“Stupid girl!” Da shouts, slamming his bowler hat against his trousers. “What are you now, twenty? What in the hell does a girl your age know about anything? I didn’t pawn everythin’ I owned to come to America to make me fortune, to have me daughter throw that fortune in me face, now did I? Time and again, I arranged for you to mingle with some of the most eligible young bucks in San Francisco, and what did you do but ignore them. An insult to their families, and to me!”
“Stop shouting, Da.” Me corset pinches and I put me hand to me stomach to try and ease it a bit. “I appreciate your efforts, but marrying the stuffy son of some stuffy banker…this is America, Da, not Ireland, and women here choose fer themselves, if they’ve a mind. I’m pleased you’ve become a rich man, I am. You’ve given me a good life, and I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment, but I fell in love with Jacob—”
“He’s a policeman, for the sake of Christ!” Da shouts not two inches from me face. “And a beat cop for all that! He’ll never be able to provide you with the kind of life I have. And when the babies come, what then, eh?”
An odd look crosses his face, putting a glint in his eye what bothers me.
“Why,” he says slowly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if your Jacob doesn’t just up and die in the line of duty one day—”
Chapter 11
Absences are a good influence in love and keep it bright and delicate.
Robert Louis Stevenson
“The body’s this way, Inspector Darling.”
Nate followed Officer Rusty George up the drive, maneuvering past an aid car, the ME’s sedan, two unmarked vehicles, two SFPD patrol units, a crime-scene van, and four TV station trucks complete with slicked-up reporters, greed in their eyes, microphones in their hands.
Yeah, this one would make the nightly news, all right.
“Were you the one who called it in?” Nate said to the uniform’s back.
“Yes, sir,” George answered over his shoulder. “Secured the area, tried to minimize contamination, followed procedure to the letter, Inspector.”
Nate smiled. “Thanks, Officer. Good job.”
George turned his head in Nate’s direction. The officer’s cheeks were slightly flushed as he gave a curt nod. “Thank you, sir.” When he turned away again, Nate caught the hint of a grin on the man’s face.
As were most crime scenes, the ambiance was one of quiet chaos—flashing red and blue lights, men and women in blue uniforms or gray suits milling around, their heads bent as they took copious notes. They asked questions, told jokes, renewed acquaintances. How’s the wife and kids? When’d you transfer out of Central? Don’t this weather suck? Cars on the street cruised slowly by, their curious drivers hoping to get a glimpse of the action.
Nate took the wide porch steps two at a time. Passing through the open double doors, he noted the handcrafted stained-glass window arching above the entrance, the black Italian marble floor in the foyer, and three CSIers already at work processing the scene.
He held up his badge. “Any sign of forced entry?” he said to the uniform standing just inside the threshold.
“Not that I’ve heard, sir.” The officer shrugged. “Pretty big house, though. Guess we’ll see.”
As Officer George continued on through the foyer, Nate followed, noticing a large bouquet sitting on a table in front of an enormous gilt-framed oval mirror on the far wall. To no one in particular, he mumbled, “What are those, roses?”
Behind him, the sound of a woman’s heels rapidly tap-tap-tapping across the polished floor grew louder, then came up beside him, matching his stride.
“I see we didn’t get our flower arranging merit badge in Boy Scouts,” said the familiar voice. “Actually, the big poofy magenta ones are peonies. And just in case you’re totally clueless, the white ones are daisies, and the green ones are ferns.”
He turned his head toward his new partner. “Thank you, Betty Botanist,” he drawled. “I know what daisies and ferns are.” Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he returned his gaze to the flowers. “Pretty. Maybe Tabby would like some. I bring roses home to her all the time. You think she’d like, what’d you call them, p-e-e-e-yonies?”
Inspector Glenna Matthews, stunning redhead and single mother of four boys, appeared to be in her mid-to-late forties, though Nate knew she was older. With her hair and her sassy, take-no-prisoners attitude, every guy in the department—older or younger—had his eye on her. For her part, however, she seemed oblivious to their overtures, and in the three months she and Nate had worked together, if she’d given any of them a tumble, he was unaware of it.
