“So she was on the prowl last night,” Libby said. “Walking her dog. People do walk their dogs at night.”
“A woman alone, at one in the morning?”
“Maybe it’s a big attack dog.”
“And maybe we should have a look at Warfer’s garage.”
O’Bannion grinned at her as he got to his feet. “I’ll get you back on the force yet, Libby. Let’s go ...”
When they reached the Warfer home, they found Oakes and a police officer named Skefski just coming out the front door with a large butterfly net. “We caught your bat,” Oakes said. “It was in the chimney, all right.”
Libby peered at it and made a face. “I hate those things.”
She followed O’Bannion into the attached garage and watched while he looked over the accumulation of garden tools, automotive parts, and just plain junk. “The side door was unlocked,” O’Bannion pointed out. “Anyone could have come in here. Maybe that woman across the street did see something.”
Libby nodded. “The killer could have picked up a pair of garden shears, slipped up the stairs somehow, and killed Warfer.”
“Except that the door to the kitchen and the rest of the house was locked on the inside. We need a better theory than that, Libby.”
She’d walked over and was examining the long pruning hook leaning against one wall of the garage. It was in two sections that fastened together. Each was six feet long or more and the top section had a curved, saw-toothed blade at the top for cutting high limbs. Looking up at it now, the blade appeared a bit rusty from disuse. Ironic, Libby thought, remembering that it was the pruning hook Betty had been going to buy when she discovered her husband’s double life.
“What is it?” O’Bannion asked, following her gaze.
“The garden,” she said. “Betty Coxe was buying gardening supplies. They were digging, putting in new things. This was eleven years ago, remember, when she discovered the truth and Warfer promised to break it off. And then the other one, Monica, disappeared. Your officers thought he might have buried her in the back yard but there was no evidence of that. But suppose he put her body in the trunk of his car and drove back over here? Suppose he buried her in this back yard?”
O’Bannion was unconvinced. “Why would he do that?”
“They were digging here anyway. Betty told us that. And he’d have been renting or selling the other house after Monica was gone. Much safer to have the unmarked grave here, where he could watch it.”
“It makes sense, I suppose.” He groaned wearily. “This is a big back yard.”
“Not that big when you know what you’re looking for.” Libby led the way into the yard and headed for the back. “They were digging up the rose garden,” she said.
O’Bannion stood staring at it for a full two minutes, then he gave a yell. “Skefski! Oakes! Grab a couple of shovels from the garage and come back here—we’ve got some digging to do!”
The two officers shed their Sam Browne belts and started digging up Frederick Warfer’s rose garden. They’d been at it about ten minutes when Skefski’s shovel encountered something besides roots. “A piece of canvas,” he said, peering down into the excavation. “Pretty well rotted away.”
“Go easy now,” O’Bannion cautioned. “Use your hands.” Libby hated herself for what she was about to do.
“There are bones here,” Officer Oakes said, his voice breaking.
“They belong to Monica Forrest,” Libby said quite clearly. “They belong to your mother, Mr. Oakes. You thought all along that he killed her. That’s why you murdered Frederick Warfer.”
She was ready for him to come charging out of the newly uncovered grave in a murderous rage, swinging his shovel at her. Instead, he sank slowly to his knees and wept. “What is all this?” O’Bannion asked, bewildered.
Libby felt drained of emotion. “David Oakes is Monica Forrest’s son. Maybe he’s Warfer’s son, too, but we’ll probably never know that for sure. He looks very much like the picture of Monica that her brother gave me, especially his eyes. After his mother disappeared David was brought up by his uncle, Ralph Forrest, and he changed his name before becoming a police officer. Maybe Forrest suggested Oakes to him. Warfer’s double life began at least twenty years ago and Betty told me she thought Monica had a child by him early on. That would make the child in his or her early twenties.”
While she spoke, Oakes remained kneeling. Skefski stood by him. Neither man spoke. “How do you know he killed Warfer?” O’Bannion asked quietly. “In his written report about seeing Helen Rodney walking her dog he said he came here in response to the burglar alarm. But no alarm sounded because I turned it off myself. The second car came in response to my call. He came here earlier for another reason, and when Helen Rodney saw him prowling around the house moments after he’d killed Warfer, he had to avoid suspicion by questioning her.”
“How could he have entered the house?”
“He didn’t enter it. Remember that pruning hook in the garage? The blade at the end seemed to me at first to have rust spots, but now I think they may be traces of dried blood. Officer Oakes must have noticed it when he searched the house for intruders earlier in the week—and he probably noticed Betty’s picture upstairs, too, rather than his mother’s. He would remember Warfer after eleven years even if Warfer didn’t recognize him. He came here last night, assembled the two sections of the pruning hook in the garage, and went around to the back of the house. The thing is at least twelve feet long with a saw-toothed blade at the end. Held by a man, it could easily reach second-floor window fifteen feet off the ground. He probably tapped on the window with the blade or threw pebbles at it. Warfer looked out and saw a police officer he knew standing in the yard, opened the window wider, stuck his head out—and got his throat ripped open with that saw-toothed blade.”
