Savannah didn’t envy the medical examiner and her crew the job that lay before them. Trying to gather evidence at the scene of any homicide was difficult, no matter what the circumstances.
But, considering what lay inside the walls of Qamar Damun—the strange, formerly beautiful house with its dark past and exotic name—their task was unenviable at best. Savannah was afraid that their search for the truth of Lucinda Faraday’s violent death might prove all but impossible.
Chapter 7
“Okay,” Dirk said, “we inform this dude that his great-grandma’s dead, and then we go home and to bed. That sound okay to you?”
Sitting next to him in the Buick’s passenger seat, Savannah nodded. She could feel the fatigue and the stress of the day weighing heavily on her. Ten years ago, she wouldn’t even have noticed. It would’ve taken a week’s worth of rotten days to slow her down.
Now, well into her forties, a ten-minute encounter with a quarrelsome, druggy mother, while trying to keep her son from witnessing that quarrel, had left Savannah drained and in need of her comfy chair, a steamy romance novel, and some serious kitty purring and petting.
Add a homicide—like the maraschino cherry on the melted sundae—and Savannah felt twice her age.
“Good idea,” she said. “I was hoping to get back in time to tuck Brody in and tell him good night.” She glanced at her watch and realized it was 9:10. “No doubt Gran’s already put him down. She’s always been dead serious about getting kids to bed on time. Says it stunts their growth if they don’t get enough sleep.”
Dirk laughed, but there was no mirth in it. By the lights of the dashboard, Savannah could see his grim expression when he said, “Didn’t seem to affect my growth none. I did well to get four hours’ sleep on a good night there in the orphanage.”
As usual, when Dirk mentioned his childhood, Savannah felt a pang of sadness. In all the years she had known him and the countless personal things they had shared, she could count on her fingers the times he had said anything at all about his upbringing.
Dirk Coulter was a man with a well-established reputation for complaining constantly about everything—that his free coffee was stale, that he had to wait longer than five seconds in a grocery line, that it was raining or not raining as he desired. So, the fact that he had so little to say about being raised in a no-frills, poorly regulated orphanage told Savannah a lot.
She was almost afraid to ask. But, as usual with her, nosiness won over courtesy. “Why weren’t you able to sleep?” she wanted to know.
“I could’ve. But you close your eyes, you take your chances.”
“Of what?”
“At least, gettin’ your junk stole.”
“And at worst?”
“Gettin’ jumped.”
“At night? When you were in bed?”
“That was the best time to settle whatever happened earlier in the day. No adults around to put a stop to it. If they could be bothered. If they weren’t too busy, gabbing with each other or sneakin’ off for a smoke.”
“Important stuff like that.”
“Yeah. Right.”
They rode on a few more blocks in silence. Then he continued, “At night, the lights are off. The other kid’s got his eyes closed, not on guard. If he’s all the way asleep, you could get three or four licks in before he’d even know you were on ’im.”
“Wow,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “You sound like an expert there.”
He grunted and shrugged. “I gave as good as I got. Usually better.”
She didn’t hear any pride or satisfaction in his words. Just a flat, matter-of-fact delivery of the facts as he saw them.
Reaching over, she placed her hand on his thigh and patted it. “I’m sorry you went through that, sugar,” she said. “No kid should’ve had to grow up that way. It wasn’t fair.”
He turned and gave her a sweet smile. “Yeah, well, you and me both know that ‘fair’s’ got nothin’ to do with nothin’.”
“True.”
“Grown-ups, they’ve got a lot to say to kids about how important it is to be fair. But then, you notice that they aren’t fair even half the time, and life itself is even less fair. Good things happen to rotten people. Rotten things happen to good people. That’s just the way it is. Nothin’s fair about nothin’.”
“I like to think that, in the end, everything works out. The good people get rewarded, and folks who hurt others get their comeuppance, sooner or later.”
“That’s because you got them rose-colored glasses on, Van. From what I’ve seen, there ain’t a lot of justice in this world. What little there is comes later, a lot later, rather than sooner.”
