by Derek Murphy
Craning her neck to see if anyone was paying any attention to them, she saw two cops quickly jerk their heads away and pretend to be working or talking on the phone. Smiling, she turned back and shook her head at him.
“I was just hoping you could see your way clear to telling me what the report says about the vandalism at Martin Webster’s house.”
Still keeping his voice low, he hissed, “You made me feel like a hooker the way you kicked me out! Nobody does that to me!”
Suddenly forced to reappraise the extent to which she had damaged his ego, she kept her voice low and earnest as she extended a hand to touch his.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to do that. If I’d known you’d take it so hard, I’d have let you down easy.”
Jerking his hand away, he grew red in the face and looked about ready to burst but controlled himself.
When he remained silent, she said, “What can I do to make it up to you? Anything at all.”
His eyes narrowed for a moment before he said, “A night at the Pacific Trader Hotel. Anything I want.”
Her first impulse was to rise and walk out but she knew she needed that report and was determined to stick this out. Besides, she couldn’t help the way she had treated him at this late date and she wasn’t prepared to prostitute herself to make up for it, or to get the information she needed. Julie knew she had been working through her own self-worth issues by having only one-night-stands, but she wasn’t going to accept a criticism of her actions from anyone. It was just something she was going to have to work out for herself.
She said, “I realize that Deb treated you pretty shabbily, sleeping with your friend and all, but I’m not going to be the one to pay for what she did to you. I shouldn’t have kicked you out the way I did and I’d like the chance to make it up to you. Anything within reason. But I won’t play the hooker for you, Harry.”
His face red, understanding that he had gone too far, he tapped a finger on his desk for a moment before saying, “Okay. We both did things to be sorry for. Can we start over?”
Smiling brightly, she said, “So? Any chance of getting a peek at the report from Webster’s case?”
Still surly at the way she was able to switch over to a sunny mood, as though his hurt feelings meant nothing to her, Michaelson regretted offering to let her start over. Nevertheless, he opened his top desk drawer and removed a folder, placing it on the desktop.
“Forensics rushed the blood-work through. It’s a match for Sophie Webster.”
Frowning, Julie leaned forward, her hand going to the folder. As she opened it, she asked, “How is that possible? She’s been dead for months.”
“Yeah, I know. Thomas is at the morgue now. He’s trying to find out what they did with her blood.”
“What usually gets done with it?”
He shrugged. “Dumped in the bin with all the other hazardous waste material. They keep a few samples, even though they’ve got everything they need in the computer.”
She read over the file quickly, noting that the blood used to stain the Websters’ wedding portrait had also been Sophie’s. And, no gunshot residue to be found anywhere, despite the sound of the gunshot that Webster reported. A question came to her and she wondered whether to ask it or not, but the information in the file indicated that there was no sample of the rapist’s DNA. She decided against pushing her luck with Harry.
Closing the file, she slid it back to Michaelson and said, “Dinner’s on me tonight, Harry. Lottie’s at six; they’ve got the best chili in town.”
Warily, he asked, “How did you get to be an authority on chili?”
Rising, she slung her purse over one shoulder and winked at him.
“Grew up in Texas. Gramps Maxwell used to make his own from scratch; the traditional way.”
Michaelson snorted, “I didn’t think you liked anything traditional.”
Smiling evilly, she thought she got her point across as she said, “Get a good bowl of chili in me and there’s no telling what devil you’ll turn loose.”
Spinning on one foot, she walked quickly toward the door before he could say anything, her hips switching back and forth like a metronome. Before she was out the door, she heard him call, “I gotta see that!”
Chapter Three
Walking up the drive to the house, Carl gave the sidewalk a quick glance; large cobblestones with moss growing between them. The Nelsons must not expect many guests to use the walk; the cobblestones offered too uncertain a footing. There was a barely discernable path along one side of the walk, testifying to the fact that most people avoided the walk, preferring to walk on the grass. He glanced up the long drive to the garage and saw that all three bays were open to the air, but only two vehicles resided within. Mrs. Nelson’s Mercedes and the Camaro sat in their bays, a dust cover spread sloppily over the latter. He could only tell that it was a Camaro because the dust cover hadn’t been pulled down to cover the trunk and rear end of the car. As though someone had gotten into the trunk for something. He shelved the subject for later investigation. Probably nothing to it. Maybe Nelson kept detailing equipment in the trunk. There certainly wasn’t anything of the sort easily visible on the shelves that lined the walls, or on the floor of the garage.
He stepped onto the cobblestones, moving up the steps to the front of the house and rang the doorbell. As he waited, he turned and looked out across the expansive lawn. Most of the houses in the neighborhood had postage-stamp lawns but the Nelsons’ house seemed to have been built on an extra-large lot, leaving plenty of space for a good-sized lawn. After a long wait, he turned and rang the doorbell again just as the door was opened.
