by Carolyn Hart
I glanced at the clock. A few minutes after nine. Perhaps she was restless and went for a drive. Perhaps she wanted an ice cream cone. Perhaps she would soon return. And perhaps I should pay attention to the quiver of panic that vibrated inside me. I sensed darkness and evil and danger.
Outside, I checked her parking slot on the east side of the building. The Dodge wasn’t there. I had no idea how long she’d been gone. The Dodge . . . that was my best hope. . . .
Chapter 5
I landed beside Megan’s old Dodge, illuminated in the soft glow from lanterns spaced along the top of a brick wall to my left. Her empty car, the lights off, was parked behind a silver Porsche, also empty, in the driveway to Doug Graham’s mansion. I stood with one hand on the hood, listening. I heard the metallic chatter of a faraway television set. A few feet away a wrought iron gate in the wall was partially ajar. She certainly was not here in this silent drive. The garage doors were down. Had Megan gone through the gate?
On the other side of the gate, I paused to get my bearings. A sidewalk to my left ran parallel to the house. Ahead was a broad terrace that overlooked the darkened pool and cabana and the sycamores that bordered the golf course.
Light flooded through uncurtained French windows to illuminate orange and blue striped cushions on lawn furniture, several glass-topped tables, and a hammock on an iron stand. More light spilled out through an open door midway between the windows. The sound of a television was louder.
I hurried across the terrace, reached the open door, stared in shock. The room was tasteful, masculine, a collection of golf prints hanging on one wall, famous holes at Pebble Beach, St Andrews, Torrey Pines. Bookcases lined two walls. The furniture was comfortable, a chintz-covered sofa, several leather easy chairs. On one wall hung a huge TV screen. A ballplayer swung at a pitch. Cheers rose, the distant revelry an unsettling contrast to the grim scene in the spacious room.
Megan Wynn stood near an end table by a sofa. Blood stained her shirt. She scrubbed at stained hands with crumpled sheets of newspaper. Her face slack with shock, her lips trembling, she wiped and wiped and wiped and wiped at her hands.
On the floor a few feet away lay a large man’s crumpled body. The body was near a leather chair that faced the television screen, now vivid with a car ad, an expensive sedan careening in a semicircle on desert sand.
I reached the body, bent to look. The back of Doug Graham’s head was disfigured by a gaping wound. Blood drenched the shoulder of a light blue polo shirt. I looked at the leather chair, saw bloodstains. A half-finished drink sat on the table beside the chair.
Megan’s face was drained of color.
“I told you not to go inside.” Jimmy’s voice was uneven.
“What happened?” My voice was scarcely recognizable.
“My hands.” Her voice held horror. Blood still streaked her palms and fingers. Breathing in quick, sharp gasps, she grabbed another folded newspaper from the end table, shook free several sheets, scrubbed again at her hands. She dropped the crumpled sheets to a floor now littered with bloodied pages. She reached down to open her purse, grimaced at her still-sticky hands.
Water gushed in an adjoining half bath. A wet hand towel came rushing through the air.
“Here.” Jimmy’s voice was shaky as he thrust the towel at Megan.
Megan grabbed the cloth and swiped until her hands were clean, the cloth stained with blood.
“You have to get out of here.” Jimmy sounded young and panicked.
She dropped the hand towel on the floor by the crumpled pieces of newspaper.
I looked from the refuse on the floor to Doug’s body. “What happened?”
She gazed frantically around the room, apparently empty except for her and the dead man. She held up a trembling hand. “All right, you two, I don’t know if you’re here or not. But I can’t deal with either of you now. I have to call the police.” She opened her purse and yanked out her cell, then stopped and lifted her head.
I heard the unmistakable sound, too, as the distant wail of sirens rose over the blare from the television.
Megan listened, the phone still clutched in her hand.
Louder, stronger, the sirens came nearer and nearer, reached a crescendo, their warning wail urgent, imminent.
I never doubted the sirens were destined for this house.
