Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(25)

“Bobby Mac loved the Sooners and the Cowboys.” For college ball, the Oklahoma Sooners thrilled in our day, and no one was better as a pro quarterback than Roger Staubach for Dallas. “Bobby Mac and I”—I paused for emphasis—“were in the stands in Minneapolis when Roger threw The Pass.”

Sam was awed. “You were there?”

“I’ll tell you all about it—” The cold December day in Minneapolis (seventeen degrees with wind chill), the desperate situation, only seconds remaining in the game. “—but first”—I edged the chair nearer his desk—“I have very important information.”

Sam cleared his throat. “I hate to disappoint you—”

I was suddenly apprehensive. These words rarely presage good news for a listener.

“—but you backed the wrong horse this time.”

I was shocked. “Susan?” It felt like riding in an elevator that dropped without warning.

“Sorry.” His gaze was kind.

“Sam, I was there. I heard her respond to the ransom call.”

“Right.” He pulled a legal pad close, flipped several pages. “I got it right here. She got a ransom call, thinks her sister is kidnapped, hustles off to the Fitch house, burgles the safe—”

“She took only the shoe box. Not the coins.”

He was unimpressed. “Right. She took the shoe box, goes home. She waits for instructions about where to deliver the ransom. They don’t come. You convince her the call is set for twelve noon tomorrow, not midnight. You pick it up from there.”

I gave him a sunny smile. “True confession. I came here. I didn’t think you would mind if I used your computer.”

He expressed no surprise. “I turned it on after I got back from the Fitch house. I figured you’d been busy. Interesting searches.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I checked out seven people. One of them”—I was emphatic—“killed Wilbur Fitch.”

My grand pronouncement evoked a dismissive shrug. “Names given to you by Susan Gilbert?”

A drop in temperature, a sudden gust of wind, thin streaks of gray clouds are portents of a coming storm. Sam regretted that he was going to disappoint me, and he dismissed my offer of suspects. Two unmistakable portents. I was not only apprehensive, I was chilled, but I soldiered on. “You admit there was a ransom call?”

Sam folded his arms. “A hoax.”

I was impatient. “A hoax, but that call revealed an important fact. The caller knew Susan could open the safe. How did the caller have that knowledge? At a luncheon the week before, Wilbur used his cell, called Susan, asked her to get the Roman coin collection out of the safe and bring it to the dining room.”

Sam was as expressionless as a curio store stuffed alligator.

I spoke with great clarity. “Seven people heard Wilbur tell Susan to get the coins from the safe.” I flicked off the names. “George Kelly, Wilbur’s lawyer. Todd Garrett, chief operating officer of Fitch Enterprises. Harry Hubbard, Wilbur’s stepson. Alan Douglas, a Fitch vice president. Minerva Lloyd, Wilbur’s mistress. Juliet Rodriguez, a very good-looking professor who’s been organizing his library. Ben Fitch, Wilbur’s son. He lives in Hawaii, looks like he spends a lot of time on the beach.”

Sam didn’t write down a single name. That was the third portent.

A knock sounded at the door. Sam gave me a glance and I disappeared.

“Come in.” He turned his swivel chair to look toward the door.

Colleen was in her fifties with a freckled open face and a kind smile. She bustled across the room. “I brought some plates from the break room. Since you expect a guest.”

He was bland. “Arriving any minute.” He moved aside folders for his plate, gestured to the other side of the desk for the second plate.

Colleen put two sacks between the plates. “Includes salt, pepper, ketchup. Got a couple of cups of orange sherbet as an extra. Very healthy.”

As the door closed behind her, I reappeared, reached for my sack. I put the cheeseburger, chili oozing from its sides, on one side of the plate, spilled out the fries on the other. Across the desk, Sam emptied the salad with the chicken strips, looked at my serving.

I reached over, switched the plates. “What happens in your office, stays in your office.” Probably the poor man’s hunger pangs were distorting his judgment.

Sam hesitated perhaps a fourth of an instant, grabbed the cheeseburger, took a huge bite.

I poked a strip of chicken in the ranch dressing. I am always willing to sacrifice to seek justice. I waited until he looked as contented as a lion with an antelope carcass.

“Don’t you agree that the murderer was at the luncheon?”

He used a paper napkin to wipe a smear of chili from his chin. “You have a big heart, Bailey Ruth. And I know you are sent to help someone in trouble. But maybe this isn’t the first time someone in trouble makes a bad call. I understand how you got caught up in her panic about her sister. It was a pretty lousy trick, all right, to fake a kidnapping. Somebody doesn’t like Susan Gilbert, and the call did result in Wilbur’s murder. As for the hoax, the cell phone’s a dead end. The number doesn’t lead anywhere. A burner phone—somebody bought a cash card phone and they’ve tossed it by now. Anyway, what matters is what Susan Gilbert did. I’m getting the case ready for the DA: Somebody sets up Sylvie’s disappearance, calls Susan, demands the money. Susan goes to the house, gets the box of cash, returns home. She doesn’t get another call because there was never going to be another call. The joke’s over. She doesn’t know it’s a joke so she thinks she’ll get a call the next day. The caller knows she’s stuck with the cash, and when her sister turns up, she’ll sweat to get the box back into the safe without Wilbur knowing, and her tormentor’s getting a big time kick out of her problems. Instead, here’s what happened. You leave the house and come to my office. Susan’s lying there, worrying about her sister, and she gets to thinking, once she turns over the ransom money she’ll end up being a suspect when Wilbur looks in the safe. I don’t buy this idea she was going to tell him all about it. Or maybe she thought about telling him but she got a better idea. She’s already in the hole for the cash, why not grab the coin collections? She can eventually sell the coins, one way or another. There’s a market for stolen artwork, including rare coins. So she gets up and hurries back to the Fitch house. By this time the party’s over. She’s opening the safe and there’s a noise in the hall. She darts to her little side office, hunkers behind the door. Wilbur comes in. Maybe he had a hankering for his coins. Maybe he liked to count cash in the middle of the night, found it soothing. But the painting is pulled back, the safe is open. He strides over there. She knows she’s off to jail if he turns around and sees her. She still thinks she has to wait for a ransom call, rescue little sister. I checked out her office. There’s a crystal paperweight. She grabs the paperweight, maybe knots it up in a scarf, comes up behind him, slam. He’s down, dying. It only takes another minute to return the paperweight to her desk. She gets the coin collections, leaves by the garden door. She decides to leave the safe open and the door ajar to point to a thief from outside. She makes a detour on her way home, gets rid of the bloody scarf.” He took another gobble of his cheeseburger, had only a third left.