A woman stood there, a questioning, expectant look on her pretty face. Erica Nelson, a descendant of Captain Silas Morgan, founder of Port Morgan, was a good five feet, seven inches tall, with a face that could break hearts. He had read in the report that her mother had been a Latina showgirl in Vegas, and it was plain that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree; Erica was voluptuous as only a Latina could be. Large breasted, with an almost waspish waist and slightly flaring hips, she was dressed in a floral print sundress that complemented her complexion and hugged her curves until it flared at the hips and hung nearly to her knees. Her eyebrows arched, with one quirked questioningly, and to one side of her full lips, a mole made the perfect counterpoint to her smooth skin. Dark eyes that seemed deep as a well looked out at him as he smiled apologetically.
She said, “You must be Mr. Tanner. Please come in.”
Carl stepped inside, moving to the right as she closed the door and led him down a short entry hallway to a small office. Once inside, she gestured for him to sit and moved to a small couch to sit across from him. She gestured toward a tray with cups and a silver coffeepot on it.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’d like to get right to your case, if I could.”
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
“Can you tell me if your husband has any background in electronics? I found some odd purchases in the file and I’d like to learn if there is something that he might be spending his time on that could explain your suspicions. We don’t like to assume that anyone is doing anything of an illicit nature when we begin an investigation.”
Her nostrils flared a little as her brows came together and he saw that she had a temper and didn’t like to be contradicted.
She said, “I’m not imagining things, Mr. Tanner. I’m sure he’s cheating on me and I want you to get the proof for me. If you’re not going to believe me, perhaps I need to go to another agency.”
He spread his hands apologetically, saying, “Oh, I believe that you think he’s cheating, but if there is an innocent purpose for his actions that are being misunderstood, we’d like to bring that to light. After all, there is no point in tearing a marriage apart unnecessarily.”
Somewhat mollified, Erica settled back in the couch and said, “Okay. Maybe you’re right. If he’s not really cheating, I’d
hate to divorce him. But I want you to take me seriously. I’m not some flighty, highly suggestible woman, Mr. Tanner.”
“Okay, then. Back to the question; does your husband have a background in electronics?”
A hand went up to pick at her hair, fluffing it up in the back and he saw once again that it was thick and luxurious.
She said, “Oh, I suppose he took some courses in college. His father was an electrical engineer specializing in aeronautics, so I guess Chip would have followed in his footsteps.”
Removing a notepad from his pocket, Carl asked, “Has he received any suspicious phone calls? Or, gone out late at night with a flimsy excuse?”
Nodding, she said, “He went out just the other night, claiming that he needed to go to the office for a file. When he returned, he didn’t have a file with him. I asked him about it and he said that there was so little to do, that he just finished up while he was at the office. There haven’t been any phone calls that I’m aware of.”
“How do you know he’s been spending so much time on the yacht?”
For the first time, she sounded hesitant as she said, “I…followed him. He’s there at least three times a week. I don’t know what he does there. I’ve gone to the yacht when he’s at the office, but haven’t found anything incriminating. Of course, I don’t know what to look for. That’s why I hired your firm, Mr. Tanner.”
“Do you have a spare set of keys for the yacht?”
She nodded. “Chip is almost paranoid about losing the keys to the yacht, so besides the two usual sets of keys that we got when he inherited the yacht, he had two more sets made. A set is in the garage, another here in the office and a third set in the bedroom. He keeps a set with him at all times. He says he never knows when the urge to spend some time on the water might come on him.”
“May I have a set? I’ll return them when I’m finished with them.”
Rising, she said, “Of course.” and swayed as she walked to the desk, bending slightly to remove a set of keys with a foam-rubber float attached to the ring. Turning, she held the keys to her breast in both hands and caught her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, looking hesitant again.
“Do you think he’s cheating?”
Carl spread his hands, saying, “I don’t have any way of knowing that, Mrs. Nelson. When I investigate, I reserve any sort of judgment until I’ve done a thorough job.”
She brought the keys to him, holding them out decisively.
“I just don’t think I could live without him, Mr. Tanner. I mean, I love him. Chip is my world. Without him, I don’t know what I would do.”
Taken aback but careful not to show it, a thought streaked through Carl’s mind. Mrs. Nelson didn’t look like the kind of woman who would be without a man for long if her marriage broke up. He took the keys and stood to slip them into his pocket with his notepad.
“I’ll get started on this right away, Mrs. Nelson.”
She asked, “When can I expect to hear from you?”
“If you can stop by the office on Monday afternoon, I should have something by then.”
A look of concern crossed her face. “But, that’s nearly a week away!”
“An investigation of this sort is a delicate thing, Mrs. Nelson. It can’t be rushed. If I have something concrete before then, I’ll call you. Otherwise, the meeting on Monday will only consist of a progress report.”
Though Erica looked crestfallen, she nonetheless lifted her chin and nodded twice, saying, “If that’s how it has to be. Next Monday it is.”
* * *
The Police Forensics Lab guys had left with their swabs and evidence bags; a nod to the oddness of the vandalism case, so closely connected to Mrs. Webster’s suicide, and Ike was just now getting a good, second look at the scene. He and Julie had limited their survey the previous night to electronic sweeps, searching for unknown electronic equipment that might have been used to produce the effects Webster had described. The crime scene clean-up people hadn’t arrived yet and in fact, wouldn’t be able to start on the scene until tomorrow. Ike thought that with the evening before him, he might be able to find something that would point the way for them.
