After a long, thoughtful pause, Eddie said, “We’ve got some interesting pieces, but we don’t know at this point how they fit into the bigger picture.”
“Like what?”
"It might not be of help, but it's certainly of interest. Bradley had at least two guests the night he died. One was Ray Sirica.”
“Whoa! That’s Randolph’s pal! You know, the one who wrote that great letter to The Standard complaining about Bradley. I loved it when he called Warren out as ‘the gossiping gourmet.’ It certainly gave Holly and me a good laugh.”
“That’s the guy,” Eddie said. “I can only imagine the stir that letter would have continued to cause if Bradley had not been dispatched to that great culinary institute in the sky.”
“So, who spotted Ray Sirica?”
“Around six-forty-five on Monday evening, one of Bradley’s neighbors was walking his dog. He recognized Ray as he drove by, and he followed the car down to the end of Prospect as it pulled into Bradley’s carport.”
“How did you hear about this?"
“I worked the neighbors for anything of interest. You never know when someone sees something that they think is nothing but it turns out to be something; or, they want to keep a low profile, so they get nervous about calling in a tip, which is often the case in a murder investigation.”
“You think it might be a break in the case?” Rob asked eagerly.
“No, news hawk, but it’s something. When you don’t have much to go on, you’re happy to follow any scrap of information that's thrown your way.”
“Having been there the night of the murder, did Sirica come forward to the police?”
“No. I went looking for him. I spoke with him Thursday afternoon at his home. He seemed a little uneasy. But I could see why. He goes up to plead with Bradley, as he explained, in the hope of getting Grant Randolph out of his crosshairs. You know, the old ‘can’t you find anyone else to write about.’ The next thing Sirica knows, Bradley is found murdered.”
“But you think there’s no chance Sirica is your guy?”
“The timing is way off. A neighbor who was putting out the trash around nine-thirty that night saw the lights on at Bradley’s place. A door or window must have been open because he’s confident he heard voices and the sound of Bradley laughing. One more reason—Sirica’s story holds up that he spoke to Warren for ten minutes, got nowhere, and left. It seems pretty doubtful that Warren invited Sirica to stay for dinner and the two shared a lovely evening together. So, this begs the question: Who was Sausalito’s gossiping gourmet entertaining the night he died?"
“I agree with you. It’s unlikely it was Sirica," Rob said with a short laugh. "Does Sirica suspect his buddy, Randolph?”
“He didn’t say, but by the way he flinched when I spoke of Randolph, I think it’s pretty likely the thought has crossed Sirica’s mind. Then again, half the pinheads in town think Randolph killed Bradley, particularly after the public confrontation they had at Sausalito's nutty night at the opera.”
“Trust me; if Karin and I knew that confrontation was going to happen, we would have gone in spite of the music.”
Eddie snorted. “You and me both! By the way, and keep this to yourself for now, I learned from Sirica that Randolph and his wife flew to New York City Wednesday morning, hours after you discovered Warren’s body.”
“Wow, wait until Alma and her pals hear about that.”
“I don’t think that will take too long to get out there. News, good or bad, travels pretty fast in this town, with or without the help of your newspaper’s late columnist.”
“Well, they’re not going to like hearing Grant Randolph slipped out of town.”
“That’s fine with me. While Alma’s brigade is out there chasing shadows, I’ve got to stay focused on the facts of this case.”
“What else?” Rob asked with a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Right now, I—and our friends at the Sausalito PD—have little more than that. It’s not all that surprising. Bradley’s house is at the very end of a poorly lit street and the sight lines into his place stink, making it more difficult than usual to get information out of Sausalito's usually nosey neighbors.” Eddie leaned in. “There is one other thing, however. The Marin County Medical Examiner, Max Brownstein, suspects death by suffocation, and it’s highly probable the old boy never knew what hit him. Most often, when a person has a pillow held over their face, there will be signs of a struggle, such as bruising to the victim’s cheeks and mouth, perhaps even a broken nose, if the killer has to apply enough pressure to subdue a struggling victim. Most commonly, there is DNA in the form of skin and hair from the killer under the victim’s fingernails—evidence we obviously lack with Warren’s hands having vanished. Additionally, Bradley’s face doesn’t show any bruising, which means he was sound asleep, drunk, or most likely both, when he was murdered.”
“What will you do about Randolph?”
“For now, we’ll keep him on our radar. In the old west, a dispute like the one he had with Bradley might have ended in a gunfight. Today, it ends when both parties grow tired of exchanging insults. Or they get tired of paying their attorneys to exchange insults for them.”
Rob was still hoping for a different angle for the coming week's coverage of Bradley’s slaying. To loosen Eddie’s tongue a little more, Rob said, “Let me get you another beer.”
Eddie happily agreed.
When two more beers were delivered, Rob toasted, “To murder most foul!”
Eddie nodded and smiled. “Even minus the victim’s hands, these aren’t usual circumstances we’re dealing with. No facial wounds or contusions, that’s also pretty surprising. But there was a notably elevated blood alcohol level in Warren’s body; enough to indicate that he had drunk a good amount shortly before his death. Of course, the two empty bottles of Chianti on the kitchen counter
