by Carolyn Hart
“Sam”—a sudden transformation of her plastic politician face into momentary respect for the dead—“a dreadful blow to our community. Doug Graham was a fine man, always committed to civic duty. But”—her expression was sunny again—“once again Adelaide swiftly deals with adversity, our finest”—a nod at Sam to make clear the accolade to the police department—“capturing the dastardly assassin within moments. Of course, I want you to be present at the press—”
“Uh, Neva. Please sit down.” He gestured at the chair where I sat.
I quickly moved but not quite fast enough to avoid contact with her equally imposing girdled rear.
She remained midway down to the chair, an impressive feat given her heft. She swept a hand behind her.
I quivered.
Neva jerked upright, whirled, stared at the empty chair. “I felt something . . . odd.”
Sam was courteous. “The air comes out of that register kind of funny.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling.
“Oh. Well, talk to maintenance about it.” She plumped into the chair. “I’ve called all the stations. Looks like we’ll have the city channels here, too. The coverage should be great. I’ll run home and change. I think my blue polka dot silk dress and navy pumps. Dignity, you know.” She squinted at Sam. “Your suit’s—”
“Wrinkled. Claire’s out of town. About that press conference, Neva, here’s our situation. We have some unexpected leads, so it would be premature to say the lawyer’s a person of interest.”
I would have hugged Sam for giving my claim merit, but didn’t want to startle him.
Neva’s lower lip protruded in obvious petulance. “That’s not what Howie Harris told me.”
Sam’s face remained bland, but I saw the slight tightening of his jaw. Detective Howie Harris was Neva’s pick to be police chief, if and when she got rid of Sam. Moreover, Howie was her mole into department doings, which had to gall Sam.
He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he nodded sagely. “Howie will be brought up to date this morning. Everything has changed since last night.”
She looked like a dirigible with a leak, heavy shoulders slumping. “What am I going to do about the press conference?”
“Neva, this is a great opportunity for you. I’ll supply you with a layout of the crime scene. Reporters love that kind of inside information. Detective Sergeant Price will be in your office twenty minutes before the press conference. He’ll brief you from top to bott—” He paused, rephrased. “Detective Sergeant Price will provide details, and here’s the best part. You can say you are on top of the action and you expect a breakthrough in the case over the weekend. That way you’ll be on the news tonight and Monday night both.”
Neva’s pale blue eyes gleamed with the happy light of a shark scenting blood, TV twice on good ratings nights. But she was wary. “Reporters won’t come more than twice. I’ll tell them today the police have questions for many close to Doug Graham, including Megan Wynn, an associate at the dead man’s law firm who was found at the scene of the crime, and that the murder suspect will be named at eleven o’clock Monday morning.” She rose. “Since word has already been leaked to the press”—she had the grace to look uncomfortable—“about Ms. Wynn, this keeps her onstage but widens the field.”
She was at the door. She looked back. “Eleven o’clock Monday, Sam.”
The door shut behind her.
I thankfully returned to the chair. I swirled present, took an instant to admire the intricate embroidery on the sleeves of my tunic.
Sam glowered. “If somebody finds Howie Harris strangled with his bow tie one of these days, I better have an alibi. He not only whispered in Neva’s ear, he’s already sicced the press on Wynn. When they get the details—lawyer shot, associate found at scene, the text—they’ll write stories where any kindergartner could figure she’s suspect-in-chief.” He tugged on his shirt collar as if it were too tight. “I’m at the poker table without even a pair in my hand and I’m supposed to present a perp on a platter Monday morning. Moreover, if you weren’t scre—messing things up, I could charge the obvious suspect.”
I was gentle. “You don’t want to arrest the wrong person. Megan Wynn isn’t the only person with a motive. Yesterday—”
Sam took notes as I described Megan’s chance at a new job. “But Doug Graham knew a softy when he saw one. He threatened to fire Anita Davis, a secretary, if Megan left. Anita needs the firm health insurance because her daughter is very ill. A different insurer might not include their doctor or hospital.”