“They’re not pronounced that way,” Glenna scolded, “but close enough I guess. Listen, whether you take your pregnant wife peonies, roses, or crabgrass tied together with dental floss, it makes no difference.”
As they passed a long row of original oil paintings probably worth more than Nate’s yearly income, he said, “Why not?”
She looked at him like he’d just asked why the sky was blue. “Because bringing your wife flowers of any kind is physical evidence that, at some time during the day, you thought of her.” Her eyes sparkled as she brushed back a stray lock of hair. “That’s all a woman really wants, to know the man she loves, loves her, too, and that he thinks of her even when they’re not together.”
He straightened his spine, lengthening his stride as if to catch up with Officer George. “I knew that,” Nate mumbled. He took flowers to Tabby because he loved the hell out of her. Wasn’t it a given that he thought of her throughout the day? Did he need to provide proof? Is that how she interpreted the bouquets? God, women were so complicated.
Entering the kitchen, Nate said to George’s back, “Who discovered the body?”
The officer halted and turned to face Nate and Glenna. “One of the maids came back from the grocery store just after lunch. Her head’s twisted funny.”
“The maid’s?”
George chuckled. “Nah, the vic. ME says it could be a broken neck.”
“Did you touch the body?” Glenna had taken a small notebook from her pocket and begun writing.
“Just to check for a pulse.”’
Nate’s gaze wandered around the kitchen. “Anybody move her?”
“No, sir. Maid comes into the kitchen, load of groceries in her arms. She sees the cellar door’s open and takes a gander down the stairs. Sees the body lying at the bottom, screams bloody murder, and dials 911.”
“She didn’t check to see if the woman was alive or not?”
George stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. “Says she thought the woman looked pretty damn dead and didn’t want to touch her. Knows the drill, she says. Big Law & Order fan, she says.”
Nate stepped aside as Glenna brushed past the two men and began descending the stairs into what appeared to be a basement pantry. “Where’s the maid now?”
“She was all hysterical-like. My partner, Officer Dawson, is with her in the study.”
As Nate followed Glenna down the stairs, he took care to move with caution around the dead woman’s legs resting lifelessly on the bottom step. She’d landed on her back, her spine contorted awkwardly, her arms flung out to her sides as though she were waving down a passing motorist. One foot was bare, while the other bore a red stiletto heel. Her clothing was expensive-looking—gray-wool slacks and a white silky blouse. A string of pearls encircled her slim throat. Her blond head arced at an unnatural angle, her blue eyes were wide open, frozen forever in shock as though someone had just leaped in front of her and shouted surprise!
He began scribbling in his notepad. “Vic’s name?”
Officer George referred to his own notes. “Drew Muriel Mochrie. Age thirty-one. Moved here a couple of years ago from Scotland. Single. No known relatives. Lives alone.”
“What about staff?”
“Two maids, a cook, and a gardener. But they don’t live in.”
“Mochrie?” Glenna repeated. “That name’s familiar.”
“Yes, ma’a
m,” George said. “Sister of the late Bartholomew Mochrie who died a year ago in exactly the same way.”
Nate’s head came up. “No shit?”
“None, sir.”
“Her brother fell down the wine-cellar stairs and broke his neck?”
Officer George tilted his head and gave Nate a sly look. “Like they say in the movies, ‘fell…or was pushed.’”
Glenna crouched over the body. “I remember that case. Mochrie’s death was ruled accidental, but there was suspicion the sister had given him a hefty nudge down the stairs so she could get her hands on all the goodies. DA’s office didn’t have enough evidence to indict, so no charges were ever brought.”
Giving the cellar one more glance, Nate said, “I’m going to talk to the maid. You want to handle this, Matthews, while I go upstairs?”
“Knock yourself out,” she said absently, as she pulled an evidence bag from her pocket.
