Trophies (18 page)

In his voice, I could hear that he hadn't
forgiven me for my performance at the police station. Not that I
expected him to anytime during the next decade, not even after our
one-way discussion of the subject which had occupied every
available moment since leaving the place.

To hell with him. "I admit nothing."

Bonnie gasped for air. "—and Hoffmann looked
straight down at him."

Perhaps I could live without Bonnie in my
personal world, too. "Please stop."

"Not a chance," Caren said. "What
happened?"

"Hoffmann never turned a hair. He stared down
at Robbie for a moment, as if he always opened his car door to find
someone lying on the ground down there, I mean, cool as he could
be. Then he leaned over, pulled an envelope from the glove box,
stuck it in his coat pocket, stepped out of the car and over
Robbie, locked the car, and walked off."

"What on earth did you do?" Caren asked.

I took the blue armchair, the chair of the
pariah. It seemed fitting. "Got back over that fence as fast as I
could, what else? He had me cold and there was nothing else to be
done."

Sherlock guffawed. "Hoffmann's a pretty smart
guy."

"Smart, nothing." I bounced both fists atop
the armrests. "That was plain bad luck. Of all the times for him to
double back—"

"And that envelope was what you were looking
for?"

"Haven't the faintest. It could have been his
shopping list, for all I know. But if there had been anything
important in that car before he saw me—"

"—there sure wasn't afterwards." Bonnie
sniggered and slugged down the dregs of her coffee. I hoped it was
cold.

Patricia hadn't met my eyes since we left the
station. Her embarrassment was obvious and she deserved it, after
playing that game. But she also seemed confused, both by me and by
Sherlock's big comforting presence, and she hadn't interrupted his
griping all the way back to Cambridge.

Now she carefully slid the urn away from the
silver vase and its wilting red roses. Murmuring something about a
fresh pot, she vanished toward the kitchen. Still giggling, Caren
trailed after, looking the other way in passing.

When they were out of earshot, I glared at
Bonnie. "Oh, you wait. You just wait."

Bonnie was a tight, compact, angular woman
who covered her end of the short sofa like a blue-eyed, brunette
guard dog. With her narrow face, large and usually upturned mouth,
and high forehead, she wasn't conventionally beautiful — none of
Theresa's wind-blown china-doll stuff — but nor did she have
Theresa's neuroses, which was worth a lot.

She laughed at me. "Just name your place." We
all knew I'd conveniently forget; Bonnie had earned her reputation.
"Anyway, both of you, thanks for getting me out of camp. Can't
speak for you, but they'd have to pay me a lot more than my salary
to convince me to stay awake through two weeks of forward artillery
observation."

If I'd been imbibing any fluid, I'd have
sprayed it across the room. Forward artillery observation was a
blending of big-gun target practice and sneaking close to enemy
lines to direct and observe the gunners' marksmanship, best
described by the old military maxim of "hours and hours of sheer
boredom interspersed with a few random moments of stark terror."
We'd done this under fire during the war and survived it, even if I
had been injured in the process. Unfortunately, those enlivening
moments of terror don't come across well in the mundane backwater
of an El Paso Army base, leaving the hours and hours of boredom
unleavened, and therefore an entire training camp practicing FAO
was likely to discover how well we performed in our sleep.

"Whose bloody idea was that?" I demanded.

We weren't even there and we were griping
about it. No telling what Wings Cadal was tolerating and Sherlock's
avoidance made sudden, perfect sense. Patty's voice drifted down
the hall from the kitchen, then the murmur of Caren's answer. It
seemed they'd found some time to chat, which should help Patty's
disposition.

"No," Sherlock said. "I ain't discussing
that. Robbie, give her a rundown."

I didn't want to let the subject drop, as it
positively bristled with opportunities to score off him. But
Sherlock's forehead was tense and the scar on the right side,
vanishing into his hairline, glowed red. So I briefed Bonnie on
events to date, remembering to mention the silencer, the fibers,
the streetlamp, and the lack of fingerprints at the crime scene,
the only real information Wingate had let drop. I couldn't help but
wonder if that had been accidental. He didn't seem the sort to make
such mistakes, but then, that had also been before I asked my
stupid question in my stupid manner, the one that earned me so much
of Sherlock's attention on the drive back.

