Ghost Times Two (15 page)

He stared at the now-silent machine, his face furrowed with concern. He reached down, grabbed a handle, lifted. He tilted the gray metal base, looked inside.

I looked, too, and saw shredded shiny strips in a mound at the bottom of the plastic container. Other strips hung from the bottom of the lower portion of the lid.

Still frowning, he eased the obviously heavy lid with its undercarriage back into place. He turned away, paused, looked back, shrugged.

It is always helpful to know that ordinary people, when confronted with the inexplicable, work their way to an answer. A short circuit. Something wrong with the machine. He gave a decisive nod. He hurried to his desk, pulled free a couple of sheets of lined
yellow paper from a legal pad, returned to the corner, folded the sheets, punched Power, fed the sheets into the machine.

How clever. The machine reduced pages into thin narrow long strips. I had seen enough of the previously shredded material to have a very good idea what Brewster Layton had hurried to destroy. Sam would be interested.

Out in the hallway, I hesitated. I wanted to find out why Jimmy had tugged at Megan in the hallway, but I decided first to see how the crime techs were doing in Doug Graham's office. I hovered just inside the doorway to Graham's office, now the scene of painstaking forensic investigation. The short red-haired tech was checking the grayish residue of fingerprint powder on the surfaces of the broken window. “Bunch of smudges mostly. I'll see what I can pick up.”

The big guy grunted. “Maybe there will be some microscopic glass particles in the perp's shoes. If he wore sneakers.”

The redhead was wry. “Got to find the perp first. Can't check all the sneakers in Adelaide.”

I scarcely heard. Next the techs would check the desk drawer. I suspected last night's silent intruder had been careful, very careful, the drawer pulled out by a gloved hand, the ring case scooped up, a quick turn, a cautious check of the alleyway, then out into the night, running lightly, the ring case securely in a pocket, or possibly a cautious exit from Doug's office to the hallway and out the back door to melt into the shadows.

I looked at the gleaming surface of the desk and a silver-framed photograph of a quite beautiful older woman, elegant, patrician. I felt sure it was a portrait of Lisbeth Carew. Doug Graham had planned to give her a magnificent ring. What was her feeling for him? He was handsome and could be charming. Perhaps he was
entertaining and interesting, a good companion. If he had lived and they had married, she might never have known that he was a man who had little compunction for others if they failed to please him. I imagine he would have continued to be charming to Lisbeth Carew.

I realized with dismay that I'd not until this moment paused to think about those who might grieve for Doug Graham. His ex-wife had once loved him. His children knew him as their father. I took a moment to wish his soul well.
Requiescat in pace.

For now, my focus was on the living. I wondered about Rhoda Graham. The expression on Lou Raymond's face told me Lou knew something she did not want to divulge about the ex-wife. Detective Don Smith was likely at Rhoda Graham's house or office at this moment, telling her of her ex-husband's death. I would give him time to finish his visit and then I intended to see what I could find out.

Out in the hallway again, I hesitated. I could not be everywhere at once. Not even a ghost can manage that feat. I would check with Sam later to see if he discovered anything new from the interviews. And Jimmy might know something helpful.

In Megan's office, she stood with her back to the door, glaring toward the window. “. . . out of your mind?”

Jimmy's young voice was offended. “You should start paying attention to what I say. I told you not to go to Graham's house last night.”

The fight drained out of Megan. She walked tiredly across the room, dropped her cotton shoulder bag onto the desktop, slipped into her chair. “I thought I had to go. For Anita.” She lifted her
chin. “How was I supposed to know somebody was going to kill him?”

“Okay, okay.” Jimmy was exasperated. “I get it. But one of these days you have to stop riding to the rescue of widows and orphans. But hey”—now his voice was soft—“I guess that's why I love you. But you should do what I say now. Hold a press conference. You need to get your side of the story out. The mayor dumped on you big-time at the news conference this morning. Right now reporters are sending in their leads, like:
Megan Wynn, associate at the law firm of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse, claims senior partner Doug Graham was dead when she arrived after dark at his house in response to a text ordering her to come.
New paragraph.
The text sent on Graham's cell phone to Ms. Wynn's cell phone threatened to proceed with the termination Graham and Wynn discussed that morning. Wynn refused to explain the text and denied she faced dismissal from the firm
. This will convince readers your arrest is pending.”

Her voice was stiff. “I hope to practice law for about fifty more years, and notoriety doesn't become lawyers. Besides”—now her tone was practical—“what am I going to say to reporters? I got a text. Yes, that's what the text said. No, it wasn't my termination. So they ask whose termination, and there's where I say I have no further comment. I'd be better off to ignore all of it.”

Jimmy knew newspapers. He knew once tarred it's hard to rehabilitate an image. I chimed in. “Jimmy's right. You should put out a statement to the press.”