A few minutes later, Nate found himself upstairs, sitting on a plush velvet sofa in the spacious study, while a distressed Estelle Langley blew her nose and wiped her puffy brown eyes. Officer Dawson, the policewoman who’d been keeping an eye on the maid, sat beside her, holding a large box of pink pop-up tissues.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Langley,” he began.
Dressed in a conservative white-cotton shirt and black pants, Estelle Langley was an attractive woman of medium height and build who appeared to be about fifty. Her graying hair had been pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck, and she wore no jewelry save for a narrow gold wedding band. At Nate’s remark, she raised her head, a bewildered expression on her face. “What loss?”
“Well,” he said softly. “The death of your employer, of course. Your grief is understandable—”
“Grief!” she snapped. “’Bout the only thing I’m mourning right now is the loss of my paycheck! That bitch owed me five weeks’ salary, and I doubt I’ll ever see it now! I got bills to pay, and a sick husband to boot who’s been out of work these last six months. What in the hell am I s’pposed to do now?”
Her face crumpled, and her bottom lip quivered. Covering her eyes with soggy tissues, she burst into another round of gut-wrenching sobs.
Nate exchanged helpless glances with Officer Dawson, who pulled a handful of fresh tissues from the box and shoved them into one of Mrs. Langley’s fists.
“If Ms. Mochrie was so rich,” Nate said, “how is it she owed back pay?”
Estelle scoffed into her growing clump of tissues, then raised her head. “Rich. Right. She went through her brother’s money like an elephant on ice skates careens across Lake Michigan.”
Officer Dawson’s brow furrowed, and she looked off into the distance, as if trying to imagine such a scene.
“Hmm,” Nate offered. “Interesting metaphor. You from the Midwest?”
“Detroit. Go Lions.”
“Okay then. So you’re saying Ms. Mochrie was broke?”
This time, Estelle snorted. “Well she couldn’t pay me, is all I know. When I complained, said she was down on her uppers, said she was going to collect on some insurance thing real soon. I don’t know for sure what she meant, but I do know that one day, when I was cleaning around her desk, I come across a copy of a claim form to some insurance company overseas.”
“She was attempting to collect on a loss?”
Estelle eased back on the sofa and let her head rest on the cushions. Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes. “Yeah, far as I could tell. Some expensive necklace she says was stolen when her brother died a year ago. My eyes ’bout bugged out of my head when I saw the numbers.”
“You mean the value of the claim?”
She blinked. “Five million pounds she was asking. I looked it up. That’s close to ten million bucks!”
Nate scowled and reviewed his notes. “My understanding was that her brother died from a fall down the wine-cellar steps. I hadn’t heard there was a robbery involved.”
Estelle’s brown eyes glittered, and her mouth quirked up on one end. “Uh-huh. Acc’dent. Like the Titanic sinking was a acc’dent.”
It was Nate’s turn to blink. “The sinking of the Titanic was an accident. It hit an iceberg—”
“Sure.” A knowing glint shone in her eyes. Nodding slowly, she said, “That’s just what they want you to think.”
“Ms. Langley,” he said, trying to get this interview back on realistic ground. “Do you remember what the date was on that insurance claim? Maybe the name of the company?”
She shook her head. “Dated back a few months ago, I guess. Don’t remember the name of the company, but their logo, I think it’s called, was printed at the top of the page. It was a red lion with big claws, standing on its hind legs, and pawing at the air. Anyway, Ms. Mochrie came in the room just then and seen me looking at it. Got real pissed. Grabbed it from me and stomped out of the room. Never saw it again.”
Nate made a few more notes, then said, “Did Ms. Mochrie have any visitors last night or this morning?”
Mrs. Langley sat straight up, clasped her hands in her lap, and got a dreamy look in her eyes. “Oh, aye,” she said. “Aye, Mr. Logan Sinclair it was. A handsome devil.”
Nate’s brow lifted at the maid’s impromptu attempt at a Scottish brogue. “Logan Sinclair? The clairvoyant?”
The same Logan Sinclair Andie is cozying up to?