Megan’s eyes widened. She looked around the spacious den. The television screen was bright and vivid, an outfielder running to catch a ball. Doug Graham’s body rested awkwardly on one side, smaller in death than in life. Blood still trickled from the back of his head. He was freshly dead. Very freshly dead. Crumpled newspaper sheets and the blood-soiled hand towel lay in a mound on the floor by her feet.
The squall of sirens rose, louder, nearer.
Jimmy talked fast. “Run out the back door. Hurry.”
Megan was abrupt. “My car’s in the driveway. It would be hard to explain why my car was here and I wasn’t.” She whirled away, headed out onto the terrace.
I was crisp. “Keep quiet, Jimmy.” I followed Megan outside.
She walked swiftly across the terrace and through the gate onto the driveway.
Three patrol cars, sirens shrieking, red lights whirling on the roofs, squealed to a stop behind Megan’s Dodge. The sirens cut off.
Megan stood in the glare of the cruiser headlights, a small figure, summery in a tee and shorts and sandals, but her face was drawn, her eyes stricken. Blood splotched her white T-shirt.
Red lights atop the cruisers continued to flash, ominous, threatening. Doors opened and the drive was suddenly filled with uniformed police. Two patrol officers advanced, the female officer in the lead. Stocky with short-cropped gray hair, the officer’s sharp gaze scoured Megan, her face, her posture, the position of her hands. The officer’s gaze lingered on Megan’s blood-streaked shirt, then lifted to stare at her warily. The taller officer moved his head back and forth, checking the surroundings for any hint of threat. He held a flashlight in one hand, kept the other on his holster. The beam swept either side of the drive, illuminating the shadows. Officers from the other cars fanned out, flashlights making the yard bright.
The lead officer was brusque. “Homicide reported. Where’s the body?”
I noted her name tag. Officer J. Roberts.
Megan blinked in surprise, surprise and apprehension. “In the house. I found him just a moment ago.”
“Anyone else on the premises?”
“I don’t know. I just arrived. I saw no one.”
“Lead the way.” Roberts never took her cold gaze off Megan.
Megan stared at the officer’s stolid face. “How did you know?”
There was a spark of interest in Roberts’s cold eyes. “Know?”
“That Mr. Graham had been killed.”
“Nine-one-one call. Didn’t you make that call?”
Megan’s eyes narrowed. A 911 call. Who called? Why was the call placed when she was in the house? Was the intent to put her at the scene of a murder? Megan’s hands clenched.
The stocky officer’s gaze noted those tight fists.
Megan saw Roberts’s stare. Slowly her hands relaxed. She spoke in a measured tone. “I didn’t call nine-one-one. I didn’t have time. I’d just arrived and found the body. I was getting ready to call when I heard sirens.”
Roberts was brusque. “Name?”
“Megan Wynn.” A pause. “Attorney-at-law. An associate in the firm of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse.”
Roberts’s expression didn’t change. “Show us the body.”
“Mr. Graham is in his den.” Megan glanced from Roberts to a surrounding ring of officers. “We go through the gate and cross the terrace to the back door.” She turned and walked through the open gate. Roberts and the tall, thin officer—Officer L. Burke—followed. The clap of shoes on cement was the only sound as Meg
an led the way to the side door.
When Megan reached for the doorknob, Roberts intervened. “I’ll get it.” She pulled out vinyl gloves, slipped them on, delicately turned the knob.
Megan stepped inside, gazed at the body slumped on the floor, a sick, shocked look on his face. “I found him dead.” She remained rooted only a foot from the doorway.
Roberts spoke to Burke. “Stay with her.” She gestured to several officers behind him. “Check out the house.”
Two officers moved cautiously across the spacious den, reached a door, stood to one side after flinging it open. “Police. Come out with your hands up. Police.” In a moment, they stepped through the door. Their voices faded as they moved farther away. It would be a large house to search.