Her head jerked. “You're here, too? Two voices offering tidbits of wisdom, not just one. Some people have an imaginary friend. Me, I have two. Am I ever special.” Her voice was strained.

I kept my voice quiet, pleasant. “If you had a client unjustly suspected of murder and clearly identified by authorities as a person of interest, what would you advise?”

Megan's expression altered. She was interested, intrigued. “I would tell my client to provide the press with the following statement: I am assisting the police—”

I settled in the chair in front of her desk, picked up a pad and pen, began to write.

Her voice faltered for an instant as the legal pad rose and apparently settled on an unseen lap, then she gave a brief nod and continued.

I wrote fast, caught up.

“—in their investigation of the murder of Doug Graham. I discovered Mr. Graham's body Thursday evening when responding to a text about a business matter he and I had discussed at the office Thursday morning. I am not at liberty to divulge the contents of that talk. I can, however, provide details of my actions last night. I was at home reading when I received Mr. Graham's text. I drove to his home, arriving at shortly after nine p.m. I observed a car pulling away from the front of his house. I pulled into the driveway, parked behind Mr. Graham's car. Following the directions in the text, I went through a gate, crossed a terrace, and came to the back door. When I stepped inside, I saw Mr. Graham slumped to one side in a chair. He had suffered some kind of head wound. I hurried across the room, tried to find a pulse. There was no pulse. When I dropped his hand, his body toppled over. I was unable to prevent him from falling to the floor. In the process, my blouse and hands were stained with his blood. I used newspaper sheets to try and clean my hands so that I could get my cell phone out of my purse
and call nine-one-one. I had just picked up my cell phone when I heard sirens and realized police were coming to the house. I have no idea who called nine-one-one. I didn't hear a shot when I arrived. I neither saw nor heard anyone as I approached the house or when I was in the terrace room. When I heard the sirens, I hurried out to the driveway and met the police as they arrived. I have no idea who shot Mr. Graham. I do not own a gun or pistol and have never owned a gun or pistol or had one in my possession. I have never held a gun or shot a gun of any kind. I hope the police succeed in discovering the identity of the person who killed Mr. Graham.”

“That's a girl.” Jimmy was pleased. “Now, get on your computer and zap that to Joan Crandall at the
Gazette
: [email protected]. Ditto to the newsroom at the
Oklahoman
and to AP. Print out a copy for that big hulk of a police chief.”

I didn't like Jimmy's disrespectful description, but he likely sensed that Sam was after Megan, and he knew the mayor wanted a quick arrest.

I ripped off the sheet from the legal pad, slid it across the desktop.

Megan looked cheered. Battling back often has that effect. She started to take the sheet and her hand brushed her purse. She looked at it in mild surprise, grabbed the strap, and pulled open the lower right-hand drawer. She swung the purse down, stopped. The purse hung there, midway to the drawer,
immobile.

I
reached Megan's side, stared down, too.

Jimmy crowded next to me. “Oh hell.”

I realized I was clutching my invisible throat.

I'd thought the situation could not get worse for Megan.

I was wrong.

A gun rested neatly on the bottom of the drawer. I stared at the shiny stainless steel barrel and ridged black grip.

“Top of the line.” Jimmy sounded choked. “A Ruger Mark III target pistol. Twenty-two caliber.”

“Did you do target shooting?” In a moment of shock perhaps a foolish question could be forgiven.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Megan stood rigid, purse hanging above the drawer. Sudden fear marked her heart-shaped face.

Jimmy exploded, half-mad, half-scared. “That's all the cops need. The gun might as well have a tag on it:
Murder weapon used
in Graham homicide.
We have to get rid of it.” Jimmy's elbow jabbed my hip. He pushed me out of the way, and I grabbed at the desk to keep from falling.

The gun rose in the air, the barrel gleaming bright silver in the light from the overhead fluorescents.

“Jimmy, stop.” Megan knocked over her chair as she raced around the desk, hands outstretched.

The gun rose to the ceiling, far out of reach.

I went up after the gun and Jimmy. I gripped his arm. “Don't be a fool. She has to tell the police.”

Jimmy yanked away from me. As we struggled and the gun dipped toward the floor, I clung to his muscular forearm. The gun went off, the sound of the shot loud as thunder in the small office. The bullet gouged a streak across the wooden floor, ricocheted to the window, shattering the glass.

The gun clattered to the floor.

Through the office door there were sudden shouts, the pound of running feet.

Megan darted to the gun, snatched it up. Her hand shook as she aimed the barrel at the floor. Her face was taut with stress. The gun looked huge in her small hand.

The door burst open, slammed against the wall. “Hands up. Police.” In a half crouch, Johnny Cain moved fast at an oblique angle, gun drawn, leveled at Megan. “Drop that gun.” Officer Anderson, also crouching, gun drawn, moved to his left, covering him, gun trained immediately on Megan. Her face was empty of expression, her eyes alert.