"Jerk," Sherlock said under his breath. "It
wouldn't hurt him — much — to let us see those results, but would
he play ball? Nooo-oooh, he just has to make life difficult."

"I see you're taking this in your usual calm,
professional manner," Bonnie said. "Like, personally."

Finally, it was my turn. "Oh, you should have
heard him. 'The police are your friends, they have all the
information, let's keep them sweet—' "

"Jerk," Sherlock said, louder this time. "Now
we gotta break into the station house."

That stopped me. I glared at him. "You mean
I
have to break into the station house."

"I'll be right on your heels—"

"As if that will be particularly
helpful."

"—to make sure you don't back out of it."

The civilians chose that moment to return,
with two urns and more mugs. From the shocked, outraged expression
on Patricia's face, she overheard that last bit, but of course she
wouldn't argue with anyone except me, which didn't bode well for
our mutual future.

Caren kept her reaction to herself. But when
she handed the first cup to Sherlock, she stared hard at him as he
took a slurp. Give him credit, he made no attempt to duck her
stare.

"Okay," he said to her, not in apology but
more as if declaring a temporary truce, "let's recap. There was no
sign of a struggle at the crime scene and the lady's purse was
still in her car, containing, Robbie tells us, multiple credit
cards. She still wore her ring, too. So this was a deliberate
murder, not a robbery gone wrong, nothing sexual about it."

"Maybe the argument began in the car," Bonnie
said, "if her purse was found there but she died on the sidewalk.
Is it possible she forgot and left it in the car if for some reason
she got back out?"

"That's a thought," I said. "Aunt Edith
refused to carry a cell phone. If she did have an argument with
someone and needed to call for help, she'd have to return to the
gallery to do so."

Caren handed me a mug. "But to forget her
purse, a woman would have to be pretty distracted."

"Then we know it was a serious argument,"
Sherlock said. "So it looks as if Edith Hunter was the intended
target, no matter how unlikely that seems. She left the gallery
before her nephew and the security guard. She went to her car, had
an argument with someone there, and returned to the gallery for
help, leaving her purse behind. The security guard and your nephew,
Robbie, then maybe were shot when they walked out of the gallery
and into the argument. They weren't actually targets, but were just
in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That was a risk," Bonnie said. "How'd the
shooter know someone else wasn't about to walk out of the gallery
and catch him in the act? I mean, how big could his magazine
possibly be? He'd already used five shots."

"There was no one else in the gallery," I
said.

"Yeah, but how did he know that?"

"Good point," Sherlock said. "The gallery
wasn't open to the public yet — it opens tonight, right? — so he
couldn't have gone inside and counted everyone. He must have waited
outside somewhere all day, accounting for people as they came and
went. That's a cool customer, determined, patient, and able to
blend into the scenery."

"Don't you wish we were like that?" I asked
him.

He rolled his eyes. Beside him, Caren's were
dark and deep, their gaze flickering from face to face as we
discussed the possibilities but lingering longest on me. My pulse
deepened to match her expression. Then she glanced at my left arm;
she'd noticed the missing sling. Oh, well. It had been a nice
fantasy while it lasted.

"Whatever it is this guy's trying to get his
hands on," Bonnie said, "he must want it really bad. I mean, bad
enough to spend a lot of time for it, as well as enough to kill for
it."

"For crazies," Sherlock said, "the time may
be more valuable than the lives."

I cleared my throat. "There is another
possibility."

"Yeah?"

I hated having to say this in front of
Patricia. "It could be one of the family. Aunt Edith has been my
forerunner as the Ellandun black sheep as long as I can remember.
This could be a long-standing grudge of some sort that finally
boiled over."

The silence was short and stunned. Patty
closed her eyes.

But Sherlock barked with laughter. "It would
have to be a true nutcase, then, not to finish off your nephew. If
the kid pulls through, he can identify his own family members,
right? No, Robbie, I think we need to find out if your aunt had any
enemies. And since the murderer tried to search this house, I think
we should do the same."