I didn’t tell Sam that Anita overheard the threat, knew her job was in peril. After all, Megan had immediately reassured Anita that she was remaining at the firm and Anita’s job was secure. Moreover, Megan declined to explain to the police the text that brought her to Doug’s house to find him dead. Megan hadn’t told Blaine the background, either, and I doubted she intended to do so.
If I informed Sam and he confronted Anita, as he certainly would, Anita would think Megan had revealed everything. I couldn’t break Megan’s promise. Besides, it was apparent that Megan didn’t connect Anita to Doug’s murder.
I pushed away the thought that Anita wouldn’t be afraid of losing her insurance if Doug Graham died.
A rumble as the chief cleared his throat. “Cat got your tongue?” He was eyeing me closely. “Are you seeing how the evidence stacks up against Megan Wynn?”
I realized my silence was unfortunate. It gave Sam plenty of time to envision how angry and disappointed Megan must have been. I tried for a diversion. “I wonder if a clever cat snaked out a paw and snagged a beef tongue from a banquet table?”
Sam’s voice was dry. “That’s as good an answer as any. Keeps it simple. I like simple. Employee wants to quit. Boss issues threat. Boss shot that night. Like one plus one equals two. Bad boss snuffed. Secretary’s job is safe. Lawyer can quit.”
He was being stubborn. “Don’t close your mind yet.” I described young and very angry Keith Porter and his parting words, which amounted to a threat, a loudmouthed oilman and a fabulously expensive diamond ring, Graham’s impending engagement to a wealthy widow, the ex-wife who got the short end of the stick in a settlement, Graham writing and crumpling message after message to someone obviously angry or unhappy with him, the hit-and-run death of a bicyclist and a curiously timed car crash—
Sam stopped me there. “What’s Layton’s motive?”
“Maybe Graham was threatening to expose him as the driver who killed the student.”
Sam raised a dark brow. “If Graham kept quiet since 2014, why would he open up now? Besides, Graham would be a coconspirator in covering up a crime, which could get him disbarred.”
I hated to see Jimmy’s theory ignored. “Graham’s death means no one can ever prove anything about that accident.”
“Still, why last night? What’s different about last night and any other night since the hit-and-run?”
“Possibly nothing. But there was something wrong between Graham and Layton. I don’t know if it had to do with the hit-and-run. Layton should have been grateful to Graham. Instead, Layton disliked Graham. Layton avoided him. They ignored each other when they passed in the hall. Maybe Graham was threatening Layton in some fashion.”
Sam shrugged “That’s pretty vague. I talked to Brewster this morning.”
I looked at Sam in surprise.
His face was unreadable. “Brewster called me at home. I’ve known him a long time. Rotary. He said a friend heard about the murder on the morning news, informed him. Brewster asked what happened. I told him the investigation was in the early stages, that Megan Wynn claimed to have found the body. I asked him if he thought Wynn and Graham were having an affair. He was pretty sharp with me, said, Absolutely not. I asked him if they planned to fire her. He said, Absolutely not. Of course, now I know what termination Graham meant. But Wynn had to be furious that she was
being blackmailed into staying at the firm, so the fact that she wasn’t losing a job doesn’t matter.”
I jousted right back. “A well-balanced young woman doesn’t shoot a man because she is forced to stay in a job. She might despise him. She wouldn’t shoot him.”
“The DA could argue she had to turn down the chance of a lifetime, partnership in a new young firm.”
We looked at each other. Stalemate. Sam wasn’t about to dismiss Megan from a list of suspects.
“But you are a fair man. You’ll look at every possibility.”
His smile was slow in coming, but it came. “Yeah. I’ll find out everything I can about Graham and the people around him.”
