Ghost Times Two (13 page)

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.

B
rewster 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 ground 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.

Brewster's gaze was chilly, but he managed a slight smile. “I suppose I wasn't thinking clearly. Shock, you know. I still keep an appointment pad on my desk. I looked in the center drawer of Doug's desk. I didn't find an appointment book. But it doesn't matter. The receptionist will be here soon and she can attend to the matter. In any event, I'm glad I discovered the break-in.”

Johnny's gaze swept around the apparently untouched office. “Do you have any idea what someone might have been looking for?”

I wondered what Brewster Layton had been seeking in his early visit and whether he found it. I rather doubted he had summoned the police the instant he discovered the break-in. If he hoped to find something in particular, a file, a paper, surely he'd taken time to make his search before he called. He had been quick to say he'd opened the drawer of Doug's desk, and that would explain the presence of his fingerprints there.

I decided he was clever and quick.

I studied the right pocket of his suit jacket. There might be something in that pocket, something slim, the size of a passport. Or a small envelope containing several sheets of paper.

Brewster stood with his hands loose at his sides. Consciously relaxed? Perhaps. He spoke slowly. “Nothing appears disturbed. Doug had one or two things of considerable value.” He nodded toward the desk. “That's an original Tiffany lamp and the ivory Buddha is quite valuable.” He frowned. He was silent for a moment, then said slowly, reluctantly, “I don't know if there is a connection, but yesterday a client of Doug's made quite a production of
displaying a ring Doug intended to give to Lisbeth Carew. I need to contact Lisbeth. She's in Europe, due home next week.”

Johnny was alert. Lisbeth Carew was a name to reckon with in Adelaide. “She's in Europe now?”

Brewster nodded. “In Lucerne. That's where her daughter lives. I'll call her.” He glanced at his watch, figuring the time there to be late afternoon. “From what the client said, I believe Doug kept the ring in his desk drawer.” He frowned. “I don't believe I recall seeing the ring case when I opened the drawer. If you'd like, I can check.” He stepped into the office.

Johnny held up a warning hand. “I'll look.” He took three quick steps, tugging a pair of vinyl gloves from a back pocket. He pulled the gloves on, said briskly, “With your permission, I'll open the drawer.”

Brewster slowly nodded.

Johnny picked up a pen from the desktop, slipped the ballpoint behind the pull, eased the drawer out as far as it would go.

Brewster watched him closely. “The ring is in a red velvet case.”

Johnny crouched, peered into the drawer. “There's no ring case. Was the ring valuable?”

Brewster's tone was dry. “So I understand. A diamond ring. Apparently it cost a hundred thousand dollars.”

Johnny had the look of a poker player who'd just drawn an ace to complete a royal flush.

Brewster cautioned him. “Doug may have taken the ring with him when he left the office yesterday. Perhaps his secretary can help when she—”

“Hello.” An uncertain voice was raised in the hallway. “Is anyone—”

Brewster called out. “We're in here, Lou.” He turned to Johnny. “Perhaps we might step out into the hall.”

Johnny followed Brewster into the hall with Officer Benson close behind. Johnny closed the door, the crime scene off-limits until the techs arrived to fingerprint and search.

Louise Raymond, her round face shocked, was just inside the back entrance. “Oh my goodness. There's a police car in the parking lot. And police here.” Lou was an appealing figure with her white hair and kind round face. “What's happened?”

The back door opened again. Anita Davis, chestnut curls wind-stirred, stopped beside Lou. “There's a police car in the—” She broke off, staring at the uniformed officers. Close behind her was Nancy Murray, the paralegal, her eyes huge and staring. She edged even with Anita. “Is something wrong?” Her voice was high. Nancy's outfit likely was new, a pale yellow linen blouse and cream linen slacks. Butterfly bow heels added a saucy flair.

Geraldine Jackson peered around the group. “What's up?” Her tone was raucous. “Looks like we're being raided. What're they looking for? Slots? Porn? A weed stash from the Rockies?”

Megan Wynn edged past the cluster of secretaries. Her heart-shaped face was composed, but dark patches beneath her eyes suggested a sleepless night.

“Excuse me. Coming through.” Sam Cobb's deep voice was a clarion. The women moved aside as the chief strode into the hallway, Detective Sergeant Hal Price at his shoulder.

I saw two other familiar faces, Detective Don Smith, tall, dark, and handsome, and Detective Judy Weitz, sturdy and impassive with bright alert eyes.

