"We've got a visitor from an organization headquartered in Washington, D.C.," said Alex DeVore, McCarthy's partner.
"I was wondering how long it would take for the G-men to put in an appearance. Is it anyone we know?"
"His name is J. D. Hunter and I've never seen him before."
"Tim?" McCarthy asked.
The prosecutor shook his head.
"Let's go meet our guest."
McCarthy led the way back to the entry hall where an athletically built man was studying the activity in the living room.
"Agent Hunter?"
The man turned. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on Hunter's small, broad nose, and his skin was deep black. McCarthy introduced himself and the senior deputy DA.
"You're not local, are you?" Tim asked.
"With the victim being a senator, Washington wanted an agent from headquarters on the case." He shrugged. "Politics. Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you'd fill me in."
"Sure," McCarthy said, "but we don't know very much yet. There's a service that cleans the house. They were told to come out late afternoon. One of the women found the body around five and called 911."
"Is this where the senator lived?" Hunter asked.
"No," Tim answered. "He's got a home in Dunthorpe."
"Then who owns this place?"
"We're not certain. A realty company deals with the cleaning service. They're closed, so we won't be able to find the name of the owner until the morning."
"Isn't there anything in the house that would let you know?" Hunter persisted.
McCarthy shook his head. "Forensics might give us a clue when they finish analyzing the prints, blood, etc. But the drawers in the bedroom are empty and there were no bills or notes on the kitchen bulletin board. We did find liquor and cocaine in a cabinet in the living room . . . ."
"Cocaine!" Kerrigan said.
"We dusted the baggie, so we'll know who handled it pretty soon."
"I hope to God it wasn't Harold," Kerrigan murmured to himself.
"Was there anything else?" Hunter asked.
"Yeah. Travis's body was found in the living room, but there's a blood trail leading downstairs from the sleeping loft. We think the killer started on him up there and chased him downstairs. One of the techs found an earring under the bed. It's a gold cross. Travis doesn't wear an earring. We're hoping that the killer does."
"That would be a break," Hunter said.
"The easier the better, I always say," DeVore answered with a smile.
"I'd like to take a look at the body, if that's okay," Hunter told McCarthy.
"Sure thing."
As he watched the FBI agent cross the living room, Kerrigan realized that something beyond the obvious was bothering him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.
Cindy was waiting for Tim when he returned home.
"I heard the car," she said and held out a glass of scotch. The ice clinked against the side of the glass, sounding like little bells. "I thought you could use this."
Tim took the glass, grateful for the kindness.
"Was it bad?"
"I've never known a victim before. The whole scene was surreal. We just played golf," he said, a sentence he'd been repeating all evening as if it was impossible for someone to die if you'd seen him only a few days before.
Tim downed his drink and set down his glass.
"Does Deborah know?" Cindy asked.
"She was in Seattle. She's flying back."
"It has to be awful for her. I can't imagine."
"I'll have to talk to her tomorrow," he said. "I'm not looking forward to that."
Cindy hesitated, then wrapped her arms around him. He resisted for a moment, then held her. Cindy rested her head against his chest. She'd showered while he was gone, and her hair smelled like fresh flowers. Cindy looked up. Her eyes and the soft pressure when she took his hand asked him if he wanted to go to bed. It had been so long. Cindy tensed, preparing for rejection. Tim knew how devastating it would be if he refused. Then he realized that he did not want to refuse, that he needed to be comforted and held. He kissed Cindy's forehead. He felt her relax, kissed her again, and felt something stirring. Cindy squeezed his hand and led him toward the bedroom.
Chapter Ten.
Dunthorpe was an exclusive residential neighborhood where substantial homes sat back from the road on large, tree-shaded lots, and the peace was rarely disturbed. But the morning after Harold Travis's murder, Sean McCarthy had to drive at a crawl to get past the television vans, the reporters, and the gawkers who crowded the narrow street that ran in front of the senator's house, a Tudor mansion shielded from view by a high hedge.
McCarthy flashed his ID at the policeman who was manning the barricade at the end of the driveway. The cop pulled back the sawhorse and waved McCarthy and Tim Kerrigan through. A maid answered the doorbell, and Kerrigan and the detective walked into a wood-paneled entry hall in which a crystal chandelier hung over a polished hardwood floor and the Persian carpet that covered most of it.
Carl Rittenhouse rushed over and grasped Tim's hand as soon as the prosecutor stepped through the front door. Rittenhouse had a doughy build and thinning gray hair that looked as if it had been combed in haste. His eyes were wide behind tortoiseshell glasses.
"This is fucking awful, Tim. Fucking awful."
"How is Deborah?"
"Holding up a hell of a lot better than I am. She's in there." Rittenhouse gestured toward the living room. "She's tough, keeping it in. I'm afraid she'll crash as soon as everyone leaves and she doesn't have to put up a brave front."
Kerrigan introduced McCarthy to the harried AA. "Look, Carl, before we talk to Deborah there are a few things we've got to ask you. Stuff we don't want to discuss in front of her. Is there somewhere we can talk?"
Rittenhouse led the way down a narrow hall decorated with delicate pen-and-ink sketches of Parisian boulevards, and into a den. Two walls were lined with bookshelves. A window took up most of the wall across from the door. Outside, the sky was gray and threatening.
"Do you have any idea who killed him?" Tim asked.
"No."
"He was going to be the nominee for president. You don't climb that high without making some enemies."
"Well sure, but I can't think of anyone who hated him enough to beat him to death."
"What about the house where Harold was killed?" McCarthy asked. "Who owned it?"
Rittenhouse colored.
"If you know anything you've got to tell me."
"It was the senator's place. I'm not certain Deborah knows."
"Why wouldn't she?" Tim asked.
Rittenhouse looked like he was in pain. "Come on, Tim. Do I have to spell it out for you? Harold fooled around."
"Do you know why he was there last night?" McCarthy asked.