Ideally, she hoped to carry out her mission from an indoor space. She’d purchased several confined-space rockets to eliminate backblast from the equation. But most of the venues she’d scouted would involve an outdoor strike and, regrettably, the killing of the Secret Service sniper whose position she would take over. Lone hated that idea. She didn’t want to clip some working stiff who was just doing what he had to do. But as the Dicktator himself said, “There comes a time when deceit and defiance must be seen for what they are. At that point, a gathering danger must be confronted directly.”
She agreed.
Chapter Eight
“Griffin Mahanes is here? On a Sunday?” Koertig’s pie-dough face was mashed in disbelief.
“Tell me about it.” Jude stepped into Maulle’s office. The confined space smelled metallic.
“Rich people always go for the cover-up, even when they’re innocent,” Koertig said. “That’s their instinct.”
“Her parents retained him.” Jude supposed the Calloways were only trying to make sure their daughter didn’t implicate herself. In their position she might do the same if a family member stepped from the scene of a murder, covered in blood.
“You get any sense of a motive from the niece?” Koertig asked.
She handed him a copy of the report she’d typed up after the interview. “The family sounds pretty typical. Dysfunctional. Alienated from each other. Just a whole more money than the rest of us.”
“Any idea who’s likely to benefit from the death?”
“We won’t know until we see the will, but Pippa thought her uncle would leave his money to charity.” Jude emptied the contents of Fabian Maulle’s trash basket onto the floor in an area free of blood. “He only had the one sister. Pippa’s mom.”
Scanning her report, Koertig remarked, “The vic was gay, huh? That’s what I thought.” He ran through his reasons. “Closet bigger than my family room. Everything color coded. Kitchen right out of a magazine. And the dog. Your regular single male doesn’t have a poodle.”
“Which reminds me.” Jude deferred the discussion on stereo-typing. “Do we have the necropsy report yet?”
They’d sent Coco’s body to a veterinary pathologist in Durango. Time of death was always difficult to estimate precisely, but it would help to know roughly when the killer entered the property and shot the dog. They could then calculate the window between that event and Pippa’s arrival at 4:40 p.m. There was also the possibility that ballistic evidence could play a role. They’d recovered a 9mm shell casing from the scene, and if the bullet taken from Coco could be matched to a weapon they would have something to take to trial when that day came. Jude was surprised that it wasn’t a through and through, but placement was everything. even at point-blank range.
“The vet tech says we can expect it Tuesday.” Koertig peered into the gutted computer. “Why take the hard drive? Passwords for bank accounts?”
“Maybe. Or incriminating correspondence. E-mails. Et cetera.”
“I guess blackmail’s a possibility with him being a homosexual,” Koertig said.
“I don’t think so,” Jude responded. “It’s not like he’s a pastor or a family-values politician blowing smoke. According to Pippa, he didn’t care who knew. He had a couple of long-term relationships, but nothing recently. We need to track down any casual partners.”
“Personal motive?” Koertig posited. “Disgruntled ex knows Maulle is loaded and thinks he should have a piece. He shows up and makes threats. Maybe he just meant to scare Maulle, not kill him.”
“Four stab wounds doesn’t seem like an accident.” Jude stared at the desk. “Was his laptop taken into evidence?”
“No.”
“He owned one. Pippa said she advised him on the purchase last Christmas.”
“That tallies with a warranty in the files. An Apple about eight months old.”
“So, the killer took it or it’s in another house.”
Koertig shook his head. “He’d have it with him. Why bother owning one, otherwise?”
“Apparently he wasn’t technically inclined,” Jude said. “Pippa did backups for him.”
“There’s no sign of a zip drive, memory key, or CDs,” Koertig said.
Jude found it odd that Maulle was sloppy in that department. He kept his house in perfect order. She inspected the smoothed-out papers he’d discarded. Most were “to do” lists and phone messages.
“Got anything good there?” Koertig asked.
“Plumber, eight thirty a.m. Gym. Pick up cleaning.” Jude switched to reading from the grocery list. Maulle had the basic food groups covered. “Asparagus, button mushrooms, basil, cantaloupe, oysters, prosciutto.”
“I had that once. Proscuitto. Give me Canadian bacon any day.” Koertig set about opening and shaking every book he picked up from the floor. “The guy’s fridge is a work of art. Fully loaded, stainless steel. Computer that tells you when the caviar’s running low.”
Jude conceded this attempt at humor with a brief smile. She’d inspected the glamorous appliance when she arrived, unwise on an empty stomach. Maulle had obviously stocked up for his niece’s arrival. Along with the sophisticated delicacies that fit with his discarded shopping lists were various items from the fast food spectrum. Jude had been tempted to sample the shrimp salad. It seemed like a shame to let it go bad.
Koertig was similarly concerned about perfectly good food going to waste. “Did you see the cheese drawer? You wouldn’t get an aged Gouda like that in a five-star restaurant.”
Jude got a flash of Griffin Mahanes in court describing detectives washing down Brie and caviar with fancy wine purloined from the victim’s cellar, said shameless contamination of the scene taking place after they finished disrespecting the man’s personal possessions. Could such people be trusted to give evidence?
