Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(52)

Now it was time to find out whether a man he knew well—his son, his stepson, his lawyer, or a top employee—knocked on his bedroom door after the party.

Still invisible, I arrived in Harry Hubbard’s office in the public relations department in the main office building. Why was I not surprised to find the overhead light off, the room unoccupied? I doubted Harry was punctilious in observing office hours. The decor was cheerful if bland, cream-colored walls, green curtains at the windows, a nicely polished parquet floor. The desk was unpretentious metal. There were several folders in an in-box, nothing in the out-box.

I settled behind the desk in a very comfortable leather chair and turned to the computer. I used the mouse, tapped. Company policy might dictate closing down a computer every evening, but perhaps Harry thought that was another rule that didn’t apply to him. I checked the most recent Google searches. Long-term rentals in Aruba and Tahiti.

The office door opened. Harry was as attractive as always, his sleek blond hair artfully brushed, model-perfect features relaxed. A yellow cashmere pullover, blue shirt, gray wool trousers, expensive Italian loafers with a flash of yellow socks.

I was out of his chair by the time he strolled across the room.

In the hall I made sure no one was near and appeared. I gave a quick knock, opened the door, and stepped inside with a confident smile. I held my leather ID case in my right hand. “Detective Sergeant G. Latham. I understand from Wilbur Fitch’s son, Ben”—I was walking across the room as I spoke—“that his father had great confidence in you, and I’m hoping you can give me some insights about Mr. Fitch’s business activities.”

My intention was to reassure a possible murderer that he was not under suspicion by the police. That was the main reason I wanted Sam to discover the location of each man last night. A relaxed adversary doesn’t expect an attack. If—I had that sudden empty feeling that precedes a step into space—I ever learned enough to mount an attack. I pushed away the negative thought and a shocking feeling of helplessness. Probably that’s what it would be like to skydive. As an emissary, I enjoy swooping without fear through space, but on earth I’d had a careful regard for heights. I could see very well, thank you, standing back a good ten feet from the rim of the Grand Canyon. But the sensation of hollowness reminded me how little time I had to find a murderer.

I saw an admiring glint in Harry’s eyes as he gestured for me to take the chair in front of his desk. I reminded myself that I wasn’t here to bask in his admiration for redheads and I would be on guard against his undeniable charm.

“I’ll be glad to help.” His expressive face was suddenly grave. “I saw on TV that somebody shot Carl Ross. What the hell’s going on?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine. To be frank”—a phrase that almost always precedes a carefully worded hook for an opponent—“we have received information from a confidential informant that suggests Mr. Fitch and Mr. Ross were murdered by a Fitch Enterprises employee. To be specific, and I assure you anything you say will be held in total confidence as part of an investigation, we are interested in two employees.” I leaned forward, dropped my voice. “Alan Douglas and Todd Garrett.”

Harry’s handsome face crinkled in thought. Abruptly he shook his head. “You got a bum steer. Alan’s this kind of nerdy nice guy who lives, eats, and breathes Fitch business plans. I don’t think he ever does anything but figure how to maximize profits or start something new that nobody else has thought about. And he’s”—an awkward pause—“he’s not a rugged guy. I mean, I don’t think he ever played a sport. He’s, well, he’s kind of girly. And Todd is a good old boy. He might shoot you if you ran over his dog or messed with his girlfriend, but he wouldn’t sneak up behind Wilbur and whack him on the back of his head.”

? ? ?

Not surprisingly, Alan Douglas’s office was up the stairs in the galvanized steel structure. When I knocked and opened the door, he looked blank for an instant, his mind clearly involved in the papers before him, then he saw me and rose.

I didn’t think Harry’s estimation of Alan as girly was quite fair. He had excellent manners and hurried to pull out a chair for me in front of his desk. He was tall and thin and unpretentious in a blue work shirt and khakis and tan boots. His short-cut brown hair was neatly combed. He had a diffident way of speaking. “I want to help. It’s awful what’s happened. Wilbur and Carl. I can’t believe someone could kill Carl.” There was recognition in his eyes of a macho man, recognition and a flash of dislike.

I used the same approach, but this time I named Harry Hubbard and Todd Garrett.

Alan sat very precisely behind his desk, hands folded on the wooden top. Suddenly his lips spread in a swift smile. “Harry bashing Wilbur and shooting Carl would be like a lazy house cat suddenly turning ferocious. Harry’s too much into being comfortable and safe and indulged. He never stirs if it’s raining. He’s fastidious about his clothes. Sure he likes money. But Wilbur gave him a job and all Harry had to do was play golf a couple of times a week. Harry”—his pale blue eyes narrowed—“doesn’t take chances. And I think he was scared of Carl. Of course, he’ll be even more comfortable with what he inherits from Wilbur, but he’s not a risk-taker.”

I looked at him curiously. “Are you a risk-taker?”