“But it does come.”
“If you say so.”
“Granny would say so, too.”
“She would. That’s true. You and your grandma are two special women. Both of you went through hell and back when you were growing up. There’s no denying that. But I figure the suffering you and her went through, it’s what made you who you are—the two best people I’ve ever known in my life.”
He reached down, lifted her hand from his leg, and tenderly kissed it.
Savannah could feel her throat tightening and some tears wetting her eyelids. Leave it to him to get all mushy when she was extra tired. It was a dangerous combination—romance and exhaustion. If she didn’t watch out, she’d be reduced to a blubbering ninny in the next five seconds.
That wouldn’t do because they were approaching the house where Lucinda Faraday’s great-grandson lived with his fiancée. Making a notification was tough enough without arriving in tears because your hubby had said something sweet a minute before.
As Dirk pulled the Buick up to the curb in front of the tiny Spanish-style house with its beige stucco walls and clay tile roof, Savannah was a bit surprised to see that Lucinda Faraday’s heir lived in a place that was even smaller than hers, not to mention that it was in worse shape.
Savannah had repainted hers and had some missing tiles replaced within the past few years. Even with only the fading light of the setting sun to illuminate the house, one look at the old structure told Savannah that no one had done any improvements since it had been built, decades before.
The yard was equally neglected, as was a rusty old SUV sitting in the driveway.
“That thing’s seen better days,” Dirk said.
“A few decades ago,” Savannah added. “Like the house.”
“From the looks of this place, it was back when the old lady and her great-grandson had their falling out. When she cut off the money.”
“If she ever gave him any in the first place,” Savannah added. “Just because folks are rich, that doesn’t mean they pass it down.”
“Not till they’re dead and got no use for it anymore.”
“Something to consider, since he’s the sole heir, huh?”
“Yeah. We’ll have to keep an eagle eye on him when he gets the bad news. See if he takes it hard, gets weepy and all that.”
“Or refrains from dancing a jig.”
“Exactly.”
They got out of the car and headed for the house. It was dark inside, except for the glow of a television coming from the living room window.
“Looks like somebody’s home,” he said. “I hope so. I don’t wanna have to go running around town lookin’ for the guy in bars and pool halls.”
Savannah grinned and thought, not for the first time, that Dirk had never noticed that San Carmelita’s last official pool hall had closed over twenty years ago. Now the town’s miscreant juveniles tended to while away their idle hours in the food court at the local mall. Much to the distress of shoppers and the mall security team.
As they were about to step onto the porch, Savannah glanced around to the side of the house and saw something that stood out in sharp contrast to the rest of the property. A shiny new black Porsche, whose price tag would have exceeded the value of the house and land combined.
“Hey, hey, hey,�
� she said. “Nice ride.”
Dirk sniffed. “If you like those fancy foreign jobs. I’m partial to American-made myself.”
“Made in America back when the buffalo and the dinosaurs roamed.”
“Yeah. Like your Mustang.”
“Shush about my Mustang. I noticed you were happy to leave the cruiser with one of the uniforms back at the Faraday place, so’s you could drive your Buick home.”
“Yeah, well. Can’t have you drivin’ it everywhere.”
“Might spill a drop of Coke on the dash.”
“I know! I break out in a cold sweat just thinkin’ about it.”
He knocked on the door—a bit more softly than his usual cop-pounding barrage. The nearby windows didn’t rattle, and he didn’t shout, “Police! Open up!”
Savannah was proud. Who said a husband couldn’t be taught a bit of civility by a highly determined wife?
He had to knock twice more before someone finally opened it a crack and looked out.
“Yes?” answered a meek voice. A woman’s voice.
“Yeah, hi,” he replied, pulling his badge from his jacket pocket and holding it up to her eye level. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department.” He nodded toward Savannah. “This is Savannah Reid. Can we come in for a minute?”
“Why? What do you want?” she asked, her voice almost squeaky with timidity.