She said, “I’m sure the family will appreciate the supplies once the house is released.”
“You think they’ll stay out here awhile?”
“Not if Mahanes has anything to do with it. He’ll want them far away and out of reach once we’ve taken their statements.”
Koertig handed Jude an inventory of the desk drawer contents. “So far no date book and no list of telephone contacts.”
“He probably used his computer as an organizer.”
“Big help.”
“Is someone handling the phone dump?” Jude asked.
“Yeah, and we’re tracing the Caddy and the Lexus.”
“Anything off IAFIS?”
“Not so far.”
“Sorry I didn’t make it to the briefing.”
“You didn’t miss much. Belle did the reconstruction. It went down like we thought. Maulle tried to fight off the assailant at the top of the stairs. Hit him with the cane.”
“So there’s a different blood group on the cane head?”
“Yeah. We won’t have DNA results for a few days, but the blood on the floor looks to be Maulle’s and the head spray on the banisters belongs to an unidentified male.”
“So the assailant is hit on the head, then comes at Maulle with the knife,” Jude said. “Why not shoot him?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Almost any bullet was far more likely to be lethal than a stab wound. The killer must have made a conscious choice not to kill Maulle immediately.
“She said the perp walked Maulle backward to the office. The rest of the stab wounds occurred there. Plus the blunt force trauma.”
“What size feet?” Jude asked. “Eight for the assailant and nine for Maulle?”
“You’re good.” Koertig grinned. “Maulle’s shoes are custom, one foot slightly bigger than the other. Made in London. Same as his suits.”
“This is interesting.” Jude handed a slip of paper to Koertig. It was dated early in August and was addressed to Pippa.
He read aloud, “‘Dear Pip, for unforeseen reasons I need to be in London for the next few weeks. I’ve reserved a flight for you with British Airways. Put your stuff in storage and come spend a few weeks in Europe before you travel to the Four Corners. We’ll discuss future plans once you’re in town. You have my support, no matter what.’”
Jude bagged the note. It was the only item from the trash worth following up on.
They spent the next hour searching every crevice of Maulle’s office. His paper records were limited to receipts, which he filed methodically according to their type, tax deductible or not. Donations. Tradesmen’s quotes. Insurance. Medical. There were newspaper clippings relating to events he attended, a few photographs of himself with politicians and celebrities. Souvenir menus and place cards from meals at embassies and even the White House. His correspondence included letters from charities thanking him for his support, matters relating to his four homes, and a collection of birthday and Christmas cards from Pippa dating back twenty years. These were housed in a file marked “Pip,” which was crammed with photos, letters, printed e-mails, cards, poems, school reports, and keepsakes she must have given him. Jude opened a small box.
“It’s a tooth and a lock of Pippa’s hair.” She turned the box over. The inscription read “Pippa 7 yrs.”
“No file for her brother,” Koertig noted.
“I guess he’s chopped liver.”
“Sounds like my family. My sister was always the favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Jude said. She wondered how Pippa’s brother felt about being excluded. “That portrait in the formal dining room. It’s Pippa, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I just realized.”
They exchanged an uneasy look.
“Do you think it’s…normal?” Koertig asked.
“I think we need to ask Pippa.”
“She’s really cut up about the death.”
“That could mean anything.” Jude leafed through the photos more intently.
Most featured the studied poses of childhood. First day of school. Santa’s knee at a department store. Patting a dog. Halloween costumes. Summer camp. Prom. Graduation. The candid shots were equally innocent: Pippa wearing Mickey Mouse ears at Disneyland or running into the surf with a board under her arm. Jude was familiar with the photo collections of abusers from her time in the Crimes Against Children Unit. They were quite different from this assortment of milestone moments.
“I’ll speak with Pippa some more,” she said. “Just to be sure. But I doubt Maulle was abusing her.”
If he was, that would change everything. For a start, Pippa would have a motive and they would have to rethink their theory of the crime. Male blood and footprints were found at the scene. Pippa could have brought an accomplice. Anything was possible.
Koertig returned the last book to its pile and said, “Nada.” He ran a finger over the spines. “Normally, your highbrow-type books are just for show, but I think our vic actually read these. Some of them are dog-eared.”
“Which ones?”
Koertig handed her a volume, noting, “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Jude read the title and glanced at the back cover.
Merchant of Death: Money, Guns, Planes, and the Man Who Makes War Possible.
A book about a notorious arms dealer called Viktor Bout. She glanced at the other titles. Stuff about smugglers and global economics. Apparently Maulle had a lively interest in the politics of globalization. Her mind leapt to Hugo, the South African from the private security firm.
“You’d think a smart guy like him would have had some kind of contingency plan for a home invasion,” she mused aloud. “When a guy contracts CTG to get his back, he’s not kidding around.”
“Yeah, I saw that in your report.” Koertig scratched behind his neck. He was always sunburnt there from standing on the sidelines supporting his wife when she ran marathons. “Why let go of the hired muscle when he came out here?”