Standing in the library, he frowned as he looked at the aftermath and was struck with the similarity to the crime scene photos he had seen in the jacket containing the original police report regarding her suicide. The blood spatter pattern was so close to that of the suicide that he could almost believe that it hadn’t been cleaned up if he hadn’t already been in this room after the first occurrence.
Moving to stand close to the wide bloodstain on the Oriental rug without stepping in the blood, he looked up and saw nothing on the ceiling except a very small discolored area with a very small, dark smudge in the middle of it. He wished for a ladder and frowned as he looked around the room for a substitute. The ceiling was eighteen feet up and he quickly discarded the idea of using a chair; the difference one of them would have made was so slight as to be nonexistent. However, there were light fixtures hanging from the ceiling; no more than a foot, so they must have a ladder capable of getting that high. Sighing, he left the room and made his way out to the garage.
He flipped the light on and surveyed the contents of the garage, skimming over the array of exotic, luxury cars that Webster drove until he saw, against the far wall, a small, powered scaffold. Moving to it, he saw that a door, hidden by a small cubby, let into the library itself and all he had to do was push the scaffold through it. Blessing the super-rich and their demands on architects to have houses custom-built, he opened the door and began pushing the contrivance through it. The going was somewhat heavy before he looked down and saw that the thing had a drive mechanism. Mentally slapping his forehead, he cut in the power and gave the controls a try, moving the thing back and forth and from side to side before he felt confident enough to move it into the library.
Once he had it under the smudge, but to one side to avoid the blood, he locked the wheels and stepped up into the cage. The controls that raised and lowered the cage were simple and in just seconds, he was moving up toward the ceiling. He stopped when his head was only inches from the ceiling and put a hand on the railing of the scaffold as he craned his neck to look at the smudge.
Under close examination, he found that what he had thought was a smudge was instead, a wide area of some sticky substance, quickly drying to nothing. What had made it appear to be a smudge was a single drop of dried blood and a discolored area around it. If the drop had dried over the hole, he wouldn’t have even known it was there and would have only thought that the blood had just been propelled to the ceiling by the gunshot that killed Mrs. Webster. As it was, it made him wonder if there was something in the ceiling to be found. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket, an anachronism that made DeeDee laugh every time he slipped one into his pocket, and dabbed at the discolored spot around the hole until he had a small amount of the sticky substance on the end of his finger. Folding his handkerchief around the goop, he slid it back into his pocket and lowered the scaffold.
After moving the scaffold back into the garage, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and went in search of whatever room was above the library. He found himself stymied by a blank wall and knew that since the ceiling was so high, then the ceiling must be the floor of the attic. That prompted him to seek an access of some sort and he began opening doors until he found what he wanted.
The door he found had a stairway behind it and a light switch beside the door. Flipping it, he was rewarded by a light above him that lighted the stairs to the top where he found another door. He went through it and saw that the attic, unlike most, was completely finished and could have been made into a third floor if Webster had wanted to do so. Though there were no partitions, making actual rooms, there were still studs and cross-braces that supported the roof.
Finding the floor to be simple planking, he made his way to the approximate spot over the library and frowned down at the floor. There was very little dust; W
ebster must have his housekeeping staff up here every few weeks, but there were smudges in the light film of it on several planks and he knelt to look at them. There was a small spot where the dust had been pushed together, making a very small, almost invisible ridge, but in the ridge, he saw the impressions of a stitched material. Whoever had been up here had worn gloves. He didn’t think that the cleaning staff would wear gloves up here, much less be moving the planks around.
Taking his pocketknife from his pocket, he flipped it open and inserted the blade into the crack between two of the planks, lifting the one with the smudge until he could get a finger under it. As he removed the plank, he saw that someone else, presumably whatever creeper had been up here, had used a flat-ended tool to do the same thing he had just done with his knife.
He slid the plank to the side and took a little tactical flashlight from his pocket, playing the beam slowly over the ceiling below the plank. A space had been cleared in the insulation that covered the ceiling and a rumpled, flat something lay there beside a small servo-motor. Bending, he held his light on it and traced a very thin, very shiny wire, almost hair-thin, to a small, delicate bit of paper that was rapidly losing it shape. The paper had once been flat and rectangular, like a box, but was slumping due to the blood that had seeped from the crumpled balloon that lay nearly on it. The wire was slowly being eaten away by the enzymes in the blood and he was willing to bet that in another hour, there would be nothing left to show that anyone had devised the clever setup except for the servo motor and the balloon. The presence of both of them would be damning enough evidence of someone else’s involvement, but since the creeper had worn gloves up here, he knew there would be no fingerprints on any of it.
Ike grunted as something struck the back of his head hard enough to cause him to lose consciousness. Slumping forward, he fell over the contrivance and his flashlight bounced away across the plank flooring.
* * *
Lights blazed at all the windows as she approached the house and Julie stepped up onto the wide veranda that served the place as a porch. She looked at the windows, wondering what Ike was up to; there was no need for so much light. Fitting the key to the lock, she depressed the catch on the door and pushed it open.
