Ghost Times Two (21 page)

A new outfit always gives me a lift. I admired the texture of the Italian silk blouse, the colors quite perfect, varying shades of green from topaz to emerald in indeterminate cloudlike swaths, and wide-legged cream linen trousers, and strap sandals in a matching cream.

He was tired, but not too tired to notice. “Claire has a shirt like that but hers is kind of orangey.” He grabbed the sack, frowned. “I can split the cheeseburger with you.”

I hastened to reassure him. “Thanks, Sam, but I'm looking forward to stopping at Lulu's in a while.”

That cheered him. “So you haven't taken up permanent residence in here.” He opened the sack.

“I needed to use the phone.”

“Glad we could help.” He split the sack, used the paper as a plate. He spilled out french fries, squeezed ketchup from a packet, tore open the little packets of salt and pepper, unwrapped the cheeseburger. He took a big bite, jerked his head toward the blackboard. “I got the point about Layton when you told me about the hit-and-run.”

“Now there's proof.” I described the change in Graham's income the December after the hit-and-run. “You can confirm this by interviewing Ginny Morse.”

Sam took another gulp of tea. “I thought they were in Italy.”

“They are. I have sources.”

He raised an eyebrow, but he looked in a better humor. His eyes had their familiar sharp glint. He was gaining energy from the food. “I wouldn't bother to listen, but I have to say I was impressed with Wynn. I know she's smart. I've checked her out. Law review. Order of the Coif. Graduated third in her class. They always say women lawyers are smarter than men lawyers because they have to be. But she for sure has no criminal background and she never stumbled. She told the same story at the end of three hours of interrogation as she did at the beginning. It wasn't the old decline-to-answer-on-the-grounds-of-self-incrimination dodge. She answered everything fully, completely, and unhesitatingly. Her responses never changed about the text she received. Yes, she and Doug Graham discussed termination. No, it was not her termination. No, she was not at liberty to say whose termination. I know from you that she was protecting Anita Davis. I'd be inclined to believe her but the facts haven't changed, either. She was there. She had blood on her clothes. The murder weapon was found in her desk drawer. The first two she can explain. The third she can't. And a very scared guy, Sammy Rodriguez, was cutting the hedge at Graham's place Thursday and he heard a woman and a man talking at the pool, plotting his murder. The guy said it was time somebody killed him, and he mentioned Megan.”

“People who overhear conversations often misconstrue what they heard. The gardener heard my voice and that of a young friend of mine, and I can assure you we were not plotting murder.”

“Too bad I can't take your statement, yours and your friend's. Until then we have Sammy's statement down in black and white,
and the mayor intends to trumpet this on Monday. But most of all, Wynn can't wish away that gun in her desk drawer.”

“Someone else—”

He jabbed a french fry into a mound of ketchup liberally laced with pepper. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. In popped the jewel thief and just happened to have the murder weapon and decided to leave it in her desk. When you can show me why anybody would kill Graham to steal the ring, I'll pay attention. What else have you got?”

“Rhoda Graham knew about the ring. Lou Raymond told her. Rhoda wasn't at home at the time of the murder. With his death, her kids will inherit and they won't have to worry about college loans.”

He gave me a level glance. “Yeah. But now they don't have a dad. A dad's a dad even if they got mad when he divorced their mom.”

I knew then that Sam in his careful way was seeking information about everyone who might have been involved. “Anita Davis was on a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup run when Graham was killed.”

He spoke over a mouthful of fries. “I can see it now, the DA telling the jury how this heinous criminal shot her boss then stopped at Walmart to buy candy for a kid with cancer. I don't think so.”

“Geraldine Jackson said Graham was pretty touchy-feely with the help but never went too far. She said Brewster Layton had strict ideas about behavior at the office.”

Sam munched a french fry. “After the hit-and-run, Graham could have felt a little freer. Maybe that's proof he didn't have anything going on with anyone.”

I wasn't quite ready to give up on the possibility of a love affair gone wrong. “Or maybe he kept everything quiet because he saw a pot of gold over the horizon.”

“Lisbeth Carew? That might make any guy toe the line.”

I nodded. “Sharon King claims she has no idea if he was involved in an affair. You'd think his main secretary would know. But she won't say anything bad about anyone. Maybe she knows more than she's telling.”