Megan looked at the gun in her right hand. Her words were jerky, fast, breathless. “I found it. It went off. An accident. I'll put
it down.” She bent forward and cautiously placed the gun on the floor, slowly straightened, backed away, hands partially raised.

The doorway seemed full of people, Sam and Hal Price and behind them the office staff and Brewster Layton.

Megan, her face stricken, stared at the service revolver aimed at her. She knew her position was untenable, unexplainable.

Burly Sam, white-blond Hal, and frowsy-haired Weitz bunched just inside the doorway, alert, wary, poised to draw weapons.

“Hey, what the hell.” All elbows and knees, moving like a halfback looking for an open field, Blaine Smith wriggled past them despite Sam's stern order to get back.

Blaine reached Megan. “What happened?”

Johnny moved fast, never taking his eyes off Megan. He stood over the gun. “Step away. That's right. Stop there.” He pointed with his free hand at a space three feet from the gun.

Blaine moved with her, gripped one elbow. He was struggling with uneven breathing. “That shot . . . what happened?”

“I found that gun.” She scarcely managed a whisper.

Sam's heavy face was rock hard. “Stay exactly where you are, Ms. Wynn. You, too, Smith.” He studied them for a moment, Megan wide-eyed and shaking, Blaine bewildered but glaring at Johnny and his service revolver. “There's no need for a gun. Put that away before somebody gets hurt.”

Sam slowly nodded, glanced at Johnny. “At ease, Officer.” He and Hal Price and Judy Weitz moved forward, making the office seem small and crowded.

Johnny sheathed his gun, but remained standing over the .22 lying on the floor.

Brewster Layton spoke from the doorway. “Is everyone all right?”

Sam continued to stare at Megan, but his booming voice could clearly be heard by those crowded behind Brewster. “A gun went off accidentally. There is no danger.”

Sam gestured at Weitz. “Get the techs.” He walked across the room, studied the gouge on the hardwood floor, looked up at the shattered window. “Ms. Wynn—”

Blaine had his arm around her shoulders. “Wait a minute. Can't you see she's upset?”

Megan spoke quickly, her voice firm. “It's all right, Blaine.” She looked up, knowing he was there, knowing he was her champion, knowing she needed a champion. She gazed directly at Sam. “I found the gun.” Her voice was stronger, clearer. Her stare was level, unflinching. “I pulled out my lower right-hand desk drawer to put my purse in. I saw that gun. I did not put the gun there. I know nothing about that gun. That is not my gun. I have never seen the gun before and—”

Sam held up a hand. “We will speak to you in the conference room. Come this way.”

Layton and the staff, Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Nancy Murray, Lou Raymond, heard every word.

Megan stood straight and as tall as her five feet one inch permitted. “I have a right to tell you what happened.”

Weitz pulled a pad and pen from her pocket, began to write.

Megan's words came in short bursts. “I was startled. Without thinking I picked up the gun. I don't know much about guns. I was going to bring it to you and it went off. I have never seen that gun before. It was not in my desk last night. I did not put the gun in my desk.”

I would like to think she was persuasive, but I knew Sam didn't
believe a word. That was devastating because every word was true except for the disposition of the gun after she opened the drawer.

Sam folded his arms. “You knew that no weapon was found at the Graham house.”

“Yes.” She spoke evenly, but she looked small, vulnerable, beleaguered.

“You knew Officer Cain was going to search all of the offices.”

She took a quick breath. “Yes.”

It hung unspoken between them, the fact that a search was coming. If she knew about the gun in her desk drawer, she had to do something about it. If she was indeed surprised when she opened the drawer, why had she picked up the weapon?

Sam was brusque. “We'll take your statement now in the conference room.”

Blaine stepped forward. “Ms. Wynn is my client. I will be conferring with her. We will be at the police station at one o'clock.”

There was a taut silence while Blaine and Sam looked at each other. Finally, his face grim, Sam nodded. “One o'clock.”

Blaine nodded at Megan. She picked up her purse and they walked together into the hall as the watching staff moved back. No one spoke.

The door to the hall closed. Megan's office was empty now.

“I screwed up.” Jimmy's lugubrious voice came from the corner of Megan's desk near the window.

I moved near, reached out, patted his shoulder. “These things happen.”

“If you hadn't grabbed my arm—”

“I know.” I was well aware I bore some responsibility. “But what is, is. Blaine will protect her.”

A heavy sigh. “I guess he's not such a dweeb.”

I could hear a dream dying.

Another heavy sigh. “Megan probably never wants to hear from me again.”

“She knows you mean well.”

“Yeah.” The reply was bleak.

Maybe I'm a sucker for love. Okay. I admit it. I am a sucker for love, especially a love that endured past living.

