“You’ve got to admit, notes are pretty rare. What is this, our second one in six years?”
“I didn’t like that case either,” Marsh replied. “What else? Is that the extent of the message or did he try and write on something else strange when this line of books ran out?”
Connor looked around the room. “It’s going to take hours to eliminate everything.”
“The back of doors, the back of pictures, rolled-up blinds… not just what we see now, but what the killer might have selected as amusing at the time. What time are you meeting Marie tonight?”
“Eight.”
“Don’t expect to make it on time.”
Connor took out his phone. “I knew it was going to be like this today, Marsh. Didn’t I tell you just this morning while we were getting coffee that things were going too smooth with Marie?”
“You did.”
“The third date and I’m already canceling one.” Connor shook his head and walked away to have some privacy for the call.
“Don’t tell her someone killed her father’s former chauffeur, claiming to know a family secret,” Marsh offered dryly, beginning the laborious process of turning over pictures on the wall one at a time to check for what might or might not appear behind them.
Connor scowled at his partner. “Marie? Connor. How’s the picture unpacking going?”
He listened and smiled at her answer as he walked through into the kitchen to begin systematically opening and closing all the cabinet doors.
“You’re not going to be able to come tonight after all,” Marie guessed, speculating on why he had called back so soon.
“I’m afraid not. We’ve got a case that wants to be difficult.”
“Dangerous?”
“Only to catching hepatitis B or some other blood-born bug. Forensics isn’t here yet so the preliminary walk- through is on us.” He covered the phone. “Marsh.”
His partner came to join him.
Connor pointed to the inside of the pantry door.
“He’s getting neater. This must be the second attempt to write it.”
“Prints,” Connor suggested. “Maybe.”
“A very slim maybe. But five will get you ten we find this message at least a couple more times.”
“I’d take that bet.”
“Connor?”
He uncovered the phone. “Sorry, Marie. I was talking to Marsh.”
“You’re at a murder scene?”
He opened the refrigerator, wondering if there would be a message written in blood inside it too. “I’m in a kitchen looking at a half-used carton of eggs,” he replied, getting the image in her mind down to something more subdued than what he figured she was thinking. “Can I call you late tonight instead? Say around ten?”
“I’ll still be up.”
“Thanks, Marie. I’ll talk to you then.” Connor hung up the phone. “The reporters are going to have a field day with this crime-scene write-up.”
“You know about the message; I do. We play bullies with the crime-scene folks-maybe we can keep it suppressed. At least the words of the message.”
Connor shook his head. “There is no way reporters are not all over this as soon as the crime-scene photos are taken and our report written. It’s not only a good story, it’s a good
“Then let’s hope it really is some nephew that we find sitting at his kitchen table still wearing the bloody clothes three days later. Otherwise you might end up arresting me for confronting a reporter who splashed the investigation details across the evening news.”
Connor smiled. “You want me to call the deputy chief?”
“I’ll do it.” Marsh pulled out his phone. “After that I’ll call the chief himself. No use keeping the good news quiet. We’ll need to interview Daniel tonight. He’s the one who probably knows this guy and when he retired and who was listed as the next-of-kin contact in the employee file.”
“On a Thursday evening-he’ll be playing racquetball at the club.”
“By chance do you know what Daniel was doing Monday evening?”
Connor frowned at his partner. “Helping me move furniture around, from five to after ten.” His partner put Daniel on the list of folks to eliminate for doing the murder, and while he would have done the same, it was still an unpleasant thought to have had.
“Just asking.” Marsh’s attention turned to his call. “Yes, sir, I’m on scene now. Nolan Price, age seventy-one. A stabbing attack with rage features. There’s a note left at the scene written in blood. We’re going to need some special handling on this as I’d like to keep that quiet as long as possible.” Marsh smiled. “My thoughts exactly. I’ll keep you informed. Thank you, sir.”
He closed the phone. “One copy of the case report and it goes directly to the deputy chief until this is wrapped; nothing gets filed through channels.”
“The beat reporters are going to be burning you in effigy.”
Marsh smiled. “That just leaves the forensics folks to keep quiet.”
“Take names at the door and threaten bodily harm for who talks-I doubt it will work, but you can try.”
“Give me a week with this message under wraps and I can use it to break the guy who did it. He’s going to be begging for a chance to talk about his message when we get him into an interview room.”
“The family secret is burning a hole in him, whatever it is,” Connor agreed. He began opening drawers. “Do you see any knives missing from this kitchen? That wooden block on the counter looks full, and I’m not seeing a miscellaneous drawer with another knife or two lying around. The dishwasher is empty.”
“Our killer brought his own weapon-that doesn’t often happen with a knife, not a slim-blade knife at least. Those wounds didn’t look wide like a military knife.”
“That was my thought too.”
“So maybe not a family argument that flares, gets out of control, and the old man gets stabbed to death, but something a lot more premeditated.”
“We don’t get that many premeditated murders either.” Connor closed drawers. “I’m glad this one is yours.”
“Thanks a lot,” Marsh replied dryly. “I’m calling the chief now. Unless you would like to do the honors?”
“I’d confirm that employment first and the fact this is indeed Henry’s retired chauffeur. Maybe scan for tax returns in the office? I’m sure he’s got them filed in chronological order, given how everything else is maintained. A copy of an old W-2 will do it.”
“Good point.” Marsh left the kitchen to go check.
Connor eased open the trash-can lid while holding his breath, afraid that he might be staring at the bloody knife or something else gut curdling attracting bugs. Just the remains of an omelet, too many days old, resting atop a folded newspaper and an opened can of chili. “When I die, God, please let my place burn down so someone isn’t going through my trash afterward, wondering at how I lived,” he whispered, gratefully closing the lid, and stepped away.
He turned toward the garage. Murder scenes always felt slightly off, like the details of life had gotten recolored with a touch of the horror in the house and made more starkly obvious that death pulled a person out of this life abruptly. Rich or poor, they left everything they had behind, even the last set of clothes they wore.
Marsh came back into the room. “Tax returns going back thirty-plus years show Benton Group as his sole employer. Granger wants us in his office for the 6 a.m. update.”
Connor winced.
“Yeah, my thoughts too. He’s in court at seven, the last round of that civil assignment board’s lawsuit where he
