Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(46)

Hal shrugged. “Maybe she blew in through the door and Ross stayed in the chair, too cool to get up. As for the armrest, maybe somebody started dusting the place and only did the sofa arm.”

Sam gestured at the room, now more than three-fourths vetted. “Warren and Porter were in here like June bugs on an oak leaf. Where’s the gun?”

An officer stepped in from an adjoining room. “Got an open window in a bedroom, Chief.”

Hal glanced from the chair to the bedroom door. “She was fast if she got to a window in the bedroom and was back in here by the time Porter came in. She could have managed it. They were approaching a cabin with a live shooter, so they took a few minutes.”

Sam’s stare was thoughtful. “They found her at the sink. She said she was washing blood off her hands. Maybe she was washing away gunshot residue.”

? ? ?

The door to Carl Ross’s garage apartment was unlocked. That wasn’t surprising. He’d gone to the cabin intending to return soon. The upstairs apartment was behind a mansion in a fine neighborhood, not a likely target for a stray thief.

A lamp on a side table was turned on. The living room was spacious, the walls painted a light blue, a braided gray and blue oval rug on the floor, a leather sofa, two easy chairs, a huge wall TV screen. No books. No magazines. A whisky glass sat on a coffee table in front of the sofa. I bent near, sniffed. Scotch. The ice had melted. There was nothing dropped casually on a chair. The neatness was almost regimental.

I moved around the room, stopped in a corner next to a treadmill that faced a wall of framed photographs and memorabilia. Ross in fatigues, Ross in a Marine uniform, a bronze medal with an eagle in the center hanging from a dark green ribbon with a narrow stripe of white near each edge, Sergeant Ross receiving commendation as a drill instructor, Ross standing in front of a brick wall with a Marine symbol to the right of large letters:

CAMP LEJUEUNE

HOME OF

EXPEDITIONARY

FORCES IN RESIDENCE

I understood why Ross didn’t worry about meeting Wilbur’s murderer. Wilbur had been caught from behind, unaware. Ross had no intention of turning his back on his guest at the cabin, and he likely figured he could physically handle the murderer. I slid over the possibilities in my mind, that short list from Wilbur’s luncheon where he displayed the Roman coins: Ben Fitch, Alan Douglas, Harry Hubbard, George Kelly, Todd Garrett, Minerva Lloyd, Juliet Rodriguez. Certainly the butler/former DI had no fear of either woman. Ben Fitch was lighter than Ross but he was lean, wiry, and young. Alan Douglas was tall and weedy. Harry Hubbard looked like the guy who would melt into the distance when a badass slammed through the saloon door. The lawyer appeared in good shape for a middle-aged man and was taller and heavier, but no match for Ross. Todd Garrett was an old football player, but he was thirty years past his playing days and flab had replaced muscle.

Ross was counting on his strength and combat training. He forgot only one point. If the other guy has the firepower, you’re a dead man.

I was at the door, making one last survey, when a car horn blared. The sound was piercing, strident. In an instant, I was outside on the landing next to the second-floor apartment door. The huge house loomed between me and the squall of the horn. Abruptly the horn beeped four times in succession, then once again was pressed and held.

I came over the top of the three-story house.

The front porch was dark, but night-lights flared every few feet along the rim of the third floor. An ornate iron lamppost spread a golden glow near the front steps. Sylvie Gilbert, blonde curls stirred by the wind, stood next to her Camry. The motor was running. The driver door was open, and she leaned inside to hold the car horn down. The Camry headlights threw a harsh white light across the front of the house.

As I dropped down beside her, the front porch lights were turned on and the door opened.

Sylvie’s young face looked frantic. She jerked away from the horn, and in the sudden silence her shoes thudded as she shot up the stone steps.

A scowling, barefoot Ben Fitch in a sweater and jeans met her at the top of the steps. His face changed abruptly. Shock and concern replaced the scowl when he recognized her. “You’re Susan’s sister. What’s wrong?”

A police cruiser screeched into the drive, slammed to a stop behind the Camry. Two familiar officers climbed out. Both looked wary and approached cautiously. Officer Porter’s hand hovered near his holster. Officer Warren’s gaze flicked in every direction. Both men obviously had an indelible memory of the man who had been shot to death not more than a quarter mile distant.

Sylvie glanced at them, but it was as if they were background figures, unimportant to her. Instead she took a step nearer Ben, gripped his arm. “Where’s Susan? She said she was coming here. She got a phone call, and I wanted to come with her, but she said she had to come by herself. She left a few minutes before ten and now it’s almost eleven.” Sylvie’s voice quivered.

“Here?” Ben repeated blankly.

Officer Warren reached them, looked from Ben to Sylvie, demanded, “Who honked the horn? What’s going on?”

Sylvie whirled to him. “Why are you here?”

Warren’s broad face was impassive. “Who honked the horn?”

Sylvie poked her hands on her hips. “Nobody answered the door. So I honked. I’m looking for my sister, Susan Gilbert. She got a call and she told me she was going to the Fitch place. I’m not leaving here until I find her.” Sylvie wasn’t far from tears.