Patty's momentary relief vanished. She rolled
her lips together until they were invisible, her glance darting
about the room, dancing over the windows and sideboard, dipping to
the roses, before alighting on me in the blue armchair. The sight
of me, relaxed and slugging coffee, brought her chin up, and
finally she faced Sherlock.

"You mean you're going to search before
Detective Wingate gets the chance."

He finished his coffee and set the empty mug
on a coaster. His return stare was gentle but firm. "Yep."

"Isn't that an obstruction of justice?"

"Like you should worry." He leaned forward,
hands on knees. "So where should we start looking, Robber
mine?"

Patty's jaw dropped. I wondered if she
objected to being brushed off or to my nickname; whichever it
proved to be, I'd hear about it.

"It's got to be the garret."

"Then we search the garret." He turned to
Bonnie. "You didn't bring a laptop, right? Why don't you find a
computer, see if you can track down that Suburban, who it's
registered or rented to?"

"No working computer." I knew Patty's old
clunker had gone belly-up and hadn't been replaced, for whatever
reason. "Not here. There's one at my condo."

Bonnie hooted. "No computer, no Internet
connection, no license plate number, unknown color, unknown year,
and he wants me to track it down. Got a game plan, boss?"

"Sure." Sherlock rose. The rest of us drained
mugs and followed suit. "Find the one that was wrecked last night.
Oh, and get ahold of Theresa, will you? I mean, where the hell is
she? She should have been here twice over before now."

Bonnie grabbed her cell. I led Sherlock,
Caren, and Patricia upstairs.

I'd propped the garret door open with a stack
of Churchill's histories, big leather-bound tomes: anything to
prevent having to rake that lock again. Particularly not in front
of Sherlock.

We crowded inside. Three of us hovered near
the door and stared about like landed fish. But Sherlock stepped
into the garret, tugged a small notepad from the thigh pocket of
his fatigues, and sketched: the writing desk and old secretarial
chair beneath that bare dangling bulb, the armoire with its doors
open and light spilling over the line of retro clothing, the old
steamer chest undisturbed beside it.

"You did say you'd already searched some,
right, Robbie? Gimme a rundown on what you did."

I edged around Sherlock's big frame. His
presence steadied me and the guilt of digging through Aunt Edith's
secrets eased. But I still wasn't comfortable in her garret. "I
glanced through the desktop briefly, but nothing caught my eye and
I didn't open the drawers at all. Caren and I sorted through the
clothing in the armoire a bit; that's why those shoes are lined up
there."

"And that's it? You said you didn't find
anything?"

"Just the clothing, some old jewelry, and
suchlike."

"Like that frigging ring you're wearing?"

He'd noticed. The ruddy thing was actually
comfortable, no matter how awful it appeared, and I'd forgotten I
wore it. "Yes, this was part of the collection. Old family
treasures, I suppose."

"Yeah. Okay, we'll take this systematically,"
Sherlock said. "Caren, if you'll help me go through the writing
desk? Patricia, will you glance through the armoire, make certain
these two didn't miss anything important? And Robbie my Robber, see
if you can't get that old trunk open. It looks like it's been
rusted shut for ages." He finally paused. "Unless, of course,
anyone minds interfering with a police investigation?"

Caren slid him an amused sideways look and
settled on the floor by the desk, rolling the old chair out of the
way. Her ready acquiescence surprised me. I knew her to be a deeply
moral woman, it was part of what attracted me to her, and although
I hadn't paused long enough to consider it before, in my heart I
hadn't expected her to put those morals aside for this vaguely
illegal operation. Was it interest in the puzzle that pulled her in
or friendship? If the latter, was this show of support for Patty or
me? Curious, I waited for her to glance up, wondering where her
gaze would touch. But she hauled open the lower desk drawer and
pushed at the vertical files stuffing it. Disappointed, I turned to
fetch the lockpicking kits from downstairs. I seemed to recall
leaving them on Uncle Hubert's old desk in his study.