Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(57)
“Lunch will be here soon. Perhaps you don’t want to ruin your appetite.” Unsaid was the prospect of responding honestly when Claire inquired about his lunch. As for lunch, he could honestly report that he’d ordered the diet plate for himself and a cheeseburger for a visitor. It wouldn’t be necessary to say who ate what. We gazed at each other in mutual understanding, and he picked up a pen, did a drum tap on the desktop. “Ben Fitch is smart. Did you notice how he interrupted Sylvie to prevent her naming the men who were at the luncheon? She could have ended up with a defamation suit if she’d named the five.”
A knock on the door. I disappeared as Colleen brought in two sacks from Lulu’s. Sam took the sacks, put them on opposite sides of his desk. “Expecting a visitor ASAP. No calls for half an hour.” As the door closed behind her, he switched the sacks without comment, ripped his down one side. He wolfed a good third of the cheeseburger in a first bite.
I reappeared, lifted out my salad, splashed the greens and grilled chicken with ranch dressing.
“I told Colleen to switch all calls for me to Hal and alerted him to explain the investigations into the murders of Fitch and Ross are active and therefore the department has no comment about a report that five men are considered suspects and that an announcement would be made at a press conference at noon tomorrow. Got a text from Hal asking what did I know about a private detective named Latham. I told him”—Sam’s face radiated innocence—“that the department was unaware of the activities of any private detective.”
They say confession is good for the soul. I reached over, took one of Sam’s french fries, poked it in the ranch dressing, mumbled, “Those five men were interviewed by Adelaide Police Department Detective Sergeant G. Latham.”
“It’s a pretty serious offense for a private eye to pretend to be a cop. Looks like that’s what happened here.” Sam didn’t sound disturbed. “The department will, of course, make it clear that there is no detective of that name employed by the Adelaide police. I suppose Joan Crandall will write a story about the elusive G. Latham when she discovers there is no private eye of that name and no police detective of that name. Being a good reporter, she’ll get a description, red hair, narrow face, green eyes, freckles, five foot five inches, weight approximately one hundred and twenty—”
“One sixteen.”
“Well dressed. I like that top. It’d look good on Claire. Nifty with white slacks.”
He wiped a smear of chili from his fingers. “So Detective Sergeant Latham talked to the five. What did she get?”
I put down my fork. “There wasn’t a gotcha moment.” I remembered them, George Kelly seeing dollar signs, Todd Garrett looking forward to a future at the lake, Harry Hubbard too charming for his own good, Alan Douglas diffident and disarming, Ben Fitch at home in a mansion. “Do you know where they were last night between nine and ten thirty?” I leaned forward, hoping that routine careful police work could point me in the right direction.
Sam used two napkins to wipe his hands, turned to his computer screen, clicked a couple of times. “Judy Weitz handled this. She went to the public library, slipped upstairs, found an unlocked office, and used the phone. She claimed to be Monica Holman and said her car was swiped by a car in the grocery parking lot last night. Another shopper got the license plate and she wanted to know where he, whichever of the five she had on the phone, was around nine twenty. Lots of back and forth. At the end she read off a license plate number. She had the numbers for their cars including one of the Fitch cars, and in each instance her number was one digit off the correct number, so apologies and thank-yous all around. By that time she had the information she wanted. Ben Fitch said he was home reading. No way to confirm. No staff in the house at night so he wouldn’t have any trouble slipping out. George Kelly says he was in his office, had a lot of work to do, death of a major client. Checked the area around his office. Woman in a little house next to the parking lot said she’d complained before about his office light shining into her bedroom and he’d forgotten again to draw his curtains. Todd Garrett was actually in the parking lot at the grocery, insisted he never sideswiped anybody’s car and if he had sideswiped a car he sure would have left a note. Alan Douglas was in his garage, making some changes to his model for a SIMPLE Car. Neither of his next-door neighbors was home last night. Alan could have been in his garage or he could have been at the Fitch cabin.”
I was thoughtful. “Garrett says he was at the grocery?”
Sam shrugged. “He could have been there, fudged on the time. Nobody charts customers at a supermarket. Maybe he had groceries stashed in his trunk before he went to the cabin to meet Ross. If he did meet him.”
I suppose my disappointment was evident. I’d hoped at least one or more of them might be crossed off the list if a concrete alibi existed. There was no alibi for any one of my five.
“But”—Sam’s voice was upbeat—“I have some good news for you. Don Smith has covered Susan Gilbert’s past like Madame Curie peering at radium. Gilbert does not have a license for a gun. Gilbert has never purchased a gun. Gilbert, according to friends, has never shot a gun. Neither of her parents ever owned a gun. Her father was not a hunter. In fact, she grew up in an anti-gun household, wants to see laws enacted that prohibit the sale of assault weapons. Moreover, her house and car were thoroughly searched Wednesday and no gun was found in the house, garage, yard, or car.” He looked to me for approval.