I nodded, dismayed that, unknowingly, I might have ruined the case. She turned to a new page in her notebook.
“What do you know about motive?” she asked.
“There’s a couple of things which, taken together, add up to what might be a powerful motive. Ned applied for Gerry’s job and didn’t get it. Plus, he was involved with Rosalie over the summer and lost her to Paul Greeley. That was bad—but then they broke up. He didn’t know that she left Paul for Gerry. He thought she was single again, and available. His arrogance isn’t an act, it’s entrenched.” I shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he thought she broke up with Paul because she missed him.”
Officer Brownley looked unconvinced.
“I know it sounds a little over the top, but really, Ned might perceive a friendly chat as a come-hither invitation. I swear he’s a megalomaniac.”
“Have you observed that behavior yourself?”
“Absolutely. He’s so full of himself, it’s scary.”
“So then what did he do? Ask her out?”
“Maybe. My guess, though, is that he started the secret admirer thing as a cute joke, but before he could decide the time was right to come clean, he realized that she was involved with Gerry. Ned was in and out of Gerry’s office all the time, and, trust me, their affair was easy to spot. What started as a romantic ploy morphed into stalking.”
“Even so . . . ,” she said, shrugging. “It’s quite a leap from having a pass rebuffed to killing someone.”
“Maybe. But from his perspective, he’d lost both the girl and the job to Gerry.”
She wrote some notes. “Wouldn’t that make him mad at Gerry?”
“Sure, I guess. Judging by his relentless sniping, he is.”
Officer Brownley’s cell phone vibrated, and she answered it with a crisp “Brownley.” She listened for several seconds, then said, “Yeah . . . got it.” She turned to me. “The search warrant will be here in about fifteen minutes. When it arrives, you’re going to bring up the rear and let us serve the warrant. Okay?”
I nodded dutifully. “Sure.”
“The only reason you’re going to be there at all is that you know things we don’t, like the bear tooth necklace thing. You’re to answer questions if asked, identify objects as needed, and otherwise stay out of the way.” She looked at me and smiled again. “I don’t want you to get hurt and I don’t want something you do or say inadvertently to hurt the case.”
Before I could reply, her phone rang again. This call was even shorter.
“We got it,” she said to me, smiling broadly. “The copy of the journal.”
“Hot damn!” I said. “Fabulous! Where was it?”
“In Cooper’s storage unit. It was the only item in there, just the bound copy sitting on the floor. Pathetic, huh?”
How can a human being plot to steal a colleague’s work? I wondered. “Completely pathetic,” I agreed.
“Back to Ned,” she asked softly. “What do you know about opportunity? How could Ned have arranged to get Rosalie out to the jetty?”
“I doubt it was prearranged. Gerry left The Miller House in his limo alone after having a drink with Rosalie. She went home. We know that because her car was there the next day, covered with snow. If anyone knows what happened to Rosalie after then, I haven’t heard it, but here’s a possibility. Ned could have followed her home and cornered her, begging for an opportunity to talk. I can imagine Rosalie thinking that since ignoring him hadn’t worked to get him to leave her alone, maybe talking to him would.” I shrugged. “At least it’s a possibility.”
She nodded and made a couple of notes.
“Here’s another thing to consider. Assuming that Edie’s lying about having been home all night, she no longer has any reason to keep up the front. Gerry isn’t in any danger of prosecution, so maybe she’ll come clean. I bet her car wasn’t in the driveway because she was, in fact, not home. I’m guessing she started out the night following Gerry, trying to catch him in the act of infidelity. Maybe she saw him escort Rosalie to her car and leave The Miller House in his limo alone and figured this would be a good time to talk to Rosalie, to have it out with her once and for all. I’ve thought all along that Edie must have known that Gerry’s been screwing around for years. My guess is that she’s been willing to put up with it because she didn’t want to lose her position in life as a CEO’s wife.” I shook my head and looked at Officer Brownley full on. “Do you see what I mean? It’s conceivable that Edie followed Rosalie hoping to have it out with her, but instead of orchestrating a confrontation, she witnessed a murder. If I’m right, I’ll bet Edie’s secretly glad that Rosalie is dead, and isn’t about to help you catch her killer.”
A self-important-looking man pushed into the reception area. Seeing us in the corner, he ignored Una and made a beeline in our direction. He was medium-sized and chunky, but nicely dressed. Officer Brownley stood up and greeted him as Harry.
“I’m due back in court,” the man said, “but I wanted to be certain you understood that the warrant covers Mr. Anderson’s office suite only. Don’t go rooting around the entire building.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied and accepted the blue-covered document he proffered.
He hurried off and Officer Brownley said, “Wait here.”
I watched her leave the building, then glanced at Una. Her interest was completely engaged. She looked at me, and asked, “What in the world’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in after it’s over, okay?”
My phone rang. It was Ty.
“Hey, there,” he said. “I just spoke with Officer Brownley. You do what you’re told, okay?”
“I promise.”
“Call me later.”
My ribs hurt from my heart crashing into them and my feet felt leaden. Later, I told myself. You can fall apart later. Once the killer is put away. For now, you need to stay strong.