Sam stopped in front of Brewster Layton. “Morning, Brewster. You've had a break-in?”

“Break-in?” Nancy took a step back. Lou Raymond clutched Anita's arm. “Oh my goodness.” Geraldine's heavily mascaraed eyes widened. Megan looked startled, then thoughtful.

Johnny Cain stepped forward. “Sir, Mr. Layton found a broken window in the office occupied by Doug Graham. Mr. Layton called nine-one-one. The screen on the window to the alley was slashed and is hanging loose. A pane of glass has been removed, apparently broken out, from the lower half of the window. That made it possible to unlock the window. The lower half of the window is up. It appears someone entered the office from the alley. The intruder stepped on broken glass in the process. Mr. Layton said the office looked as it had the last time he saw it with no obvious disarray. However, Mr. Layton reports that Mr. Graham had a ring case in his desk drawer yesterday. There is no ring case in the drawer now.”

Lou Raymond placed fingertips against her lips. “How dreadful.” Anita Davis looked shocked. “Oh, it cost so much money.” Nancy Murray shook her head. “I thought he was going to take the ring to the bank.” Geraldine Jackson slapped her hands on her hips and her caftan top swirled. “That's a hell of a thing.”

I thought Nancy remembered Jack Sherman warning Doug to put the ring in the bank and made the leap in her own mind that Graham intended to place the ring in a safety deposit box.

“The ring's gone?” Some of the tension eased out of Megan's face. Clearly Megan hoped the murder and the disappearance of the ring were linked.

“If the ring was left in the desk overnight, apparently it was
stolen. However, that hasn't been confirmed.” Johnny continued in an uninflected tone, “Mr. Layton said he went into Doug Graham's office this morning to see if Graham had appointments scheduled for the day. He looked in the desk for an appointment book, but did not find one. At that time, he didn't notice whether the ring case was in the drawer. Mr. Layton arrived this morning earlier than usual.” No emphasis, no expression, information shared.

Chief Cobb gave Johnny an approving glance and turned to Brewster. “What time—”

Before Sam could finish, Sharon King hurried through the back entrance. She saw the police. Her slender face held shock and disbelief. One hand touched her throat. She moved slowly up the hallway, stopped before Brewster Layton. “I just heard on the radio that Mr. Graham is dead. Is it true? Is that why the police are here? Is Mr. Graham dead?” Her voice was shaky.

Brewster was somber. He slowly nodded. “Someone shot Doug last night. We're all shocked.”

I had a good view of all the women.

Sharon King's dark eyes held horror and disbelief. Lou Raymond's mouth rounded in a breathless
O
. Geraldine Jackson's where's-the-bubbly? facade crumpled and her plump face sagged. Nancy Murray pressed a hand against her lips. Anita folded her arms across her front. “How awful.”

Only Megan appeared unsurprised, her young face carefully expressionless, her lips in a tight line, her thin shoulders rigid. Her eyes held the memory of a slumped body. Suddenly she tensed, jerked her arm, then froze motionless.

I didn't need neon to announce Jimmy's arrival. He was there, tugging on Megan's arm, and she, sensibly, resisted.

As Anita continued to murmur, I reached Megan, swept my hand, clutched at a muscular invisible arm. I stood on tiptoe, whispered as lightly as possible, “Megan's office. We'll be there in a minute.”

He wriggled with impatience.

“Don't talk. Go. Now.”

For an instant there was the feel of resistant muscle beneath my fingers, then nothing.

No one had noticed or heard, my whisper lost in the sound of the shocked women and their stricken sentences. “Was it a burglar?” “Who did it?” “When was he killed?”

Sharon blinked her large brown eyes. “He was so happy yesterday.” Her voice trembled. “Later that afternoon he showed me the ring again, asked if I thought Mrs. Carew would like it. He—” She broke off, a quick drawn breath. “Has anyone called Rhoda?”

Sam Cobb stepped toward her. “Rhoda?”

“His former wife.” Sharon half turned, stared at Lou. “Perhaps you should go and be with her.”

There was an odd flicker in Lou's eyes.

Why had Sharon immediately turned to Lou? Why not Brewster Layton? I looked at Lou more closely. The sudden smoothing of her face told me she knew something which involved Doug Graham's former wife.

Sam Cobb said firmly, “Detective Smith will speak with the former Mrs. Graham.” Sam gave Don Smith a glance that told him:
Find her, talk to her, find out where she was last night.
Don nodded and moved quickly toward the door.