Susan smiled, if grimly. “It won’t, Gail. This is how people like us get things done. Boldly, not stupidly. I will shepherd this like it was my firstborn.”
Gail smiled suddenly and kissed Raffner’s cheek quickly. “Go get ’em, girl. I’ll be holding my breath.”
* * *
There was a pecking order of residences at The Woods of Windsor, starting with quarter-million-dollar efficiencies with no view, and culminating with segregated duplexes built apart from the madding crowd, lined up on a ridge overlooking the fields and hills of Vermont’s horse country. Surprisingly to Joe, the late Gorden Marshall’s apartment was not among the latter. The place that Sergeant Carrier led them to was fancy and spacious, but located alongside a string of similar apartments on the top floor of one of the complex’s larger buildings. Either Marshall’s resources had their limits, or his Vermont-born sense of decorum had overruled them.
To give Carrier credit, he’d positioned a single officer at the door, and made sure that, unlike himself, he was in plainclothes. Of course, he was also young, fit, uncomfortable in a tie, and sporting a high-and-tight haircut. He had “cop” stamped all over him. But the effort had been made, and Joe mentioned it as they approached, complimenting his counterpart.
Carrier merely jutted his chin down the long hallway, to where an elderly man had just rounded the corner. “You’ll be eating those words in thirty seconds,” he said dourly. “That’s one of the board members. You’ll love him.”
Joe was already watching the grim expression approaching them, imagining it atop a younger man in a suit, fifteen years earlier, striding toward some stockholders’ meeting with fire in his belly.
“Swell,” he said gently as the three cops came to a halt at the door.
The old bulldog stopped three feet shy of them and took them in with a withering glare. Joe noticed a small glob of humanizing spittle parked on his lip, along with the fact that his morning’s shave had been a little haphazard. The last few years had been taking a toll.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked without preamble.
Carrier looked to Joe and made a small hand gesture of introduction.
Joe nodded and said, “Guess that’s me. Special Agent Joe Gunther, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Spinney. I think you know Sergeant Carrier.” He took in the young man by the door and added, “And this is one of his colleagues, whom-”
But at that point, the retired captain of industry had reached his fill. “I don’t care about that. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Sure,” Joe said pleasantly. “And you are?”
“Graham Dee,” the man answered. “I represent the board.”
“They sent you?” Joe asked.
Dee’s eyes narrowed. “I’m acting on their behalf.”
Joe pulled out his notepad and clicked his pen, preparing to write. “So therefore an official representative? You’re speaking for them?”
Dee’s face flushed angrily. “That has nothing to do with the price of eggs,” he snarled. “I demand to know what’s going on.”
“As well you should,” Joe agreed pleasantly, closing his pad. “I tell you what. In the interests of efficiency, and since we’ve just spent a fair amount of time bringing Hannah Eastridge up to speed, I recommend you speak with her first. That way, we’ll all be on the same page when we compare notes later.”
Ignoring the rest of Dee’s bluster, Joe motioned to the young officer, who quickly opened the door so they could file in. Dee made to follow them, but Joe turned on the threshold, the edge of the door in his hand. “Mr. Dee, until we clear the scene, I’m afraid this apartment will have to stay closed to the public. I look forward to chatting later.”
With that, he shut the door, cutting Dee off in mid-sentence.
Carrier had a wide smile on his face. “Nice, Agent Gunther.”
Joe laughed. “Joe. And I’m sure that’ll cost me a pound of flesh later.” He looked beyond their tightly packed huddle. They were standing in a kitchenette that led into a spacious, sun-filled living room.
“Sergeant,” he began, “you know some of the players around here, like the charming Mr. Dee. What can you tell us so we’ll get out of your hair as soon as possible?”
Carrier smiled slightly at the acknowledgments. “My name’s Rick, and to be honest, I’m just as happy you guys are here. I hate dealing with these people.” Without stepping into the living room, he began pointing out what features of the apartment they could see. This wasn’t an official crime scene-yet-and the police guard had been put in place after several people came and went, no doubt tracking minute traces of evidence in and out, but Carrier had gotten the message nevertheless: Treat this as a secure area until informed otherwise.
“Like you probably heard,” he said, “Marshall missed his morning get-together with some pals. One of them phoned, got no answer, tried the door, found it locked, and called for help. That’s one thing you can say about this outfit-they take care of their own. Internal EMS responded from downstairs-no ambulance or 911 call-and they declared him dead right here. They wrapped him up, stripped the bed, transported him downstairs, locked the door again, and called the family. The doc who runs the medical wing said it was a natural, filled out the death certificate, and until you guys called us, we had no clue what might have happened.”
“But you’ve got one now,” Joe suggested.
“Not really,” Carrier countered. “We got what I just told you. And I gotta say, I don’t see much to this.” He waved an arm before them. “I mean, look at it. The guy was found in bed, no signs of disruption, the door was locked, and not a mark on him, unless you found something.”
He looked at Joe expectantly, who confessed, “Not yet. The autopsy might.”
“Plus,” Carrier went on, “from what I was told, he was a medical time bomb-bad heart, bad lungs, used a walker, was on all sorts of meds. One of the nurses I’m friendly with even said they were trying to get him moved permanently to the medical wing ’cause they knew he’d only be getting worse.”
He left it at that, lapsing into silence.
Joe took advantage to suggest, “Let’s take a quick look.”
Carrier bowed slightly. “Be my guest. Try not to get lost.”
It was a telling comment. The small apartment was composed of an office, a bedroom, the room before them, and two bathrooms. That was it.
Still, Joe couldn’t shake that he was here for a reason. Slipping on one of the latex gloves he kept in his pocket, he used his right hand to ease open a filing cabinet drawer in the office. The drawer had been rigged with metal rails, designed to support hook-equipped files that could be shoved back and forth to allow easy access. As the drawer yawned open, Joe saw that the files had been pushed forcefully apart, creating a large and empty space in the middle.
It was an obvious indication of something having been removed.
He checked the tabs of the files before and after the wide gap. All the C’s were missing. A glance through the remaining records showed nothing beyond bills, receipts, and assorted documents of no apparent relevance.
A cursory examination of the rest of the apartment revealed nothing out of place, and seemingly, nothing more that had been removed.
He retreated to the entryway, stripping off his glove.
“Find anything?” Carrier asked him.
“Not that jumps out,” he said cautiously. “We’ll seal the place for now, conduct a proper search when we have a bigger time window.”
Carrier was not impressed. “Why’re you so interested in this? I don’t get it. You sure you’re not keeping something in your back pocket?”