The Perfect Alibi (Robin Lockwood #2)(43)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


Ivar Gorski parked a block away from the Vosses’ house and got a tire iron and a can filled with accelerant out of the trunk. The lights in the Voss home had gone out shortly after eleven, but Gorski waited until two in the morning to go along the side of the house to the back door. There were no lights on in the houses on either side of Voss’s house, but Gorski didn’t believe in talking chances, so he was wearing dark clothing and a ski mask in case a nosy neighbor got up to go to the bathroom and happened to peek out a window.

Opening the lock on the back door was child’s play. The door opened into a small kitchen. Gorski waited so his eyes could adapt to the dark interior. When he was ready, he walked down the hall to Leonard Voss’s bedroom.



* * *



An officer moved the sawhorses that blocked the street to rubberneckers, and Carrie Anders parked her car behind an ambulance that had pulled up in front of a one-story bungalow. Roger Dillon got out of the passenger side, and the detectives walked over to Miguel Montoya, the first officer on the scene. Montoya was waiting for them on the narrow front lawn.

“What happened?” Anders asked.

Montoya shook his head. “It’s not pretty. The neighbor heard screams a little after two A.M. on Saturday. Then she saw the flames and called 911. The fire department reacted very quickly and saved the house. They found Mrs. Voss in the hall in front of her husband’s bedroom. Someone bashed her head in.”

“Do you have the murder weapon?”

“No.”

“Go on.”

“The husband is in his bedroom. He’s a stroke victim, and he and Mrs. Voss sleep in different rooms. His face was beaten to pulp.”

“How did the killer get in?” Dillon asked.

“The back door opens into the kitchen. It was jimmied.”

“Let’s go inside,” Anders said.

They found Rita Voss sprawled on her stomach. The detectives studied the body before edging around it and going into Leonard Voss’s bedroom.

“Jesus,” Dillon said when he saw the damage to Voss’s face.

After a few moments, Anders and Dillon went into the hall to let the lab techs do their work.

“I’m guessing the killer went after Mr. Voss first,” Dillon said. “Mrs. Voss hears screams and comes out of her bedroom. The killer chases her down the hall, and bang—” Dillon imitated someone raising a club overhead and smashing it down.

“Seems right,” Anders said.

“Then the killer starts the fire to destroy evidence.”

Anders nodded. “Any sign of a burglary?”

“Mrs. Voss’s purse was open. There was no cash in her wallet,” Montoya said. “There’s a jewelry box on her dresser, and it’s open and empty.”

“Okay,” Dillon said. “Let’s talk to the neighbors and see whether anyone saw anything.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


Rex Kellerman loved to tell anyone who would listen about the brilliant flash of insight that led to the solution of Frank Nylander’s murder. He thought it was a great story, especially given the fact that Agatha Christie, the Queen of the Mystery Novel, had given him a clue that helped solve the case.

A week after meeting with Greg Nilson, Kellerman received a report from Nilson Forensics that concluded that there was a high probability that the DNA in the blood sample found under Frank Nylander’s fingernail matched the DNA of Douglas Armstrong. And that was when Kellerman remembered the mystery novels in the bookcase in Douglas Armstrong’s law office. There had been a lot of Agatha Christies in the bookcase, and there had also been a biography of Dame Agatha.

Kellerman had never been much of a reader. When he did read a book, it was usually a military history. But he remembered something he’d heard or read about Agatha Christie. He did a web search for her on his computer, and his smile grew even wider when he read Christie’s biography. As soon as he finished, Kellerman ran down the hall to the office of his boss, Multnomah County District Attorney Paul Getty.

Getty was balding and had a sallow complexion. A heart condition brought on by the stress of his job made him look ten years older than his sixty-two years and had led to his decision to retire before the next election.

“He’s faking!” Kellerman said as soon as he was admitted to Getty’s office.

“Who’s faking?” Getty asked as Kellerman dropped into a seat across from him.

“Armstrong,” Kellerman said, leaning forward in his chair and fixing Getty with a diabolical grin. “The son of a bitch killed his partner.”

“Slow down, Rex. If I recall correctly, you’re the only one who’s pushing that theory.”

Kellerman flashed a satisfied smile. “I’ve got proof.” Kellerman told his boss about the result of the low-template DNA analysis of the blood found under Nylander’s fingernail.

“What kind of method is that?” Getty asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s cutting-edge stuff, Paul.”

“Can you even get the results into evidence?”

“Sure, no problem,” Kellerman said with more confidence than he actually felt. “And there’s something else,” Kellerman said in an effort to divert Getty’s attention from the scientific evidence. “Armstrong is still claiming he can’t remember anything about what happened on the day of the murder and the week following. Well, I think he’s full of shit.”