The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(39)

Of course we both fell asleep.

I heard his phone and tried to slip it out from his pant pocket. Woke him up, of course. I said, “This is the second call, Joe.”

He looked at the screen, saying, “It’s from Murray’s office.” He pressed the Talk button, but the caller had hung up.

He played the message on speakerphone. It wasn’t Dr. Murray. It was a woman’s voice.

“Mr. Molinari. I couldn’t tell you today for fear of being overheard. One day I saw Dave Channing hurl a potted plant at Ray. One of those heavy terra-cotta urns. And he threw some punches, too. Thought you should know.”

The call ended abruptly.

Joe clicked off and said to me, “That was Nurse Atkins, Dr. Murray’s nurse. She says that Dave got physical with Ray.”

“Hit him?”

“Yeah. And threw things at him. My brain is closed for the night,” he said. “How about it, Blondie? Bed?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”





CHAPTER 57





JOE HAD ANNOUNCED that his mind was closed for the night, but that was an aspiration more than a fact.

The late call from Dr. Murray’s nurse had rattled him, and hearing that Dave had gotten physical with Ray aroused Joe’s worst fears.

I held on to Joe, my arm across his chest, my leg over his thighs, and I listened as he ticked off the first three items on an investigator’s checklist when considering a murder suspect.

“Dave had the means,” Joe said. “He has sleep meds in his medicine cabinet. Could he have crushed an overdose of sleeping pills, loaded up a glass of juice, and handed it to his father? Yes. ‘Here, Dad. Drink this.’

“He definitely had opportunity. He visited Ray in the hospital several times, and Ray had a private room. You’re going to ask me about motive, Blondie, and that’s the tough one. So what could be his motive to kill his only living relative?”

Joe rolled onto his side and put his arms around me.

“Exactly,” I said. “Ray was Dave’s everything. His life is going to be a lot poorer without the love and support of his father. Without Ray, who is there for him? His by-the-hour hot dates? The seasonal workers? His virtual friends online? Sounds lonely.”

Joe said, “Well, I can imagine it a different way. Ray ran everything. Dave worked for Ray. He took orders, and I saw that, Lindsay. ‘Run to the cafeteria for me, son. Hand me my tablet. Give us some privacy, Dave.’”

“You’re saying Dave resented that.”

“I’m saying that reporting to his father at his age could have been more than annoying, it could have been a motive for murder. Ray owned the business, and Dave ate there, lived there, worked there. Dave’s income and way of life depended on his father, and his father was sick. He was demanding and sick. Maybe he’s looking at the lives of other fortysomething men, who have careers, homes, wives, kids, even grandchildren. Maybe if his father was dead, he could leave the small-town restrictions of Napa Valley with a sizable nest-egg inheritance. Move. Reinvent himself. Make sense?”

I saw Joe’s point and said so.

“But did he murder his father, Lindsay? Or did Dr. Murray do it? And I have to ask the same three questions of Murray. Did he have the means? Yes. He’s a doctor. Did he have the opportunity? Yes. Same reason. So what’s a possible motive? Why would he kill his own patient?”

I said, “Isn’t it most likely and utterly probable that no one killed Ray but Ray? Murray told you, Ray neglected his own health.”

Joe rolled over onto his back and sighed. “I really would love to know for certain that Ray died of natural causes.”

“Me, too. I like Dave. And answer me this. If Dave killed his father, why would he have you looking into it? If he did it, you’d have to turn him in.”

Joe thought about it for a long minute. Then said, “How about guilt? If he killed Ray, he could have so much guilt we can’t even imagine it. He might want to be sure he’s covered his tracks by involving me. Or he might have an unconscious motivation.”

“Meaning?”

“Dave might want to get caught.”





CHAPTER 58





JOE FELL ASLEEP fast and slept silently and still, his mind and body resting after a long run of worry and wakefulness.

I couldn’t sleep for thinking about Joe’s theory, that Dave had killed his father out of resentment and then felt so much regret, shame, and guilt that he wanted to be punished.

Eventually, I slept—a light, dream-tossed state in which I envisioned shooters lining up shots at moving targets. I saw Paul and Ramona in their office, making morning small talk. And then the sound of broken glass, Paul sprawling across his desk, blood sheeting over the edge, soaking into the carpet. Ramona standing, another shot. My eyes opened and I pictured the cabochon ruby pendant on a gold chain hanging an inch above the bullet hole through her chest.

I must have fallen back asleep, because when my eyes opened again, I was thinking about Claire. Had she been drugged into a dreamless sleep? Was she in pain, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her precious young daughter? Had her doctor given her good news or bad? I needed to know.

It wasn’t yet six when I slipped out of bed without waking my husband. I padded softly into the main room and then peeked in on our sleeping, curly-haired cowgirl. I watched her for a little while, wondering what kind of woman she would grow up to be.