Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(16)
There was not a vestige of sound.
Susan stopped in the archway. One hand rose to her throat. “Ben, what’s happened?”
He looked at her. His eyes held anguish and disbelief. “Susan, Dad’s—”
A hefty officer in his late twenties was brusque. “No talking. Each person will be interviewed. Until then, no conversation.”
Susan walked to a straight-backed chair beneath a tropical Gauguin. She sat down, clutching her purse, her face tight with anxiety.
I knew terror tugged at her heart. Had Wilbur Fitch discovered the theft? She must feel like a desperate animal trapped in quicksand. Could she leave this room? Would she be stopped? If she was held here, how could she deliver the ransom and save Sylvie?
Chapter 4
I bent near, whispered, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be back.”
Her response was a quick intake of breath. The rigidity of her body didn’t lessen. Perhaps my unseen presence was some comfort. Or perhaps she was concerned about what I might do. She was overwhelmed by her fear for Sylvie and a desperate need to be free when the ransom call came. Likely she was terrified that the theft of the box filled with cash accounted for the police presence and the sequestering of those present in a room heavy with forced silence.
I needed to find out what I could as quickly as I could, perhaps devise some means of escape for Susan.
Several police officers and forensic techs clustered in the hallway. Near the open door to Wilbur Fitch’s study I saw two detectives I recognized, tall lanky Don Smith and sturdy Judy Weitz. Don was a computer-savvy detective with a sardonic worldview. Judy, placid faced and cheerful, was always pleasant and even-tempered, but it would be a mistake to equate her stolidity with stupidity. Don’s strong-boned face squinted in thought. Judy gazed into the study, watched with bright observant eyes.
Inside the study, Adelaide police chief Sam Cobb stood next to the massive mahogany desk. On the wall behind the desk, the painting was pulled to one side to reveal the open door to the safe. I felt a squeezing in my chest. Susan had definitely closed the safe last night. Now the safe was open. Also open was the door to the garden. A slight breeze stirred the long velvet drape nearest the door.
Sam’s grizzled black hair looked unruly, as if he’d received an early call and scarcely paused to use a comb. Sam is a big, solid, muscular man. His face is blunt with bold features. His brown suit was wrinkled, perhaps from several days’ wear. I thought the white shirt was fresh. His red tie was already loosened and yanked to one side. Sam wasn’t looking at the pulled-back painting or the interior of the safe or the open door. He stared at the floor next to the desk.
Susan would not have the chance to tell Wilbur Fitch about the ransom call or promise somehow to return the stolen money. Wilbur Fitch lay stretched on the floor, the back of his head a mass of dried blood and lacerated tissue. He appeared smaller in death, the body slumped heavily face forward. He wore a white tuxedo shirt, the collar and back now stained with blood, tuxedo trousers, black socks, and navy blue house shoes.
Brisk steps sounded. Tall, blond Detective Sergeant Hal Price strode into the study. I am very fond of Hal and take no small credit for his recent marriage. He stopped next to the chief, gazed at the still body. “Damn.”
Sam gave him an inquiring look.
Hal jammed his hands into his slacks pockets. “Deirdre and I were here last night. Wilbur loved to throw big parties. This was to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of Fitch Enterprises. He started in a ten-by-twelve-foot decrepit old shed down by the railroad tracks. That was his first warehouse. He described the rats that fought him for possession, and I mean real rats with six-inch tails. He had a hell of a good time. Like he said, From rat house to this house. He was a complicated guy. Down-home, liked his grits, no pretense, but he filled a room. You knew he was there, and you knew he could buy and sell anybody anytime he chose. He worked like a demon. He liked to brag about never getting more than three or four hours’ sleep, yet he had more energy than anyone around him.” A pause. “Last night he didn’t look like a man who was going to be murdered. Danced every dance, mostly with Minerva Lloyd. They’ve been an item for five, six years. Ever since his last divorce. He also danced with a really good-looking gal. Deirdre knows her out at the college. Juliet Rodriguez, a psychology prof.” Hal’s gaze flickered to the safe, then the body. “I’d say he opened the safe and somebody took him out with a blackjack.”
The slap of sneakers. A wiry bundle of energy in a ratty sweatshirt, faded jeans, and sneakers hurtled through the door. Jacob Brandt was the local medical examiner. He stopped just inside the door, gave a low whistle. “I got the call. Didn’t know it was the master of the manse. Somehow you don’t expect Croesus to get offed.” He was across the room, dropping to one knee and pushing up the sleeve of the baggy gray sweatshirt. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from a back pocket, picked up a flaccid arm, held the wrist. “Yeah. Dead. Probably”—he moved the limp arm—“about five to seven hours ago. At the earliest around one a.m. Back of his skull crushed. Likely never knew what hit him.”
“A blackjack?” Hal asked.
“Could be. Or wet sand knotted in a sock. Great weapon. Whack, empty out the sand, throw the sock in the wash. Good to go. Nobody will ever prove a connection to murder.” He came to his feet. “I’ll get you a report. But pretty obvious. Blunt trauma. Now I got to get out to the high school. A body found in the football stands. No sign of foul play. But opiates are about as foul as it comes.” His young face was bleak as he headed into the hall.