“To talk to Geoffrey Faraday,” Dirk told her. “Is he here?”
“Um.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Yes. But he’s busy.”
“Then tell him to get un-busy and come to the door.”
Savannah noticed that Dirk had dropped his nice-guy tone and was about to go flat out Aggravated Cop. From experience, Savannah knew that wouldn’t bode well for Miss Squeaky Voice behind the door.
Savannah stepped forward and in her most “down home” Dixie tone said, “Please, ma’am. This is important. Detective Coulter has a matter of serious family business to discuss with Mr. Faraday. Something he needs to hear.”
When the woman hesitated a moment too long to suit Dirk, he called out, “Faraday! Come to the door! Now!”
Sooner than Savannah expected, Dirk’s new tactic worked. Almost instantly, the door opened halfway, fully revealing the timid lady of the house, who was standing there in a pair of pink pajamas with cartoon teddy bears on them. She appeared to be in her late twenties and in desperate need of a shampoo. Her dark hair hung in limp, greasy strands nearly to her waist. Other than a smudge of mascara beneath both eyes, she wore no makeup. Just a frightened, nervous look.
Next to her stood a guy, maybe ten years older than she was. He was as overly dressed and meticulously groomed as the lady of the house was slovenly. His thick strawberry-blond hair was so heavily gelled that Savannah was sure not a strand of it would budge, even in an EF5 tornado. He was wearing a charcoal suit that, even to her relatively untrained eye, appeared to be of the highest quality with a contemporary, physique-flattering cut. A crisp white shirt and designer tie completed his ensemble. She was sure she could have paid off her mortgage several times over for the price of his platinum, diamond-accented watch.
He flashed them a smile as gaudy as his jewelry and said in an oily smooth voice, “Good evening, Detective Coulter, Ms. Reid. I’m Geoffrey Faraday.” He waved a casual hand toward the woman standing beside him. “This is my fiancée, Brooklynn Marsh. How can we help you?”
Instinctively, Savannah knew he had been standing right behind the door the entire time. That and her instincts caused her to distrust and dislike him instantly. Most law-abiding people, if visited by a representative of law enforcement, were curious, concerned, and open. Not guarded, nervous, and scared, as Brooklynn appeared to be, or fake-friendly and suspicious like Geoffrey.
People with nothing to hide didn’t hide behind doors.
“We need to come inside and speak to you, Mr. Faraday,” Dirk was saying, even as he put his hand on the door and pushed it farther open. “It won’t take long.”
“Good, because I’m going out for the evening,” Faraday said, adjusting his gold cuff links in such a way as to give them both a good, long look at them.
“Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t,” Dirk told him, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “That depends on how our little talk goes.”
Savannah shot Dirk a warning look. After all, this man was about to hear that a member of his family had been murdered. Since they had no evidence to the contrary, they had to assume he knew nothing about it and would probably be devastated.
“Could we all sit down, sir?” Savannah asked.
Faraday glanced behind him at the cluttered living room, then gave his fiancée an angry look. “I guess you could,” he said, “if there was somewhere to sit in this place.”
Instantly, Brooklynn sprang into action, scurrying around the room, grabbing dirty clothes, magazines, and a pizza box off the sofa and tossing it all behind a recliner. “There,” she said. “All clear. Sit down.”
Faraday picked up a bra from a nearby chair, gingerly, with thumb and forefinger, and tossed it behind the recliner with the rest. Then he took a seat on the edge of the chair and waved Savannah and Dirk to do the same on the sofa.
They did. Though Savannah made a mental note to toss her slacks into the washing machine the moment she arrived home. The place stank of urine, which she hoped was from unseen pets and on the carpet, not the furniture.
“What’s this all about?” Faraday asked as Brooklynn sat down, cross-legged, on the floor at his feet.
Dirk cleared his throat and then plunged in. When forced to do something he hated, he didn’t waste time. “I’m sorry, Mr. Faraday, but you must prepare yourself. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Faraday didn’t seem particularly alarmed, or even all that curious, Savannah noted as she watched his face, taking in every nuance of expression, as he said, “Oh? What news?”
