Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(44)

“—and all of sudden the police are shouting and one of them points a gun at—”

The door slammed.

Joan Crandall was a few feet away, writing furiously.

I hated watching the cruiser pull away. I hoped Susan wasn’t ordered to don an orange jail jumpsuit. Perhaps a material witness was permitted to remain in street clothes. She was already shaken and upset, finding Wilbur’s butler in a pool of blood, trying to help, staining a shoe. The fact that the police had followed her, had been assigned to watch her, indicated how tenuous was her hold on freedom. And now she was found standing by a dead man. She must feel that the ordinary world had disappeared and she was plunged into a nightmare that didn’t end. But for now I needed to stay here and learn what I could about the death of Carl Ross.

I moved back into the cabin. The overhead light in the living room was a chandelier shaped like a wagon wheel with lights that looked like old-fashioned lamps. The room was designed for comfort, several rustic sofas in a cheery maple with cushions upholstered in blue denim, a large wet bar against one wall, a bridge table with a checkerboard, a pool table with cues in a nearby rack, the balls contained within their triangle on the green felt. A ceiling-to-floor plate glass window would offer a clear view of the lake in daytime. Now there was only darkness beyond.

Jacob Brandt knelt by the body. He stripped off a plastic glove, touched the dead man’s cheek. He pulled off the other glove, balled them in his left hand, and pushed up from the floor. “Gunshot oblique angle. Left front to right back, struck the heart. Shooter was standing, victim seated. That accounts for the angle. Death instantaneous. No exit wound. Bullet may be lodged in the spinal cord. I’ll get it to you. Tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” Sam said mildly.

“If she’s still at the table, I want to make nice for a couple more hours. I’ll take a look for it around midnight. I hope not any earlier. Otherwise”—he was stuffing plastic gloves in his jacket pocket—“no other apparent trauma.” He started for the door. “Room isn’t overheated, maybe sixty-eight degrees. I’ll do an incision, poke a thermometer into the liver when I do the autopsy. But I think I can get pretty close right now. Dead at least an hour, absolute max two hours.” He glanced at a watch with enough dials and hands to navigate the Bosporus. “Ten forty-five now. Roughly he was shot between eight forty-five and nine forty-five at the latest. My best estimate is around nine thirty. That’s all for now.” He made it to the door and through faster than a greyhound chasing a lure.

As the door closed behind the medical examiner, Hal murmured to Sam, “She must be a knockout.” Outside the sports car engine roared.

As the forensic team began its careful work, I looked down on the scene. I recognized Carl Ross’s gray sweats and sneakers, perhaps his costume of choice when not working. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His sweatshirt was soggy with blood. The blood had welled onto the floor. There was a smear and what looked like a partial footprint. Susan said she’d tried to see if she could help him. Perhaps she hurried across the room and as she bent over she stepped into a pool of blood.

Lights flashed as photos were taken. One tech held a camera, filmed the body and the surrounding area.

I scanned the room for a clock. The film would record not only the scene but the time the video was made. Ross lay a little on one side. One long arm splayed out. I moved close, carefully turned the wrist so I could read the time. Ten minutes to eleven.

“Hey.”

Faces turned. Sam’s heavy face was inquiring.

The tech clutched the camera close to her chest. She retreated one step, another. “Hey, somebody take a look. His arm moved.”

Sam strode nearer. “Maybe rigor mortis.” He was soothing. “He’s dead. The ME said so. And so do I.”

The tech swallowed. “I don’t care what anybody says, his right arm turned. Like he was going to look at his watch.” The last words quivered.

“Uh.” Sam glanced around. “Not to worry. Maybe there was a little quake. Shook his arm. You know we have them all the time.” His voice was still soothing. But his brown eyes continued to check out the room. “Alert of you to notice, Roberts. Continue to film.”

Slowly the videocam was lifted.

“Speaking of time”—Sam continued to think out loud, looked at Porter and Warren—“tell me again when you left the Gilbert house?”

Warren pulled a small notebook from his pocket, repeated the times he’d relayed in his call to the dispatcher.

Sam looked thoughtful. “Shot fired at about seven minutes after ten?”

Warren nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Sam and Hal exchanged a glance. They moved out of the way of the filming tech, stood near the pool table with a good view of the overstuffed chair and the body that lay at an angle to it. I was close enough to hear their low-voiced conversation.

“Screwy.” Hal stood with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of well-worn chinos. He was as remarkably handsome as the first time I glimpsed him, tall, lean, a blue-eyed blond with regular features and a mouth that could spread in a generous grin. Then he’d been an attractive bachelor. Now he was married to Deirdre Davenport, a young woman I’d assisted when her fingerprints were found on a murder weapon.

“Screwy sums it up.” Sam rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his right hand. “Jake is good at his job. If he thinks Ross was dead by nine forty-five at the outside limit, the timing of the shot is an anomaly.”