Within moments, Officer Brownley returned with four uniformed officers, including Griff.
“Let’s go,” she told me.
An itchy kind of breathlessness took hold of me, and I felt my energy begin to focus sharply on the events at hand. I was entering crisis mode.
I started down the hallway, and said, “The second door on the right. That’s his assistant’s office. His private office is behind it. Same layout as Gerry’s suite.”
She nodded and pointed that I was to take my place at the end of the line.
“This is a search warrant,” Officer Brownley announced to the assistant. “Please stand up and move away from the desk.”
She accepted the search warrant, her jaw opening and closing several times. Finally she turned toward the inner office. “Mr. Anderson!” she called. “It’s the police.”
Ned appeared at the doorway, his eyes skimming over the officers until they reached me. “Josie,” he said, his eyes narrowed. To the police, he asked, “What’s going on?”
“We’re here to search your office. Please stand over there,” Officer Brownley informed him. Turning to me, she demanded, “Where’s the walking stick?”
“In the far corner on the left,” I replied.
“I think I need to request you to stop,” Ned said coldly, stepping into the doorway, blocking entry.
“Read the warrant,” Officer Brownley told him. “We’re coming in.”
“No,” he stated, and an icy shiver rippled up my spine.
“You gotta move,” she told him in a voice of reason.
“No,” he repeated, shaking his head.
“You move or we’re going to move you.”
“I’m glad I have a disinterested witness in my assistant. I’m sure my lawyer will be glad to know that she observed you threaten me with bodily harm.”
“Read the warrant, sir,” she suggested again. “Like it says, we’re here legally.”
He crossed his arms and a sardonic sneer came over his face. He leaned against the doorjamb as if he had all the time and not a concern in the world,
and raised his chin in imperial disdain.
One of the officers whose name I’d forgotten was young and big. He stepped forward, put his hands on both of Ned’s upper arms, and pushed. Ned hurtled backward. Officer Brownley turned to me and said, “Point it out.”
I entered the room and looked into the corner where I’d seen it perch. It wasn’t there. “It’s not here,” I said.
“Where is it, sir?” Officer Brownley asked.
Ned sneered and looked down his nose at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
To me she asked, “Where’s the clock?”
I turned toward his desk and I gaped. The ornately carved clock was missing, too. “It’s gone. Look, you can see the bracket,” I said, pointing. “It hung right there.”
“Mr. Anderson,” Officer Brownley said, “I need to ask you some questions. We’d like you to come down to the station.”
“No way,” he said with a contemptuous huff.
“Sir,” she said, her tone reasonable, even kind, “if you don’t, I’ll arrest you as a material witness. You need to come with us. As a cooperative volunteer or as a noncooperative citizen under arrest. Your choice.”
“You’re going to have to arrest me. And then I stand mute until my lawyer arrives. Period. End of discussion.”
“As you wish, sir,” she said, unimpressed, and placed him under arrest.
With his hand on Ned’s elbow, Griff walked him out of the suite. Ned turned to his assistant, resisting Griff’s directive touch, and said, “Call my lawyer and tell him what’s happening. Get a receipt for anything they take.”
She nodded and reached for the phone.
“What was his schedule today?” Officer Brownley asked.
“Don’t answer that! Don’t say a word,” he called from the door. “Do you hear me? Not one word!”
Wide-eyed, she looked from Ned to Officer Brownley and back. Ned’s angry shouts and instructions faded as he was led down the corridor.
“It’s not up to him whether you talk to the police. We could use your assistance and you can absolutely answer that if you want to,” Officer Brownley said, her pleasant manner contrasting with his vituperative diatribe.
She smiled. “We got in about the same time. In fact, we met in the parking lot and walked in together. That was just about eight. As far as I know, he hasn’t left since.”
“Not even for a minute?”
“Not while I’ve been here.” She shrugged. “But I went to lunch around noon for an hour.”
“You didn’t see him carry anything out?”
“No.”
“How about in?” Officer Brownley asked out of the blue. “Do you often arrive at the same time?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “It happens pretty often.”
“On the morning after Rosalie Chaffee’s murder, can you recall seeing Mr. Anderson carry anything in?”
She thought back. “The leather bag, you mean?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Ned was carrying a tote bag. He said it was for Gerry and took it straight to his office. I didn’t think anything about it.”
Hidden in plain sight, I thought. Rosalie must have left her bag in his car the night before and he didn’t notice it until he got to work. He couldn’t leave such damning evidence in his car and he couldn’t just drive away without calling attention to himself. As the best of bad options, he carried Rosalie’s bag into her office, early, before Tricia and Gerry were in, and left it on Rosalie’s desk.
“Thanks. I’m going to ask that you come with us, too, to give us a statement.”
She swallowed. “All right.”
To me, Officer Brownley said, “Josie, you can go now. Just in case, I’m going to ask one of the officers to escort you.”
I didn’t argue or delay. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. With the young male officer following, I fled, barely waving to Una. She was standing behind her counter, still openmouthed.
Outside, I paused in the frigid air to take several deep breaths.
“Where are you parked?” the police officer asked.