I felt a huge relief. Sam was a man of his word. “You’ll want to talk to his secretary, Sharon King. She looks smart, as a legal secretary would. Plus, nobody knows a man like his secretary. If Graham was crossways with anyone, she’ll know. Then there’s Nancy Murray, the paralegal. I don’t think she misses much. Louise Raymond, the receptionist, likely has a good sense of everyone in the office. And you’ll enjoy getting Geraldine Jackson’s take on him. She’s another secretary, and the kind of woman every man notices. You can’t spend five minutes around her without imagining her at the bar with a beer, shouting a rowdy song. You’ll enjoy the time whether you learn anything or not.”
“Now that I’m a married man”—his tone was amused—“I make it a point not to enjoy other women. I’ll talk to all of them.”
I didn’t include Anita Davis. Surely a young mother wouldn’t commit murder. But mothers will do what they have to do to protect their children.
“Sounds like an interesting office. But”—his smile fled—“the facts look lousy for Megan Wynn. He was dead, she was there. She had a double-barreled motive.”
I was emphatic. “He was dead when she got there. She didn’t call nine-one-one. So somebody else knew he was dead. What about that nine-one-one call?”
Sam grunted and leaned forward toward his monitor, clicked several times. “Night dispatcher took the call at 9:04 p.m. The caller whispered.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s fishy. People who call nine-one-one can be hysterical, struggling for breath, shouting, crying. They don’t whisper unless an intruder’s in the next room. But we have to remember, we’re dealing with a lawyer. She might be rigging the whole thing.”
My mouth opened.
“I know.” Sam was impatient. “You think she’s an innocent bystander, but I’m telling you how the same facts can be read by somebody like Neva. Or me.” His tone was grouchy. “The caller could have whispered just to make us crazy when we are trying to figure it out. Anyway, a whisper disguises sex, so the caller could have been a man or woman.” He stared at the screen. “Here’s what the caller whispered: Doug Graham house. Ninety-three Tudor Lane. Dead man. Shot.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I was thoughtful. “I think the murderer texted Megan on Graham’s cell, called nine-one-one, and left by the back door, knowing Megan would arrive and likely be in the house when the police got there. Or if Megan found him and left, her car might be seen—as it was—and she would be in big trouble. Plus, there was the text message on Graham’s cell to point a finger at her. But”—I was emphatic—“no gun.”
Sam’s eyes glinted. “You seem to know everything. Where is the gun?”
“I’m not a psychic. The murderer may have hidden the gun in the woods or perhaps the murderer took the gun.”
“Thank you.” He was sarcastic.
“Always glad to help.” I sent him a cheery smile.
He remained somber. “Your ideas are interesting. But you can see that Megan Wynn’s obviously suspect number one. Unfortunately, you can never appear”—slight emphasis—“as a witness, so to anyone not privy to your input—”
Obviously he referred to the mayor.
“—Wynn is the person of interest.”
“On a positive note, please don’t waste time suspecting her.” I was still worrying about the gun. I felt certain the murder was premeditated, so the murderer surely wore gloves to avoid gun smoke residue. Unless the gun could be traced to the killer, it would have been smart to half hide the gun in the woods along with contaminated gloves. Traces of DNA could have been avoided by wearing a double layer of vinyl gloves and leaving with only the inner pair. The intent to embroil Megan was clear from the text on Graham’s phone and the 911 call. Megan would immediately have been suspected if the gun were found hidden in a shallow hole in the woods. So far, a search hadn’t uncovered it, and I was sure the police had used metal detectors and turned up every rusted can in a half-mile radius. It appeared instead that the murderer took the gun. Why?
Sam massaged one cheek. “The investigating officer thinks Wynn was muddying the water when she claimed she didn’t call nine-one-one. Wynn could have taken the gun and buried it in the woods, then made the call. We’ll keep looking out there. She had to do something to explain away the text message. Anyway, that’s all in the officer’s report. You can bet the mayor’s already read it. Unless I find somebody else, Neva will insist I arrest Wynn. I’ll question Wynn this morning and—”
The phone on his desk shrilled.
Sam leaned over and punched speakerphone. “Cobb here.”