What were the odds this was the same Scottish Logan Sinclair who was currently the subject of an undercover investigation for robbery and fraud, and who Brad Bostwick was resorting to blackmail to snare? Jesus, it had to be the same guy, and didn’t that just throw a monkey wrench into the tapioca pudding.
The maid’s lashes actually fluttered. “Aye,” she sighed. “A charming man. He arrived about seven, and they was all still here when I went home at half past.”
“All?”
“Mr. Sinclair, Ms. Mochrie, and Sinclair’s assistant; younger guy, didn’t catch his name. They all went traipsing down to the wine cellar.”
“It took three of them to pick out a bottle of wine?”
“No. Mr. Sinclair was here to help Ms. Mochrie try and contact the spirit of Mr. Mochrie.” She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “She was real big on that sort of thing.”
With a straight face, he said, “Do you know why she wanted to contact her dead brother?”
She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Couldn’t say.”
“What time did you arrive for work this morning, Mrs. Langley?”
“About eight.”
“Was Sinclair still here?”
“No.” She blew her nose again and wiped it so aggressively, Nate thought she was trying to remove her upper lip from her face. “Ms. Mochrie went out early, about ten or so. Didn’t say where she was going, but when she got back, she was carrying a black-velvet box, you know, the kind they put expensive jewelry in.”
Nate exchanged glances with Officer Dawson. “How big was the box?”
Estelle’s lower lip protruded as she considered the question. “’Bout the size of a three-ring binder, you know, like the kids use in school.”
“Do you know what she did with it?”
“Last I saw, it was on her dresser in the bedroom.”
“Is there a safe anywhere in the house?”
“If there is, I don’t know where it would be. Never seen one, not in the wall neither, because I dust all the paintings and such. Ms. Mochrie always was the careless one though. Left things layin’ around all the time.”
At the maid’s words, Officer Dawson nodded to Nate, stood, and set the tissue box on the sofa before hurrying out the study door.
Returning his attention to Estelle, he said, “What time did you go to the grocery store?”
“Um, just after twelve. Was gone about two hours. Would’ve been back sooner, but I ran into Marge Drexler who’s a domestic over to the Spauldings’ estate a few blocks down? We been friends since forever, and I was asking her if they had any openings over to her pl
ace, Ms. Mochrie being such a cheap bitch and all, and me having my husband laid up and not getting paid—”
“What happened when you returned?” Nate interrupted.
“Oh. Well.” She sighed. “I let myself in through the kitchen—”
“Was the door locked?”
She shook her head. “Minute I come in, I see the cellar door’s wide open. I go to close it, and well, I guess you know the rest.”
As he finished jotting the information down in his notepad, Dawson returned from upstairs. He already knew what she was going to say.
“Gone,” he stated, as the officer took her seat next to Estelle.
“With the wind. Sir.”
Absently tapping his pen on the spiral wire of the notebook, he muttered, “Only if that wind’s name is Logan Sinclair.”
Andrea Rose Darling
Thirty-one
Single
Father: former police officer, now deceased
Mother: age 62, resident of San Francisco
Brother: Ethan Darling, age 38, former SFPD detective, currently owner/operator Paladin Private Investigations; spouse Georgiana née Mundy
Brother: Nathan Darling, age 35, SFPD homicide detective; spouse Tabitha née March.
Education: Criminal Justice, BS
Logan’s eyes scanned the data, the words on the screen in front of him practically burning his eyeballs. He took a sip of brandy, set the glass down, wiped the dampness from his lips.
…joined SFPD out of college…distinguished service…recently made detective…Investigative Bureau…currently undercover ops…fraud…Logan Sinclair…
Christ Almighty, she was a cop, and she was investigating him. Well, if that just didn’t damn well put a fankle on it.
He leaned back in the desk chair, tenting his fingers under his chin as he let his gaze wander across her image on the computer screen…
While the photo was of a stern young woman almost glaring in defiance at the camera, there was no mistaking it was Andrea “Devon”—beautiful, intelligent, determined.
He read the file again and snorted in spite of himself, letting amusement warm his blood.
Killer Charms Page 12