“Over there.” I pointed. “But if it’s okay, I’d like to take just a minute and get myself together.”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll pull up near your car.”
I began to pace the parking lot, trying to quiet my thudding heart and quell the sick feeling in my stomach. I came to the executives’ assigned parking places and stopped in front of Ned’s. I hadn’t thought to look before, but here it was—more damning evidence.
I called Officer Brownley on her cell phone. She answered on the first ring.
“What is it?”
“Ned’s car. It’s dark blue and boxy looking. I don’t know what kind of car it is. It’s all mucked up, smeared with salt residue and mud. And guess what?”
“What?”
“There’s no license plate in front.”
“Got ya,” she said. “We’ll take care of it.”
I got in my car and called Gretchen.
“Listen, I’m done for the day.”
“Is everything all right?” she asked, concerned at my out-of-character decision to quit work early.
“Terrific!” I said, faking it. “Can you put Sasha on, please?”
“Hello,” Sasha said hesitantly.
“You know Lesha’s letter and the photos Gretchen took of the palette? Would you please scan in the letter and e-mail it to me, along with a photo of the palette?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be looking for it.”
I laughed as I caught myself checking the side and rearview mirrors. No more! I thought, elated. The weight of fear was slowly dissipating. It felt as if I were suddenly free after being trapped in a dark room for days. I raised and lowered my shoulders several times to relax. I couldn’t stop grinning. I slipped a McCoy Tyner CD in the player and boogied to the primal beat of a master pianist. After a few minutes, I turned down the volume and called Wes.
“As promised, you’re my first call,” I told him. “Meet me at the Blue Dolphin at six. In the lounge.”
“You got it,” he said, and hung up.
When I pulled into my driveway, I saw Frankie shoveling Zoë’s walkway to widen the path to the door. He was wearing an unembellished black parka instead of his “bitches” leather jacket. Good for him, I thought. I called hello and he waved back. I thanked the police officer for the escort and let myself into my house.
I stripped as I rushed upstairs, and within a minute, I was in the shower. I didn’t come out until my skin was pruney. I kept having an urge to laugh. Relief manifests itself in peculiar ways, I thought.
Wrapped in my pink robe, I called Officer Brownley.
“I think it’s okay for me to dispense with the police escort. What do you think?”
“I think you’re right. Evidence is mounting.”
“Like what?” I asked, wondering if she’d answer.
“Like the walking stick and the cuckoo clock. They were in his trunk, wrapped in garbage bags.”
I thanked her again, and made myself a drink. I smiled as I thought of the largess I was about to bestow on Wes. He would be getting the goods on three separate, interesting stories. Just before I left to drive to the Blue Dolphin, I forwarded him the documents relating to Lesha’s attempted grand larceny, the ones Sasha had e-mailed me.
Once we were settled at a corner table overlooking the river, I explained that the police hadn’t yet decided whether Lesha would be charged with any crime, but that I doubted that she would be. He was relentless in ferreting out details about Rosalie’s priceless journal and begged for photos, a commitment I refused to make. He asked for details about Cooper’s motives and his alleged intentions. And he positively lapped up my on-the-scene account of Ned’s arrest like a cat with cream.
“You should have taken some photos with your cell phone,” he grumped after I’d filled him in.
“You’re welcome, Wes.”
>
He shot me a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.” He slipped his notebook into an inside jacket pocket. “Why was Ned stalking you anyway?”
“He was trying to scare me off.”
“But you weren’t the only person tracking Rosalie’s killer. What about the police? What about me?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I’ll tell you what I think. Ned is arrogant. He wasn’t worried about the police, but he knew that I had specialized knowledge that put him at risk. Especially if he thought I had access to inside information because I date the police chief.”
“What kind of specialized knowledge?”
“Wood—I can often identify wood just by looking at it.” I shrugged. “He’d seen me do it.”
“If that’s the case, why wouldn’t he just threaten you directly? Sending flowers is kind of . . . I don’t know . . . not really intimidating.”
“He did, but only later when things got more worrisome for him. Remember the sequence—at first Ned was only a little concerned. He saw how upset Rosalie got when she received flowers from a secret admirer. I bet he decided to see if the same strategy would work to get me to back off. It was only later, after Ned saw us talking at the diner and overheard conversations on my cell phone, that the threats became more explicit.”
“What did he hear?”
“You remember . . . one time you mentioned that there were splinters and I confirmed that I could easily identify wood. And another time, when I was talking to Officer Brownley, I described the clanging sound from his cuckoo clock.” I shrugged. “So he became more aggressive.”
“Are you saying that Ned considered you to be a bigger threat than me?” Wes asked, bristling with wounded pride.
I smiled. “Yes.”
He smiled and sat back. “Okay, okay—you’re a regular Hootin’ Annie.”
“Who’s Hootin’ Annie?” I asked.
“I made it up,” Wes said, standing. “Gotta go. Thanks, okay?”
I mock saluted him and sipped my icy-smooth Bombay Sapphire as I watched the beam of a distant lighthouse illuminate the night giving hope to sailors and protecting the coast. I recalled some lines from a Robert Frost poem:
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