“Break-in reported at law offices of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse. Two cars en route—”
Sam interrupted. “On my way.”
I disappeared.
Chapter 8
Brewster Layton’s ascetic face was somber. The older man’s shoulders slumped in a habitual stoop. His posture suggested a man burdened by years of care, a man who had lost vigor and hope. He cupped one hand to his goatee, likely a familiar gesture when concentrating.
Johnny Cain, trim and handsome in the Adelaide police uniform, light blue shirt and French blue trousers with a black stripe, gazed at Brewster respectfully but intently. “. . . find evidence of unauthorized entry?”
A rotund middle-aged blonde, Officer A. Benson, stood at Johnny’s shoulder, gaze darting, attentive, wary.
Brewster gestured toward the open door at the end of the hall. “Someone broke a window in Doug’s office, came in that way. I’ll show you.” He turned to lead the way.
In two quick strides, Johnny moved ahead of him. “Let me take a look, sir. If you’ll wait in the doorway.” He was polite but definite. “We want to avoid contaminating any evidence.”
Johnny stopped just inside the door to survey the office. In the wall to the left of Graham’s desk, there was a single window. The lower portion was raised. A pane was missing. Pieces of glass sprinkled the floor beneath the window. The window looked out to the alley. Two windows in the wall behind Graham’s desk were closed and appeared undamaged.
I reached the alley window before Johnny came around the end of the desk. The other officer waited near the door, checking the surroundings. As directed, Brewster Layton watched from the hall.
Johnny stopped a few feet away from the window, careful not to walk into pieces of glass lying on the floor.
I hovered next to the open window. On closer inspection, I saw a portion of metal screen hanging loose. The screen was ajar. I pictured the alleyway late at night, a dark figure standing, waiting, listening. When sure no one was near, one gloved hand likely focused the beam of a flashlight on the window and the other raised a knife to rend the screen. One sharp rip and the screen lapped down. The knife would be put away, the latch on the sill twisted so the screen could be lifted. Now a gloved hand, holding a stone or brick, knocked out the glass pane, including any shards on the perimeter of the wood. It was easy then to reach through, twist the window lock, push up the window, climb inside.
I surveyed Graham’s office.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
Johnny’s gaze focused on glass particles that appeared gr
ound into the carpet. “It looks like someone broke the window, entered this way.” He turned to Brewster. “Do you know if anything is missing?”
Brewster’s thin shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “I have no idea. This was my partner’s office. Doug Graham. You know—”
“Yes, sir.” Johnny’s expression remained unchanged, respectful, and his tone was courteous. “Is this your usual time to arrive at work?”
Brewster hesitated an instant too long. “I’m earlier than usual.”
Johnny waited, his expression expectant.
The two men stared at each other, Johnny clearly making the point that it would be interesting from a police point of view if Layton’s schedule had changed on this particular morning, Layton understanding that Officer Cain was imaginative and intelligent and not to be underestimated.
Brewster said, I thought rather carefully, “I’d received word about Doug and I felt I should be here when the staff arrived. Some of them should be coming in soon.”
Johnny asked pleasantly, “How did you happen to find the break-in?”
Brewster Layton was too experienced an attorney to betray surprise or concern. Perhaps, in his lawyerly way, he had foreseen the question. Why did you go into Doug Graham’s office? It did not automatically follow that Brewster’s first act the morning after his partner was murdered would be to arrive early and go directly to Doug Graham’s office. “I thought I would check Doug’s appointments for today and arrange for our receptionist to call and inform the clients of Doug’s death.”
Johnny Cain persisted, his voice still pleasant, but with bulldog tenacity, “Did Mr. Graham use an appointment ledger?”
Hanging between the policeman and the lawyer was the reality of today’s world, the electronic world, schedules kept on phones, tablets, iPads, possibly in a computer, rarely on paper.
I knew someday Johnny Cain would be Detective Johnny Cain. He had realized at once that Brewster’s early arrival and immediate entrance to Graham’s office deserved scrutiny.