The shining steps in the corner of the room became brighter, the golden glow deeper.

“I guess I'll—”

I reached out, gripped a muscular forearm. “Not yet, Jimmy. Megan needs you.” When he climbed the stairs to Heaven, I wanted him to know he'd made a difference for Megan, and she would always remember him with a smile. I hunched my shoulders, expecting at any instant to hear the thrum of wheels on rails, the whoo of the Rescue Express. I talked fast, justifying myself to Wiggins, appealing to Jimmy. “The gun in her office puts her at risk of arrest.” Sam Cobb had been suspicious before. The discovery of the gun in Megan's office might be the critical fact he needed. At the very least, she would have vaulted to suspect number one even if she'd immediately rushed out and alerted the police to the gun. Likely, the gun had been polished shiny clean without any identifying or identifiable prints. Now, of course, the grip was liberally plastered with Megan's prints. Sam could also reasonably infer she had been afraid there might be some scrap of a print still on the gun and decided to handle the gun to excuse those prints.

If Megan was to be saved, I had to work fast. “You know how to dig out information on people.”

“Yeah.” He was still bleak.

I thought out loud. “Was Graham killed because somebody wanted to steal the ring or—”

“Somebody did steal the ring.” He used a comforting tone appropriate for a doddering elderly relative.

“I know that. Why shoot him?”

“The thief figured Graham would know who took the ring.”

I wasn't convinced. “That's a stretch. Graham was killed around nine o'clock. I know the ring case was in his desk drawer around midnight. If the murderer is the thief, he or she waited a couple of hours or more before coming here, breaking in, and taking the ring.”

Jimmy was patronizing. “If you were going to steal something from an office, wouldn't you wait until midnight or later to sneak into an alley and break a window? The later at night, the less likely anyone would be around to notice anything.”

Jimmy had a point. I still didn't see why theft required murder. “Why kill him?”

“Like I said, maybe Graham would have had a pretty good idea who took the ring. Maybe the thief was betting on murder making a missing ring look unimportant. Maybe he was killed for another reason and the ring stolen to make it look like theft was the motive. Maybe the ring made somebody mad.”

I instantly wondered about Graham's ex-wife. How would she feel about a hundred-thousand-dollar ring for a wealthy woman? If she had no feelings left for him, did she resent his affluence, begrudge his spending that kind of money?

A thought wriggled in my mind, sinuous as a water moccasin in a dark pond. I didn't know the disposition of his estate, but very likely his children inherited everything. Jimmy was blunt. “Coincidence sucks.”

His pronouncement was short on charm, but unerring in judgment.

He continued forcefully, “Graham's oil buddy flashes that rock around the office and that night Graham's shot. Why else would he be shot? That ring caused the whole thing.”

Cause and effect: The ring unveiled to watching eyes. A shot in the back of the head. Whether the ring set off the events that followed, it was certain that Graham's murderer broke into the office and put the murder weapon in Megan's desk. Did the murderer then take the ring, and was the ring the reason for murder? Or did the murderer take the ring to obscure the real motive for Graham's death?

Perhaps the reason the ring was taken didn't matter. But the theft was a huge pointer to the killer's identity. The ring case and its contents had been prominently displayed yesterday morning to an avid audience. I remembered the crowded hallway, Brewster Layton and his client Winifred Kellogg, angry young Keith Porter, Megan and the staff, stressed-out Anita Davis, roguish Geraldine Jackson, surprised Sharon King, fascinated Nancy Murray, dazzled Lou Raymond.

If the ring set off the events that followed, the list of those aware of the ring's location was short. But there were other possibilities. Doug Graham wrote several messages, obviously intended for someone angry with him. He apparently had a whirlwind romance with Lisbeth Carew, but he didn't seem the kind of man to be celibate, and I wondered if he'd found a lover after his divorce.

I would ask, but the people I intended to see were tense and
anxious. I needed to find someone who knew Graham well, someone who had nothing to fear by speaking openly with an investigator. It was like pieces of a puzzle slotting together. “Carl and Ginny Morse!”

“I don't think you've heard a word I said.” Jimmy was aggrieved. “I asked you why can't you do some kind of stuff—like the way you go places and hear things—and find that damn ring?”

“I'm not a ring dowser.”

“A what?”

I didn't have time to explain the old-fashioned concept of people gifted with an ability to divine water or oil or gold or whatever they sought by fashioning a V-shaped rod from hazelwood or willow, holding the ends, and traversing the search area until the rod dipped to indicate the location of the sought-after object. “We don't need the ring. We need information.”

Carl and Ginny Morse were relaxing in Italy, far distant from the tension and fear that burdened those now speaking one by one with the police. Did they know anything that mattered? Perhaps not. But they were partners in the firm and knew everyone involved. They might be able to help.