Sam wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Afraid nothing rings my bell. The facts haven't changed.”

I was up against cold, hard reason and the kind of evidence a DA loved. All I had left were Nancy Murray, a scared rabbit, and Keith Porter, who turned out to be likable. Was that why I believed—

Sam's cell phone rang. He grabbed another napkin to wipe his hand, dug in his pocket, pulled out the cell. He checked caller ID and was abruptly alert, gaze intent, shoulders tight. “Chief Cobb.” He listened, swiped Speaker, held the cell between us.

Megan Wynn's husky voice was slightly breathless. “. . . Blaine said I had to call you. But I promised Nancy I wouldn't—”

“Start at the beginning. Who's Nancy?”

A deep breath. “My phone rang a few minutes ago. My home phone. I looked to see who was calling. It was Nancy Murray. The paralegal at the office.”

“Were you expecting a call from her?”

“No.” She sounded surprised, a little puzzled.

“Does she often call you?”

“No.”

“Why did you answer?” It was a brusque demand.

“I don't know. I usually answer the phone when someone I know calls. I thought perhaps she was calling to tell me she didn't believe I had anything to do with— Oh, it doesn't matter what I thought or why I answered. Let me tell you what she said.” Megan's voice
was thin, strained. “Nancy was whispering. I don't know if she thought someone might hear, but she was whispering and she talked really fast. She said,
Megan, I have to see you. Please come. Don't tell the police. I need help. I'm afraid—
She broke off. It was as if she put her hand over the speaker. The line went dead. I called back. There wasn't any answer. I got dressed and called again and the phone rang and rang until the recorder came on. I ran outside to my car and Blaine came up and wanted to know where I was going and I told him and he said I had to call you. We're in his car and we're almost there.”

Sam headed for the door, moving fast for a big man. “I'm coming.”

I disappeared.

I stood in Nancy Murray's brilliantly lit living room just inside the open front door. Light spilled out into the night. Nancy would no longer mark day and night. She lay crumpled on one side of the old Persian rug. Blood and tissue matted her left temple. The unmarked portion of her face was slack and white. Her eyes stared into eternity.

I was abruptly angry with myself. I'd taken her fear as a sheltered young woman's recoil from murder. Obviously there was a basis for fear beyond the fact of violence. Why had she been afraid? What did she know about Doug Graham's murder that had placed her in danger, brought death to this tastefully furnished room?

Voices sounded, Sam's deep and brisk. He reached the open doorway, then looked to his left, snapped a sharp command. “Stay right there, you two. Don't move.”

I knew the order was directed at Blaine and Megan.

The door had been wide open when I arrived. Obviously Blaine
and Megan reached the apartment before the police. Had they found the door ajar? Did Blaine knock? Call out? Had the force of his knock caused the door to slowly swing away and reveal Nancy lying on the floor? She was visible from the doorway. Blaine's first act would have been to call Sam again. He, in turn, would use his radio to call for backup. Sirens squalled.

Sam waited where he was. The ME would be the first to enter, and then the slow, careful forensic investigation would begin.

More sirens. Car doors slammed. Brisk steps. The rumble of voices.

I looked again at the body. From its position, Nancy apparently had been walking toward the door. She had been struck on the left temple, crumpled to the floor. Whoever wielded the weapon must have been slightly to her left and a step behind her. This was in keeping with a hostess moving to open the door to a departing guest. Had she been so eager for her visitor to depart that she'd stared ahead at the door, reached out, ready to turn the knob, pull the door open? If that were so, she would not have been half turned to see the person behind her, would not have been aware if a hand slipped into a purse or pocket, pulled out a weapon, lifted an arm, and swung. Swung hard.

It was a critical determination. If she had been attacked as she walked to the door, that meant she had admitted someone, they had spoken, and now the guest was departing.

When I left her apartment that afternoon, the chain lock snapped into place. That precaution underlined her fear. That was what I carried away from our talk. Nancy Murray was afraid. I held to that thought. What had frightened her?

Cocky steps and the ME, Jacob Brandt, arrived. How can steps
be cocky? He was a slender guy with a jaded face, but he carried himself like James Cagney as George M. Cohan. In your face.
Get out of my way. I'm a hell of a guy.
He was scruffy. Slight stubble of beard. Shaggy hair that needed a cut. A hole in the shoulder of his tee, baggy shorts, sandals. He stopped a foot away, studied the body on the floor. He pulled plastic gloves from a pocket, knelt, checked for a pulse. “Dead within the last thirty, forty minutes. Blunt trauma. One good hard whack was all it took. Neurocranium smashed.” He rocked back on his heels, jerked a thumb toward the floor, and a dark object.