“I always knew he’d killed her,” Oakes said dreamily, still kneeling by the grave. “I was asleep that night but I woke up and heard them fighting. He was going to break it off and leave her. They fought a lot and I went back to sleep. Later he said she left him, but I knew it wasn’t true. She’d never have left him without taking me along. My uncle Ralph thought so, too. I joined the police force thinking someday I could find the evidence against him, and when I got called out here this week and saw him, I—”
“I must caution you,” O’Bannion interrupted, “that you’re entitled to an attorney before making a statement.”
“That’s all right, Sergeant. I did it and I’d do it again.”
O’Bannion motioned to Skefski. “Take him into custody. I’ll get that pruning hook from the garage, then—”
“I think I’ll go now,” Libby said.
“Thanks to you,” O’Bannion told her, “we’ve wrapped up two murders.”
“But I wasn’t successful in protecting my client’s life,” Libby said. “He’s
dead and I don’t feel any triumph about finding his killer.”
O’Bannion took her arm. “It was probably fate that brought Warfer and Oakes together again after eleven years.”
“Fate,” said Libby. “Or a bat caught in a chimney.”
WAIT UNTIL MORNING
It was a man named Matt Milton who telephoned the Libby Knowles Protection Service on a hot Monday morning in August. Libby’s secretary Janice said he sounded like a client and Libby took the call.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Milton?”
“Am I speaking to Libby Knowles?”
“That’s correct.” “I’m calling about an extremely confidential matter involving one of my clients.”
“Are you a private investigator, Mr. Milton?”
“I’m a personal manager. An agent. You must have heard of my client, Krista Steele, the rock singer?”
“I don’t follow the contemporary music scene as closely as I should,” Libby admitted. “Is your client in need of protection?”
“She is.”
“From fans, or from some specific person?”
&nb
sp; “From herself. She’s been using cocaine and other drugs lately, and she’s finally agreed to my suggestion she hire a bodyguard to keep her off the stuff. Is it the sort of thing you could do?”
“It’s not what I’m in business to do,” Libby said, “but if your client is willing to cooperate, I could give it a try.”
“Good. Could you meet with Krista and me this afternoon at my office?
We’ll discuss your duties and your fees.”
Matt Milton was a fatherly looking man in his fifties who wore a string tie of the sort Libby remembered from movies of the Old South. He was a bit chubby around the middle and smoked expensive-looking cigars. He was the last person in the world one might expect to be promoting the career of Krista Steele.
Krista was slender and tall—close to Libby’s own five-foot-eight. She wore a dangling earring in her right ear. Her hair was all on the left, hiding that ear, and her pale-blue eyes were almost lost in a maze of harsh black eyeliner.
Her silk dress looked expensive. She pouted at Libby from her chair. “You’re going to be my nursemaid?” she asked in a cold voice.
“If you need one. But what you’ll be hiring is a bodyguard, and I don’t come cheap.”
“I thought bodyguards were male,” Krista said, fidgeting with the clasp of her little purse.
Matt Milton cleared his throat. “I thought Miss Knowles could do the job better, without distractions. She’s highly recommended.”
Krista studied Libby for another moment and then asked, “You know what you’re supposed to do?”
“Tell me.”
“Keep me off drugs—cocaine, speed, grass, LSD. If you see me buying anything or taking something from a stash someplace, take it away from me.”
“All right. Will you be cooperative?”
When Krista didn’t answer, Matt Milton did. “Yes, she’ll cooperate. But if she resists you, be as firm as necessary. That’s what you’re being paid for. We’ll pay you a thousand dollars a week. Is that satisfactory?”
It was more money than Libby had ever made before. “Plus expenses?”
“Plus expenses.”
“For how long?”
“Week to week, till we see how it goes.”
“How much travel is involved?”
Krista Steele shifted in her chair. She stopped playing with the clasp on her purse and said, “I have a concert tour next month, but for the next few weeks there are only recording dates here in town, and rehearsals.”
“Will I be living with you?”
“We’d expect full-time service,” Milton said. “Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m used to it.”
“How soon can you start?”
“As soon as I phone my office.”
Matt Milton smiled. “I believe tomorrow morning will be satisfactory.
Krista has a recording date then. This is her address.”
As he wrote it on a card, Krista stood up. “You’d better be worth the money,” she told Libby and walked out of the office.
Libby turned to the agent, “One thing I don’t quite understand, Mr.
Milton. Do I get fired for doing a poor job, or for doing a good job?”
Krista Steele lived in a fourteenth-floor condominium near the center of the city. The doorman looked like an ex-wrestler and there was a television camera in the elevator. It was obviously a place for people who worried about security. Her apartment was large and well furnished, with a fine view of the river, but Libby’s first impression when she entered was the sweetish odor of marijuana smoke that accompanied the leather-jacketed young man who was just leaving.
He passed her without speaking and Libby asked, “Who was that?”
“Sonny Ritz, an old pal from before I hit the big time. I figured I needed
one last night of kicks before I went on the wagon.”
