Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(43)

Susan tried again. “I just got here.” Her voice was thin. “I found him—”

Warren made a sharp chopping motion with his left hand.

Susan broke off.

Warren listened. “That’s right, Chief. Susan Gilbert. Porter and I were staked out at the Gilbert house tonight. She exited her back door at approximately four minutes before ten. She departed her driveway at two minutes before ten. She drove to the back entrance to the Fitch property, turned in at three minutes after ten. We parked on street at four minutes after ten, proceeded on foot. Came in view of cabin at six minutes after ten. Gilbert’s car was parked in front of cabin. The cabin porch light was on and the front windows were lighted. We were approximately a hundred yards from the porch when a shot was fired. We ducked into the shadows, called for backup—”

Sirens wailed. Homicide and the forensic van were arriving. It isn’t far from the police station in City Hall to the homes high on a hill in the best part of town.

“—and worked our way up to the cabin. All remained quiet. We moved from shadow to shadow, reached the porch at maybe eleven after ten. Porter got here first. He asked me to cover him. He went up on the porch from one side, hugged the wall, moved to the door. The door, no screen, was ajar. He yelled, ‘Police. Hands up,’ kicked the door open, went in sideways like he was supposed to, had his gun out.” There was an admiring tone in Warren’s voice. He thought the young cop passed a tough test. “I was right behind him. Gilbert was over at a sink. The water was running. She swung around and looked toward the door. Porter ordered Gilbert to get her hands up. She did. She’s handcuffed—”

The shrill sirens abruptly cut off. Doors slammed. Feet thudded outside on the wooden porch. Sam Cobb was first through the door, Detective Sergeant Hal Price close behind. Sam was holding his cell phone. He had obviously moved quickly from his car, but there was no struggle for breath as he surveyed the room: Susan. His officers. The dead man.

In less than a minute, Sam had the scene under control, everyone outside on the porch to await the arrival of the medical examiner. As he spoke with Porter and Warren, a lean intense figure approached the cars and whirling lights. Joan Crandall as always held a notebook and pencil. No doubt access was barred from the street, but Joan likely nodded when she was prohibited from entering then walked far enough away to slip into the woods and find a way to the cabin road. Joan stood a few feet away from the porch and scanned the waiting figures. Her gaze settled on Susan. She began to write.

Susan tried to speak, “I knew he was hurt and—”

Sam shot her a hard look. “We’ll get to it in time, Miss Gilbert. For now you’re in custody as a material witness. I want to warn you that anything you say—”

Susan listened to the Miranda warning. “I didn’t shoot him.”

Sam was brusque. “You can have your say later. We have a body to deal with.” He jerked a thumb at a redheaded officer. “Understand she was washing her hands.” He looked around, gestured for a tech. “Put some adhesive tabs on her right hand to check for gunshot residue. Put them in an evidence bag.” He turned back to the big redhead. “When that’s done, check her in at the jail. She gets one phone call. Impound the car. Get a search warrant.”

I was on the porch next to Susan when headlights swept over the parked cars and the knot of officers on the porch. The redheaded officer moved Susan toward the steps, a large hand gripping her upper left arm. A familiar red sports car squealed to a stop behind the forensic van. The door swung out and Jacob Brandt was on his feet and moving fast toward the cabin. He looked snazzy tonight in a blue sport coat, red pullover sweater, and navy slacks. He carried a leather satchel. “Hell of a time to get a call.” He looked glum. “She’s too damn pretty to sit there by herself for long. Where’s the body? Inside?” And he was through the door.

Susan and the officer were at the foot of the stairs, turning toward a cruiser. I hovered next to Susan, bent near, whispered, “I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”

She jerked to a stop, looked wildly to her right.

I kept close. “Get Megan Wynn for your lawyer. Tell her Jimmy’s redheaded friend wants her to help you.”

Susan said blankly, “Redheaded friend?”

The officer was brusque. “Knock it off.”

Susan glared at him. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Who are you talking to then?”

Susan took a deep breath. “That’s a good question. But I have an answer. Jimmy’s redheaded friend.”

The officer’s grip tightened. “Like I said, knock it off. Acting nuts won’t save you, either.”

Susan tried to shake free. “Let go of me. I’ll walk to the car. I’m not nuts. You people are nuts. I come here and find a body and nobody listens to me. I didn’t shoot Carl Ross. I’m here because he called and said he knew something that could help me and I believed him. He would have seen Wilbur Fitch after the party, made sure he didn’t want anything else that night. But I didn’t shoot Carl. I don’t have a gun. I’ve never had a gun. I’ve never shot a gun. I came to meet him and I found him on the floor. I tried to help him and then I heard a shot—”

The officer, face expressionless, grip still tight on her arm, urged her forward. They reached the first cruiser. He opened the back door, none too gently pushed her in.