Night Whispers (38 page)

"I took the liberty of doing that earlier," Cagle replied with a modest smile. Access to the ROC data banks was limited to law enforcement agencies. It was free of charge and available to all the personnel at Palm Beach PD on their own computer terminals.

By contrast, it cost one dollar per minute to query the giant data banks at Data Base Technologies in Pompano Beach, and access was available to a variety of legitimate users, from insurance companies to credit bureaus. Police departments all over the country used their services, but when they went on-line, their access was cloaked to prevent anyone else from seeing who was checking out whom. "In a few minutes Hank should be wheeling over a forklift full of files," Cagle joked, referring to the enormous output of information that DBT generated on even the most uninteresting citizen.

"Okay," Flynn replied. "Let's get some coffee and start down the list."

As the junior member of the duo, Cagle accepted the getting of coffee as part of his role. He returned with two cups of strong, black coffee and put them on Flynn's desk; then he swiveled his chair around so they could work together.

"If murder was the intent, I think we can tentatively rule out the butler, cook, housekeeper, and caretaker," Flynn said.

"Why? I got the feeling during the interviews that the old lady was cantankerous as hell."

He smirked. "If she was that bad, the cook or one of the others would have helped her get dead before now. They've put up with her for years." He drew a line through those four names. "The housemaids you interviewed this morning give you any reason to believe they would risk prison to have her murdered?"

Cagle shook his head; then he took a sip of scalding coffee while Flynn crossed off two more names.

"What about Dishler?" Flynn asked.

"I don't think so. He's worked for Reynolds for several years, and he's obviously loyal. He was pretty quick to confirm Maitland's story. Seems like a long shot."

"I agree, but let's check him out," Flynn said. "What about Maitland?"

"What's his motive?"

Flynn rolled the pencil between his fingers. "I don't like him."

"Then why are we wasting time? Let's get a warrant," Cagle said dryly. When Flynn continued to scowl thoughtfully at his pencil, Cagle became curious. "Why don't you like him?"

"I had a run-in with him a year ago when I tried to question his little sister about some pals of hers who we knew were getting drugs from somewhere."

"And?"

"And he's got a temper. He's arrogant as hell, and his attorneys are a pack of Dobermans. I know, because he turned them loose on us after that minor episode."

"Then let's skip the warrant and toss his ass in jail," Cagle said straight-faced.

Flynn ignored that. "His kid sister's a brat. She kept calling me 'Sherlock.' "

"Hell, let's throw her in jail with him." When Flynn glowered at him, Cagle urged mildly, "Can we move on to someone more likely?"

"There's hardly anyone left." He looked at the list. "Paris Reynolds?"

Cagle nodded thoughtfully. "Possible."

"Why?" Flynn said. "Give me a motive."

"When I asked Carter Reynolds about his grandmother's will, he told me that he and Paris are the sole beneficiaries."

Flynn let out a mirthless guffaw. "Are you suggesting that either one of them are in urgent need of money?"

"Maybe Paris got tired of waiting for her share. Maybe she wanted to be independent of Daddy."

"But Edith Reynolds was already ninety-five. She couldn't live much longer."

"I know, but don't cross Paris off the list yet."

"Okay, I won't. What about the insurance guy—Richardson?"

"Sure, right," Cagle said with a snort. "He drops in for a visit with his girlfriend—who is not an heir to anything, according to Reynolds, and who therefore has nothing to gain by Edith Reynolds's death. Not only that, but he accomplishes the deed by remote control, because, according to Dishler, Richardson didn't return until about eleven."

"You're right," Flynn said. "I'm more tired than I realized. I forgot about the alibi." He crossed off Paul Richardson. "What about Carter Reynolds? He said he didn't get home until eleven, and Dishler confirmed it, but Dishler might lie for his employer."

Cagle nodded. "Dishler might, but I don't think Senator Meade would. He was one of the people who called this morning to demand an immediate arrest of someone."

"So?"

"So, according to Captain Hocklin, during the senator's rampage, he mentioned that he'd been playing cards with poor Carter last night while the murder was taking place."

"How did he know when it took place?"

"It's all over the newscasts."

"True," Flynn said with a sigh. "Besides, Reynolds doesn't have a motive. He's put up with his grandma for almost sixty years, and he doesn't need money."

"Not only that, but I don't think he could have faked his reaction last night. Not only did he act distraught, his face was gray with shock."

"I noticed." Flynn crossed out Carter Reynolds's name. "That leaves us with Sloan Reynolds."

Cagle brightened. "Now
that
is an interesting situation. She's never met any of them before this, never been around them, and suddenly one of them turns up dead."

"I know, but that's hardly a way for her to ingratiate herself with her new, rich family."

Cagle balked seriously at ruling her out on such a flimsy excuse. "She was there; she had opportunity."

"What's her motive?"

"Revenge for being left out all these years?"

"Nah. It would have made more sense for her to keep Grandma alive and try to ingratiate herself with the old lady. Sloan wasn't an heir, but if Grandma had lived a little longer, she might have been able to persuade her to cut her in for a little piece of the financial pie. As it is, she comes out with nothing."

"Nothing but revenge," Cagle reminded him.

"What's your problem with Sloan Reynolds?" Flynn asked, but despite the light sarcasm that flavored his tone, he wasn't discounting Cagle's hunches. The kid was a marvel with hunches, observant as hell, and he chased down every potential lead, no matter how much effort it took. "You started harping on her as a suspect as soon as we left the house, when we were still thinking theft was the motive. Now it's murder and you're still after her."