“Did he supply the pot?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he your pusher?”
“I told you, he’s an old friend.” She hadn’t yet gotten around to making up her eyes and the rest of her face, and Libby saw something sweet and almost innocent about her face.
“Is there any more pot around?” Libby asked her.
Krista shook her head. “Search the place if you don’t believe me. Want some breakfast?”
“I already ate, but I’ll take another cup of coffee.”
Krista was wearing a lounging robe that had started to come open, and she seemed to have nothing on beneath it. “So tell me about yourself,” she said in the kitchen. “If we’re going to be together all the time I guess I should know what I hired.”
“I used to be a policewoman,” Libby said. “Now I run this protection business.”
“Are you married?” Krista opened a can of food for a large aggressive white cat that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Libby shook her head. “My boyfriend was killed. He was a cop, too. He was involved in a cocaine scandal and smashed up his car.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Krista asked, pouring some coffee. “Because you asked me. Because I thought maybe you’d be interested in
knowing that cocaine almost ruined my life, too.”
“I get all the lectures I need from Matt.” Krista went into the bedroom and started to dress.
Libby followed her. “How old are you, Krista?”
“Twenty-four. I started out in a Greenwich Village club and hit it big with the theme from August Heat. They did a neat video of me dancing around a fireman while he squirted his hose at me. The kids went wild with it and the album sold a couple of million copies. Now I’m doing more albums and I’ve got the concerts coming up. Maybe you saw me on that late-night show last Friday.”
“No, I’ve never seen you. But I’m sure you’re good.”
“Fox wants me to star in a movie after my tour. I’m thinking about it. That’s one reason why Matt wants me off the stuff. He says it’s ruining my career. God, he’s worse than my father!”
“Where are your folks?”
“They live outside Chicago. I haven’t seen them in a year, but I send money home once in a while. You grow away from them in this business, you know?”
She had pulled on tight jeans and a blouse, which Libby supposed must be her recording costume. “What time are you due at the studio?”
“Whenever I get there.” She started combing her hair. The earring had apparently stayed in her right ear all night. “Do you carry a gun?”
“Sure,” Libby said. “Where?”
“In my purse. Sometimes under my clothes.”
“Where under your clothes?”
“Strapped to my thigh.”
“That must be a real kick.”
“It’s damned uncomfortable, if you want to know,” Libby said.
They rode down in the elevator to the basement and walked directly to an underground parking garage for tenants. Libby saw no sign of a parking attendant and decided the security wasn’t that great after all.
Krista insisted on driving and took the wheel of the little white sportscar as if she’d been born with it in her hands. Weaving in and out of the morning traffic, they arrived at the suburban recording studio in fifteen minutes. “Matt keeps telling me I should record in Nashville, and I’m going to after this record,” she said as they entered the building. “But Shawn Gibbs has been good to me. His setup’s the best in town. Here are a couple of full-sized studios and behind this blank wall is another one he rarely uses.”
Gibbs, a tense, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses, was pacing the corridor awaiting Krista’s arrival. “The musicians have been tuning up for an hour,” he told her. “We have to pay them, you know.”
Krista kissed him lightly on the cheek. “This is Libby Knowles. She’s my bodyguard.”
He shook Libby’s hand limply, not giving her a second look.
Inside the studio, Matt Milton seemed relieved to see Libby. “You’re late.
I was worried,” he said.
Krista dropped her purse and sunglasses on a chair and accepted some sheet music from a bearded young man with an electric guitar.
“Fill me in on some of these people,” Libby said to Matt.
“The beard with the guitar is Zap Richards. He’s Krista’s arranger and composes some of her songs, too. He did the August Heat theme. They’ve been friends for years. The rest are local musicians Shawn hires for the sessions.”
Libby glanced around at the expensive equipment. “He seems to be really big time.”
“He is now, since Krista hit the top. He’d be lost without her.”
“Do you know someone named Sonny Ritz?”
The agent frowned. “That crud! Has he been around?”
“He was at her apartment when I arrived this morning.”
“Don’t let him near her again,” Milton said firmly, “or sure as hell he’ll slip her something she shouldn’t have.”
They started recording the first number and Libby settled back to enjoy it. Krista Steele’s voice was a surprise, deep and mellow and assured. She needed very few tricks to put across the song. She built to a climax that brought enthusiastic applause from Matt and Shawn outside the recording booth, and Zap Richards put aside his guitar to give her a hug. But she wasn’t satisfied and insisted that they run through it once more before it sounded right to her.
The second number was just as good, but on the third one she started having trouble. Twice she stopped in the middle, and the third time she still wasn’t satisfied. Finally, she called for a break and picked up her purse, heading for the ladies’ room.
“Go with her.” Milton told Libby. “Make sure she doesn’t take anything.” Libby was following Krista when Zap Richards emerged from the studio to block her path. “She just needs to freshen up,” he said. “She won’t be a minute.” His long slender fingers caught Libby’s arm but she brushed them away.
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