“What was he doing on the roof?" Jane asked Mel.
“I have no idea. Do you know, Ginger?" Mel replied.
“Snooping. Probably."
“Snooping on whom?" Mel asked.
Ginger shrugged. "He never confided in me. Or anybody else. His stories were as much of a surprise to the station as they were to the audience. Good thing he hit the reindeer. I mean, if he'd only gotten hurt, he'd have crucified the Johnsons in court. He knew all about insurance claims. One of his specialities."
“How'd he get up there?" Shelley asked. "It's not easy to get on a roof. Especially when you're in a Santa suit in the snow."
“Billy Joe had left a ladder out in the backyard when he finished his decorating," Mel said. "The back of the roof is a fairly shallow incline. Some owner must have had it raised to get more space upstairs.”
Jane shook her head. "He was a wicked person, but he didn't seem stupid. The roof had all that slushy, slippery snow; even if it wasn't as steep as the front, it was still dangerous. What could he have wanted to watch badly enough to climb up there? And what if he hadn't seen it — whatever it was. Did he think he could lurk in the manger up there for days?”
Ginger spoke up again. "He was putting one of his gadgets up there, I'd guess. He had a slew of long-range listening devices and recordersand remote-control cameras. He even carried around night-vision binoculars in his car." Shelley shivered. "What slime. And what a well-deserved accident.”
There was a moment of quiet, then Jane said to Mel, "I notice you're not commenting.”
Mel cocked an eyebrow at her and said, carefully, "There is some evidence that it might not have been an accident."
“Come on," Ginger said. "Nobody commits suicide by flinging themselves off a roof onto a plaster reind— Oh, you mean—?"
“The usual question now," Mel said, "is: Did he have any enemies?"
“Have you got a notebook with lots of blank pages to fill? He had nothing but enemies," Jane said. "What kind of evidence are you talking about?"
“There appear to be two sets of footprints going up the back side of the roof. One only goes up and ends in a skid down the front. The other set goes up to the peak and then back down the back side to the ladder."
“Someone else was on the roof?" Shelley exclaimed. "Can't you get footprints? Or shoe prints, I guess."
“Too soggy," Mel said. "With the rain on top of the snow, they're just outlines. Can't even tell a size because of the snow melt."
“So someone pushed him off the roof," Jane said.
“That's jumping to conclusions," Mel said. "The two sets of prints were made at approximately the same time. Someone else could have been up there first and King was following him or her. Or somebody could have gone up after King fell."
“Why would anyone do that?" Mike asked. Mel shrugged. "I'm just talking about physical possibilities. Not motives."
“But you still think somebody pushed him off the peak of the roof?" Jane asked.
“Without proof, I couldn't say, but if I were to guess, I'd suspect it was murder. And we have to treat it as such until we know. I've got to go. Ginger, do you know where he kept his files?"
“No files. He didn't want anyone to know what he was doing until he did it. I think he kept everything on his laptop."
“Which is where?" Mel asked.
Ginger pointed at the squashy armchair Jane was sitting in. "That looks like the case, next to the chair. Unless it's yours, Jane.”
Jane peered over the arm of the chair. "No, mine's in a blue case. He did have this with him. He bashed into the coffee table with it and knocked a candle over.”
Mel picked up the laptop. "Let me see you to your door, Shelley, and I'll have one of my people take Ginger to her car. Lock up carefully, Jane.”
Mike helped Jane unload the dishwasher and put away the last of the leftover food and then he went to let the pets out of the basement. Max and Meow crept up the steps, wary that there might still be visitors in the house. When they were satisfied that there were no strangers present to try to pet them, they wound themselves sinuously around Jane's legs, demanding food.
“I'll run the vacuum in the morning," Jane said as she opened a can of cat food. "I don't want to wake Addie with it this late at night. Will you keep Willard in your room tonight so he doesn't run loose and bark the house down?”
Mike nodded, petting Willard's big, square head. Glancing into the living room, he said, "Looks pretty good, considering. Mom, who do you think killed that guy?"
“I haven't any idea. It could have been anyone. He had a lot of enemies."
“But it has to be someone from around here, doesn't it?"
“I don't see why. With all the traffic on the street gawking at the Johnsons' house, anyone could have come into the neighborhood without being noticed."
“But how would they have known where to come?" Mike asked. "On that short television bit he just talked about 'a suburb.' He didn't say exactly where he was."
“Oh, maybe you're right," Jane said. "But someone could have seen the television van and guessed. Or followed him from the station.”
That was just mother talk, she realized as she was getting ready for bed. The natural impulse to reassure her child — albeit an intelligent adult child — that his neighborhood was safe and he would come to no harm.
In truth, the neighborhood was less likely to come to harm with Lance King dead. It was an awful and cynical way to view the demise of a human being, but he had been a very dangerous man. A Life Wrecker. How did anyone get to be that way? What kind of background created someone who loved to be hated?
Jane had always felt it was an essential, bone-deep human trait to want to be liked. Or at least respected. Some people desperately wanted everybody to love them. That was one end of the scale. Most just needed the love of a few people spouse, children, best friend — and respect from a larger number. But if you felt from early on in life that you couldn't acquire anyone's love, maybe power was the natural substitute.
Lance had accumulated more power than anyone needed or was good for them. Probably it was a case of getting a thrill out of seeing fear in people's faces. Fear could look like respect, Jane supposed.
She undressed and crawled into bed, shoving the cats aside. They'd left two lovely warm spots. She could hear muffled voices in the John-sons' yard. The police, and Mel, were going to have a long night of it.
Mike was right, she thought sleepily. If the obvious conclusion — murder — was right, somebody they knew had probably committed it.
Jane was up early, having her coffee in front of the little kitchen counter television. She tuned to the station Lance King had worked for. When the local news came on, she was astonished to see Ginger doing a live feed. She'd tidied up her hair and was standing on the street in front of the Johnsons' house. "Lance King, a familiar and popular reporter for this station, died here last night," she said, not sounding the least nervous at her elevation from assistant/gofer to reporter."In a freak accident, King fell from the roof of this home and suffered fatal injuries. The police are not saying if they've determined whether it was an accident or foul play. Further reports will be made on the noon news and this evening we'll have a report on Lance King's life and career. Back to you, Ann.”
Ann and Charles, the morning anchors who could have passed for Barbie and Ken, looked suitably solemn for a few seconds, then Ann smiled and launched into a piece on local children's activities during the holidays that harried moms and dads could take the kids to. Jane turned off the television and went to the front window.
Ginger had divested herself of her microphone and was heading for Jane's front door. Jane opened it for her and invited her in. "I just saw you on the news," Jane said, leading the way back to the kitchen. "You looked great and sounded very polished." She got down a fresh cup and poured coffee for Ginger.