"Among other things, the timing of her departure and return is mighty convenient. Also, I couldn't help noticing how smoothly she managed to tell us that even though Edith Reynolds wasn't handicapped, she couldn't move quickly. I had the feeling she knew we were angling toward the perp being someone known to the victim because Edith Reynolds evidently hadn't tried to escape."

Flynn thought that over and nodded slightly. "I'll buy that, but she sure doesn't strike me as fitting the profile for premeditated murder. You have to want a whole lot of revenge real bad to get up the courage to find yourself a gun, plan the thing, and then point the gun at a helpless old lady and shoot her. Besides, if she wanted revenge for being left out all these years, why not shoot Daddy for it?"

Cagle drummed his fingers on the desk, paused to push up his glasses, and looked around at Hank, who was in a glass-partitioned room, linked up with DBT. "Hey, Hank," he called. "How much longer?"

"Not long."

"You know what I think?" Cagle said.

"You've got to be kidding. I never know what you think or why you think it."

Cagle ignored the good-natured gibe. "There's only one significant detail we haven't verified. Do you have the name of Edith Reynolds's attorney—the one Reynolds said had prepared her will?"

Flynn picked up his notebook and begin flipping through page after page of notes. "Wilson," he said finally.

"Let's go have a personal chat with Mr. Wilson," Cagle said, standing up and stretching. "The exercise will do us good—help build up our strength so we can go through the DBT records."

«
^
»

P
aul was sitting out by the pool, watching the crime team meticulously searching through the bushes at the rear of the house. "They're looking for a weapon," he told Sloan as she sat down on the edge of a chair beside his.

Sloan nodded absently and raked her hair off her forehead.

"Gary Dishler was looking for you," he added. "Maitland's telephoned twice, and he wants you to call him back—immediately. The crime scene team won't let him past the line."

"Gary told me. I'm going to go over there in a few minutes, but I need to talk to you first."

Paul heard the tension in her voice, he saw how pale she was, and he felt guiltier at this moment than he'd felt in years. She was going through hell, and he was about to make it a hundred times worse for her. He had an insane urge to pull her off to the side, tip her chin up, and beg her forgiveness in advance. "
Forgive me. You didn't deserve this. I've been so proud of you so many times. I think you're wonderful
." "What's up?" he asked.

"I've been tagging along with Paris and Lieutenant Fineman, and also eavesdropping when I can get away with it. Nothing is missing, Paul. No one broke in here, and nothing was stolen except for the diamond ring. I saw the crime team picking up glass from the broken window. Most of it was outside in the shrubbery, not inside. Someone intended to murder her. I believe it was meant to look like a burglary that went bad. And I believe the murderer was someone living in this house. Someone she knew."

He was listening attentively, but his attention shifted to Paris the moment she appeared outside with a tray of soft drinks. "I agree."

"I'm going to become a chief suspect."

His gaze flicked to her. "You? Why you?"

"I'm the long-lost daughter. I come here for the first time, Edith is murdered, and her ring disappears."

"A grudge murder? If you were going to take someone out for that, you'd take good old Carter, who's neglected you until now, or maybe Paris, since she's had all the goodies all these years instead of you."

On one level, Sloan knew he was right, and she felt a little better.

Paul continued watching Paris for a moment as she stopped to talk politely to each crime-scene-team member and to offer him something cool to drink; then he gave Sloan his attention and tried to add on smiling reassurance. "Now, if you were a beneficiary of Edith's, that would be different."

Sloan smiled with the memory. "She wanted to make me one. She called me into the solarium and tried to give me some heirloom jewelry, then started talking about changing her will. I refused to discuss any of it."

Paul's smile faded abruptly. "Did you happen to mention any of that to Paris?"

"I don't think so—yes, I did. It came up at lunch later that day."

His jaw tightened, he turned his head toward Paris, watching her with blazing intensity. His curse was low and infuriated. "
Son of a bitch
!"

"You can't be thinking what I think you are!" Sloan scoffed.

He seemed not to hear; it was as if every fiber of his being was concentrated on the scene he was watching. "Son of a bitch!"

"You're being ridiculous!" She grabbed his arm to get his attention, and he tore his gaze from Paris.

"Am I?" he mocked bitingly. "Stop being a blind fool about your sister, Sloan. Open your eyes. This is reality: Your sister didn't want you to come here in the first place. I never had the heart to tell you that, but I knew it from our informant."

Sloan brushed that aside. "I know that. Edith told me. For her entire life, Paris was led to believe my mother and I were some sort of trash—worse than that. Of course she felt that way, but not after we met."

"Right," he sneered. "It took Paris less than a day to reverse the feelings of an entire lifetime. In one day, she turned herself into your loving big sister. Doesn't it strike you as a little too 'nice'?"

"No! It doesn't!"

"Then consider this. For thirty years, she's been an emotional slave to her father and great-grandmother, but you walk in here and in less than a week, Great-grandma starts lavishing you with her brand of affection; then she wants to cut you in for part of Paris's share of her money. Not only have you stolen Great-grandma's love and money from Paris, you've also stolen the man she was supposed to marry. And after all that, you think Paris doesn't hate your guts? And while we're on the subject, don't you find it just a little odd that 'sweet, gentle, timid' Paris would fly helicopters for a hobby?"

"You don't understand her—"

"Neither do you," he snapped. "It would take a team of shrinks to figure her out, and I'd be afraid to read their report."

Staggered, Sloan gazed up at him. "You hate her, don't you?"

"Hate her?" He laughed tightly. "Half the time she scares the hell out of me."

"My God, I think she's half in love with you, and you think she's some kind of monster."