they ask whose termination, and there’s where I say I have no further comment. I’d be better off to ignore all of it.”

  Jimmy knew newspapers. He knew once tarred it’s hard to rehabilitate an image. I chimed in. “Jimmy’s right. You should put out a statement to the press.”

  Her head jerked. “You’re here, too? Two voices offering tidbits of wisdom, not just one. Some people have an imaginary friend. Me, I have two. Am I ever special.” Her voice was strained.

  I kept my voice quiet, pleasant. “If you had a client unjustly suspected of murder and clearly identified by authorities as a person of interest, what would you advise?”

  Megan’s expression altered. She was interested, intrigued. “I would tell my client to provide the press with the following statement: I am assisting the police—”

  I settled in the chair in front of her desk, picked up a pad and pen, began to write.

  Her voice faltered for an instant as the legal pad rose and apparently settled on an unseen lap, then she gave a brief nod and continued.

  I wrote fast, caught up.

  “—in their investigation of the murder of Doug Graham. I discovered Mr. Graham’s body Thursday evening when responding to a text about a business matter he and I had discussed at the office Thursday morning. I am not at liberty to divulge the contents of that talk. I can, however, provide details of my actions last night. I was at home reading when I received Mr. Graham’s text. I drove to his home, arriving at shortly after nine p.m. I observed a car pulling away from the front of his house. I pulled into the driveway, parked behind Mr. Graham’s car. Following the directions in the text, I went through a gate, crossed a terrace, and came to the back door. When I stepped inside, I saw Mr. Graham slumped to one side in a chair. He had suffered some kind of head wound. I hurried across the room, tried to find a pulse. There was no pulse. When I dropped his hand, his body toppled over. I was unable to prevent him from falling to the floor. In the process, my blouse and hands were stained with his blood. I used newspaper sheets to try and clean my hands so that I could get my cell phone out of my purse and call nine-one-one. I had just picked up my cell phone when I heard sirens and realized police were coming to the house. I have no idea who called nine-one-one. I didn’t hear a shot when I arrived. I neither saw nor heard anyone as I approached the house or when I was in the terrace room. When I heard the sirens, I hurried out to the driveway and met the police as they arrived. I have no idea who shot Mr. Graham. I do not own a gun or pistol and have never owned a gun or pistol or had one in my possession. I have never held a gun or shot a gun of any kind. I hope the police succeed in discovering the identity of the person who killed Mr. Graham.”

  “That’s a girl.” Jimmy was pleased. “Now, get on your computer and zap that to Joan Crandall at the Gazette: jcrandall@thegazette.com. Ditto to the newsroom at the Oklahoman and to AP. Print out a copy for that big hulk of a police chief.”

  I didn’t like Jimmy’s disrespectful description, but he likely sensed that Sam was after Megan, and he knew the mayor wanted a quick arrest.

  I ripped off the sheet from the legal pad, slid it across the desktop.

  Megan looked cheered. Battling back often has that effect. She started to take the sheet and her hand brushed her purse. She looked at it in mild surprise, grabbed the strap, and pulled open the lower right-hand drawer. She swung the purse down, stopped. The purse hung there, midway to the drawer, immobile.

  Chapter 9

  I reached Megan’s side, stared down, too.

  Jimmy crowded next to me. “Oh hell.”

  I realized I was clutching my invisible throat.

  I’d thought the situation could not get worse for Megan.

  I was wrong.

  A gun rested neatly on the bottom of the drawer. I stared at the shiny stainless steel barrel and ridged black grip.

  “Top of the line.” Jimmy sounded choked. “A Ruger Mark III target pistol. Twenty-two caliber.”

  “Did you do target shooting?” In a moment of shock perhaps a foolish question could be forgiven.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Megan stood rigid, purse hanging above the drawer. Sudden fear marked her heart-shaped face.

  Jimmy exploded, half-mad, half-scared. “That’s all the cops need. The gun might as well have a tag on it: Murder weapon used in Graham homicide. We have to get rid of it.” Jimmy’s elbow jabbed my hip. He pushed me out of the way, and I grabbed at the desk to keep from falling.

  The gun rose in the air, the barrel gleaming bright silver in the light from the overhead fluorescents.

  “Jimmy, stop.” Megan knocked over her chair as she raced around the desk, hands outstretched.

  The gun rose to the ceiling, far out of reach.

  I went up after the gun and Jimmy. I gripped his arm. “Don’t be a fool. She has to tell the police.”

  Jimmy yanked away from me. As we struggled and the gun dipped toward the floor, I clung to his muscular forearm. The gun went off, the sound of the shot loud as thunder in the small office. The bullet gouged a streak across the wooden floor, ricocheted to the window, shattering the glass.

  Th
e gun clattered to the floor.

  Through the office door there were sudden shouts, the pound of running feet.

  Megan darted to the gun, snatched it up. Her hand shook as she aimed the barrel at the floor. Her face was taut with stress. The gun looked huge in her small hand.

  The door burst open, slammed against the wall. “Hands up. Police.” In a half crouch, Johnny Cain moved fast at an oblique angle, gun drawn, leveled at Megan. “Drop that gun.” Officer Anderson, also crouching, gun drawn, moved to his left, covering him, gun trained immediately on Megan. Her face was empty of expression, her eyes alert.

  Megan looked at the gun in her right hand. Her words were jerky, fast, breathless. “I found it. It went off. An accident. I’ll put it down.” She bent forward and cautiously placed the gun on the floor, slowly straightened, backed away, hands partially raised.

  The doorway seemed full of people, Sam and Hal Price and behind them the office staff and Brewster Layton.

  Megan, her face stricken, stared at the service revolver aimed at her. She knew her position was untenable, unexplainable.

  Burly Sam, white-blond Hal, and frowsy-haired Weitz bunched just inside the doorway, alert, wary, poised to draw weapons.

  “Hey, what the hell.” All elbows and knees, moving like a halfback looking for an open field, Blaine Smith wriggled past them despite Sam’s stern order to get back.

  Blaine reached Megan. “What happened?”

  Johnny moved fast, never taking his eyes off Megan. He stood over the gun. “Step away. That’s right. Stop there.” He pointed with his free hand at a space three feet from the gun.

  Blaine moved with her, gripped one elbow. He was struggling with uneven breathing. “That shot . . . what happened?”

  “I found that gun.” She scarcely managed a whisper.

  Sam’s heavy face was rock hard. “Stay exactly where you are, Ms. Wynn. You, too, Smith.” He studied them for a moment, Megan wide-eyed and shaking, Blaine bewildered but glaring at Johnny and his service revolver. “There’s no need for a gun. Put that away before somebody gets hurt.”