Roberts surveyed the room from the doorway, noted the body. I suspected she was looking for a weapon. I stiffened. Where were the crumpled newspapers? And the bloodied hand towel? I checked a wastebasket near the sofa. Empty. The bathroom wastebasket held a few crumpled tissues. I looked at the ceramic holder on the wall by the lavatory. One hand towel, obviously clean, hung on one side. I moved the single towel to the center of the bar. I rather thought I knew what had happened. Should I warn Megan?
She stood stiffly by the terrace door. Officer Burke watched her.
I saw no way to speak to Megan, even in the softest whisper, and escape Burke’s notice.
Officer Roberts stood a few feet away from the body, talking rapidly into her lapel mic. “One-eight-seven at 93 Tudor Lane. Need medical examiner. Forensic van.” As she listened, she looked at Megan. “We have one person on the scene . . . no weapon . . . right. Scene secure until ME arrives.” She clicked off the mic. She returned to look down at Megan, the officer’s pale brown eyes cool and suspicious. “Name again.” She pulled a small notebook and a pen from one pocket.
“Megan Wynn.”
“Address.”
“Three-eighteen Magnolia, apartment 6.”
“Can you identify the deceased?”
Megan said quietly, “Douglas Graham. A partner at Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse.”
“What happened?”
Megan stiffened slightly. “What do you mean?”
“How was the victim killed?” Roberts’s gaze locked on Megan’s face.
Megan frowned. “I don’t know. I came in from the terrace and I saw him. He was sitting in that chair.” One small hand waved toward the brown leather chair that faced the screen on the wall. “He was slumped to one side. I saw blood.”
“How’d he end up on the floor?” The tone was accusatory.
Megan’s words came in uneven spurts. “I could tell he was horribly hurt.” Her eyes held horror. “I ran across the room. I had to try and help him. I picked up his arm to check for a pulse. I couldn’t find any. I let go of his wrist. Maybe I jerked him. I don’t know. His body started to slip sideways. I reached out and grabbed him, tried to keep him from falling, but I couldn’t hold on.” She glanced down at her shirt. “It was terrible. There was blood on my hands. I used newspapers to try and wipe it off.” A pause. “And a hand towel from the adjoining bathroom.”
Roberts stared at her, then turned and once again surveyed the room from the doorway. “Crumpled newspapers?”
“Yes. Several sheets.”
Roberts faced Megan. “Where’d you put the newspapers and hand towel?”
Megan frowned. “I dropped everything on the floor near the sofa.”
Roberts’s gaze was probing, skeptical. “Let me see if I have it right. You got here, walked in. You claim the victim was dead.”
Megan’s face tightened. “He was dead when I came.” She enunciated each word with force.
“Right. You claim he was sitting in the brown leather chair and you pulled him over to the floor and that’s how blood got on your clothes and hands.”
“That is what happened.”
Roberts’s gaze was accusatory. “Why were you here?”
“Mr. Graham texted me a few minutes before nine—”
Roberts held out her hand. “Let me see.”
Megan considered the request. She was under no compulsion to turn over the phone. However, the text would be found—message sent—in his phone. She reached into her purse, pulled out the cell phone, handed it to the officer.
Roberts clicked, glanced, read the text message.
I hovered near her shoulder.
Imperative you come to my house now re matter discussed this morning. Will otherwise pursue termination. Park in driveway. Enter at gate, cross terrace, come in back door to den.
Roberts copied the text, handed back the cell. “Your termination?”
Megan looked surprised. “My . . . No. It was another matter entirely.”
“You weren’t about to be fired?”
Megan was firm, confident. “No.”
“Whose termination did he want to talk about?”
Megan was silent for a long moment, finally spoke slowly, “I decline to answer that question.” She wasn’t combative, but she was definite.
Roberts spoke in a level, expressionless voice. “We’ll have quite a few questions. You are the only person found at the scene of a homicide. You claim the victim was dead when you arrived. You claim you didn’t call nine-one-one. We need to know when you arrived, what you saw, what information you are willing”—slight emphasis—“to provide. Burke, escort Ms. Wynn out to the patrol car. Interview her. Note any question she refuses to answer.”
