license.”
“That doesn’t stop some people,” Larry observed.
Hank set off without further urging. He was back in less than a minute. “No one’s there,” he said. “The place is empty.”
“Oh, my,” Brooks said. Sounding genuinely dismayed, he staggered over to the front porch where, unassisted, he sank down on the top step. “How can this be?”
“We thought maybe you could tell us something about that, Mr. Brooks,” Larry said. “When was the last time…”
“Wait a minute,” Brooks interrupted. “You’ve read me my rights? Don’t tell me you think I had something to do with Mr. Ashcroft’s death. I can’t imagine why you’d think such a thing. It’s outrageous.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Arthur Reed?” Larry asked. “I believe he served in Korea about the same time you did?”
“Of course, I remember Art Reed. United States Marine Corps. Why wouldn’t I?”
“And he gave you his Silver Star?”
“Yes, he did. I was really honored and touched. I saved his life once. Later when he was awarded a Silver Star, he decided to share the honor with me.”
“What became of it?”
“Of the star itself? I’m not sure. It wasn’t mine to wear, of course, since I hadn’t earned it. I treasured it, but I lost track of it years ago, shortly after it was given to me. How do you know about it, and why are you asking?”
“How do you suppose your Silver Star would have turned up in William Ashcroft’s vehicle?” Larry asked. “Our CSI team found it under the floor mat after he was murdered.”
“I have no idea where it’s been all this time or how it got there.”
“You must.”
Larry’s phone rang. “Detective Marsh? Dave Holman here. Your people down in Phoenix have brought us into the loop. I thought you’d want to know that when we put out the APB on that Rolls, we got a hit.”
“You already found her then?”
“No,” Holman answered, “but the Rolls was caught by a red-light camera making an illegal left turn in Scottsdale at Scottsdale and Camelback, just before midnight, Monday night. The citation went out in the mail today. Your records folks were able to scan through the video record and come up with the actual photo. It would appear that Arabella Ashcroft was at the wheel, and she was alone in the vehicle.”
Larry closed his phone. “So where were you on Monday night, Mr. Brooks?” he asked.
The butler shook his head. “I know that’s the night Mr. Ashcroft died,” he said. “But I was out the whole evening, from late afternoon on. It’s my day off.”
“Where did you go?”
“Prescott.”
“What did you do there?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”
“You might want to reconsider,” Larry suggested. “I’ve just received word that the Rolls was cited for running a red light in Scottsdale on Monday night and the insurance company has you listed as the sole driver. We also know that property directly traceable to you was found at the scene of the crime. So if you happen to have a verifiable alibi for the time in question, Mr. Brooks, now might be a good time to mention it.”
Leland Brooks sighed. “I was at Paddy’s,” he said after a pause. “Paddy O’Toole’s”
“Where’s that?” Hank asked. “One of those bars on Prescott’s famed Whiskey Row?”
Leland shook his head. “It’s a world away from Whiskey Row. It’s a private club. A gay private club out in the valley. Some of the people I saw there might not want to be connected to a homicide investigation.”
“Name one,” Larry said.
“There’s the bartender,” Brooks said reluctantly. “His name is Barry-Barry Stone.”
“Anyone else?”
“Can you be discreet?” Leland asked.
“That depends.”
“Patrick Macey,” Leland said. “Judge Patrick Macey.”
“What kind of judge?”
Leland Brooks sighed. “Superior court. We’ve been involved for a dozen years. He’s married. His wife’s an Alzheimer’s patient. His kids don’t know about him. They don’t know about us.”
“Phone numbers, please,” Larry said.
Brooks reeled them off from memory, and Hank keyed the first one into his phone.
“Please,” Brooks begged. “It’s cold out here. I’m freezing. Can’t we go inside?”
With Detective Mendoza outside on the phone, Larry took Brooks into the kitchen and seated him at a table. The kitchen was surprising cold as well. At Brooks’s direction, Larry switched on the baseboard heat. The room was starting to warm up when Hank came inside several minutes later, carrying the scattered groceries.
“His story checks out,” Hank said, setting the box down on the counter. “Both Stone and Macey say he was there, from late afternoon until closing.”
Brooks heaved a sigh of relief. “I told you,” he said. “I told you I had nothing to do with it.”
“What about Mr. Ashcroft’s visit here on Sunday?” Larry said. He came across the room and removed the cuffs. “Were you privy to their conversation? Do you know what was said?”
“Thank you,” Leland said, rubbing his wrists. “As to your question, I maintain certain professional standards. That means there are some lines that are never crossed. In other words, I don’t listen outside doors, if that’s what you’re implying. Yes, I was aware of Mr. Ashcroft’s visit. I showed him in and I showed him out. I was curious, of course, but all Miss Arabella told me was that he had asked her for money. He would have been better served asking me about that since I’m the one who handles the finances, but he didn’t.”
“She didn’t go into any further detail?”
“Not until you were here on Tuesday. That was the first I heard anything about Mr. Ashcroft’s bizarre reverse mortgage proposal. I would never have let that one fly.”
“What happened after he left?” Larry asked.
“I’d have to say Miss Arabella seemed anxious and distressed, enough so that I was afraid it might trigger another one of her episodes…”
“What kind of episode?” Marsh asked.
“She has debilitating emotional episodes from time to time-has had her whole life,” Brooks replied. “A good deal of the time she stays on an even keel, but she goes a bit haywire on occasion, can’t sleep, suffers from delusions, talks to people who aren’t there. That sort of thing. At times like those I’m especially careful that she takes all her medications, and I did that this time, too. Even when you came to tell us Mr. Ashcroft had died, it just never occurred to me that she might have done something that drastic.”
“Could she have?” Larry Marsh asked.
Brooks didn’t answer for some time.
“Well?” Larry pressed.
“Perhaps,” Brooks admitted at last.
“How?”
“There was a problem with the mileage.”
“What kind of problem?” Larry Marsh asked.
“On the Rolls. I keep track of the mileage each time I get gas. On Thursday, when I went to fill up, I noticed there was a two-hundred-plus-mile discrepancy between what I had written down last week and what was showing on the odometer. I thought I’d just forgotten to make the proper notation. It never crossed my mind that she might have taken the car out and driven somewhere herself.”
“What about weapons?” Hank Mendoza put in. “Do you have any handguns in the house?”
Brooks stiffened and seemed to get a grip. “Several,” he said at once. “Mrs. Ashcroft was a very talented markswoman. And Miss Arabella is a fair shot, as well. We’ve done target practice, but only under strict supervision. And you don’t need to worry about the weapons. They’re all locked away in the safe in the library. I can show them to you if you like.”