I moved nearer, recognized a man's sock, thick and solid from toe to heel, the upper portion limp and empty.

“Looks like a dandy little homemade blackjack.” He peered down. “Yeah. I see blood and hair. A man's black dress sock, nylon, filled with dirt or sand, tied with a twist. Simple. Untraceable.” He pushed up from the floor. “She's all yours. You know the press is going to give you hell? I can see the headline now: ‘Killer Terrorizes Adelaide. Is Anyone Safe?' They'll write about the second homicide in as many days, what's happening to our fair city.” With that he plunged out into the night, his sandals slapping on the concrete walk.

The forensic investigation began, an officer with a sketch pad, another with a camera. Sam gave low-voiced instructions. Movement at the door and two officers stepped aside for Detective Sergeant Hal Price. Hal had obviously been at home relaxing. He was his always remarkably handsome self in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants. Sam gestured for him to come near and spoke for a moment, then the two of them turned to step outside.

The light on the walkway along the first-floor apartments was
muted, no blazing glare at night, enough illumination for safety and ease of passage, no more. Lampposts dotted the courtyard but their golden glow emphasized the darkness of the shadows. Two figures stood in a swath of shadow a few feet away from Nancy's open door. Blaine Smith was hard to see in a navy polo, jeans, and dark running shoes. He stood with his head jutting forward, one arm protectively curled around Megan's slight shoulders. She huddled against him, much more visible in a cream T-shirt and white slacks and sandals.

Hal headed on a path to the swimming pool. Sam strode toward Blaine and Megan.

A nearby door opened. “What's going on? I heard sirens.” Other doors opened, voices rose. “What's happened?” “Is there a fire?” “Fire! I don't smell smoke.” “Is somebody hurt?” “Why all the cops?”

Sam lifted his voice. “There is no emergency. Repeat, there is no emergency. Police have responded to a nine-one-one call that affects apartment 22 only. Residents and visitors are asked to remain in their apartments. We appreciate your cooperation. Apartment 22 is a crime scene. An active investigation is under way. There is no danger to other residents. Anyone with information regarding the occupant of apartment 22 or who saw anyone enter or leave apartment 22 within the past hour is asked to come to the pool area. Detective Sergeant Price will interview residents. Again, we are interested in a description of person or persons seen entering or leaving apartment 22 within the last hour. Thank you.”

Sam reached Blaine and Megan. “In twenty minutes, we'll go down to the station. I'll ask you to accompany me, Ms. Wynn. Smith, you can follow in your car. We can do it on that basis or I'll take Ms. Wynn into custody.”

“I'm her attorney.” Blaine had moved nearer Sam, was a bulwark between Sam and Megan.

“I got that. You can be present when I question her. I will also question you. You can also decide if you want counsel. Lawyer up if you want to.”

Megan reached out, touched Blaine's arm. “I'll go with Chief Cobb. I have nothing to hide. I have never been to this apartment complex or to Nancy's apartment until you and I came here together tonight.”

The chief's face was in shadow, but I thought I saw a slight nod of admiration.

A sudden light blazed. “Great shot, Chief. You and the Black Widow Lawyer, who shows up at every murder in Adelaide. I'll sell this for a bundle.”

Sam's face turned dull red. His big hands clenched. “This is a crime scene, Carson. No press releases—”

I remembered an encounter with Deke Carson during Sam's investigation into the murder of a man whose greed cost him his life. The weedy freelancer was Adelaide's equivalent to celebrity-haunting paparazzi, the bottom-feeders in the news business. Carson sneered. “So last century, Sam the Man. Who needs press releases? I got a scanner. Murder. Glenwood Apartments. Number 22. Occupied by Nancy Murray, paralegal at firm of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse. Inside skinny says Black Widow Lawyer Megan Wynn was on the scene of the murder of partner Doug Graham. Now she's on the scene”—Carson lifted his Leica, another burst of brightness—“of murder two. Looks like they're dropping like flies at that firm. Black Widows eat flies, don't they?”