As Megan and Burke reached the drive, a crime van pulled up, followed by a red sports car and a dark green SUV. Two crime techs swung out of the van. Each carried a black case. They walked briskly toward the gate. A slender young man in a T-shirt, shorts, and espadrilles popped out of the sports car. I recognized Jacob Brandt, the brash medical examiner. As soon as he officially declared Graham dead, the painstaking investigation would begin, photos, measurements, sketches. Adelaide police Detective Sergeant Hal Price slammed the SUV door. He was as tall, blond, muscular, and handsome as I remembered from earlier adventures. Hal strode swiftly past the parked van and patrol cars, nodded to Officer Burke.
Burke led Megan to the second cruiser and opened the rear door.
Megan glanced inside, saw the metal grillwork that separated the backseat from the front. “I prefer to stand on the drive.”
Burke’s face furrowed. He resembled an unhappy bloodhound.
Megan’s voice was pleasant, but firm. “I’d rather be out in the night air. How can I help you?” She was somber, but self-possessed and confident.
After a hesitation, Burke pulled out a notebook. “What time did you arrive?”
“A few minutes after nine.”
“Did you see anyone near the house?”
“No.”
“Did you hear any sounds? Voices, door slamming, footsteps?”
“Nothing besides the television.”
“Did you see any vehicles?”
There was an instant of hesitation, then she said without expression, “As I turned into the street, a car pulled away from the front of the house.”
He looked eager. “Make, model?”
She turned her hands palm upward. “I’m not knowledgeable about cars. The car was driving away. I saw taillights receding.” She pointed to the east. “The lights were red.” Her tone was bland.
I looked at her sharply. I had the sense she could have said more, had no intention of doing so.
“What happened then?”
“I pulled into the driveway, parked behind the Porsche. That’s Mr. Graham’s car. I went through the gate and crossed the terrace. The door to the den was open. I heard the sounds of a baseball game. I thought he wouldn’t hear me so I called out as I pulled the handle. As I opened the door, I saw him.”
“Were you surprised the door was open?”
&
nbsp; “I assumed the door would be open since Mr. Graham directed me to enter that way.”
“Had you been here before?”
“I have been at his house several times for dinner parties.”
“You opened the door. What happened next?”
“I called out his name.” A quick, strained breath. “Then I saw him. He was slumped to one side in that leather chair, his head tilted sideways. His arm was hanging down. I saw blood on the back of his head and his shoulder. He wasn’t moving but I knew I had to see if he was alive. I hurried across the room and picked up his hand. I couldn’t find a pulse. When I let go of his wrist, he started to fall. I tried to stop his fall, but he was too heavy. My hands were bloody and there was blood on my shirt. I went across the room to a stack of newspapers on an end table. I grabbed some and used them to wipe my hands off. My hands were still sticky. It was awful.” Horror bubbled in her voice.
Burke was writing fast.
“I used a damp hand towel from the bathroom and that helped. But there’s still blood on my shirt.”
“Did you see a weapon?”
“No.”
“Do you have or have you ever had possession of a gun?”
“No.” Her face was pale and empty, her eyes dark with worry. And fear.
“What were your relations with Mr. Graham?”
“I am an associate at the law firm—”
I leaned close to her ear. “I’ll be back,” I whispered.
Her face didn’t change. My presence or absence appeared to matter not at all to her. I felt rather sure Jimmy was near, aching to talk to Megan, frightened for her. I knew he meant well when he removed the news sheets she’d used to wipe her hands but I hoped he refrained from tampering with any other evidence. I wished I had some means of finding him, but there was no time for that now.
As I arrived in the den, Jacob Brandt faced Detective Sergeant Price. “He was shot from about a foot away. The bullet smashed the back of his head. I’d say he was killed instantly. The slug may be pretty battered, but I’ll dig it out for you. For the rest, Caucasian male approximately forty to fifty years old, estimated height six foot three or four, weight around two forty. No scrapes on his hands. I’d say the bullet caught him by surprise.”