“It’s about your great-grandmother. Mrs. Lucinda Faraday.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Hardly the normal response, Savannah thought. Most folks were frozen in terror by this point in such a conversation.
“I’m afraid she’s passed away,” Dirk said with more compassion than she thought him capable of mustering under such strange circumstances.
Brooklynn gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth.
Faraday, on the other hand, sat quite stoically until Dirk clarified his former statement. “She’s gone, sir. I’m sorry, but she was found dead in her home a few hours ago.”
“I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Great Granny was old. Old as dirt, as they say,” Faraday stated quite matter-of-factly. “It’s not like we weren’t expecting it.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dirk leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, unabashedly staring at the not-particularly-bereaved great-grandson. “But were you expecting her to expire due to foul play?” he asked.
Again, his fiancée on the floor at his feet made a small, choking sound, while Faraday registered hardly any reaction at all.
“Foul play?” she said with a half sob. “Do you mean, like someone . . . hurt her?”
“Yes, very much so. Someone killed her, ma’am,” Dirk said. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that makes the news much harder to hear.”
She nodded, then covered her face with her hands. “It’s horrible!” she said, beginning to cry in earnest. “She was a difficult person, but for someone to actually . . . Oh, it’s just awful! Who would do such a terrible thing?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Dirk said, studying Geoffrey Faraday like an owl eyeing a rat he was contemplating having for dinner. “We will. But first, we need to know if your great-grandmother had any enemies that you’re aware of, sir.”
“Enemies?” Faraday gave an unpleasant little snort. “Yes, she had enemies.”
“Who?” Dirk asked, reaching into his jacket and taking out a small notebook and pen.
�
��Who wasn’t her enemy?” Faraday replied with a shrug. “I don’t think I ever heard her say a kind word to anybody. She was ill-tempered, conceited, opinionated, and ruthless when it came to getting her way. Which she always did.”
Brooklynn looked up at him, her mouth open in shock. “Geoff! Don’t say that about your great-grandmother! Miss Lucinda could be nice . . . when she wanted to be.”
“When it served her purpose, you mean,” he replied. “She managed to anger, insult, and alienate everybody from her housekeeper, to the guy who delivered her newspaper, to her local congresswoman.” He paused to take a deep breath, then added, “Let’s just say, she’s not going to be missed. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
Savannah turned to Dirk. She could see his mental wheels spinning, taking in all of this, trying to make sense of it.
Geoffrey Faraday didn’t appear at first glance to be a stupid man. Yet, with every word he was uttering, he was making himself look, more and more, like their number one suspect.
“Okay,” Dirk said. “Nobody’s going to grieve her passing? Everyone she knew could have wanted her dead?”
“Absolutely. Most people will probably be relieved.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Geoff,” Brooklynn said with a sniff, twisting a strand of her long dark hair around her finger. “I’m not happy she’s gone. Now it’s too late for us to ever make peace with her. I’m sad it had to end like this.”
There was a long, awkward silence in the room as Geoffrey glared down at his fiancée.
Finally, Dirk said, “Okay. Was there anyone in particular you can think of who might have had a worse-than-average grudge against her? Anyone she had a confrontation with recently? Anybody who might’ve threatened to do her harm?”
“Nope. Afraid not.” Faraday gave Dirk a little smile that set off alarm bells in Savannah’s head. It was a mocking grin, almost as though he was daring Dirk to challenge him.
Not smart, Savannah thought. Not when my man’s tired and hungry.
Dirk was almost always one or the other. Often both.
Suddenly, Dirk snapped his notebook closed and shoved it, far more forcefully than necessary, into his jacket pocket. He stood and said, “Okay, Mr. Faraday. If you don’t want to help me figure out who killed your great-grandmother, I’ll take it from here myself. The first person on my suspect list is going to be the one who has the most to gain from her passing.”
And the Killer Is . . . Page 7
