The Fifth Profession

“Perhaps he had company,” Akira said.

“There's only one glass,” Rachel said. “If he did have guests and he put away their glasses, why didn't he put away his own glass and the empty bottles as well? And something else. Have you read the labels on the bottles?”

“No,” Savage said. “What about them?”

“At the farmhouse outside Athens, when the two of you talked about Graham, you said he drank Dom Perignon.”

“It's the only brand he'll accept,” Akira said.

“Well, two of these labels say Dom Perignon. But the third is Asti Spumante.”

“What?” Savage straightened.

“And what's that noise?” Rachel asked.

Savage glanced around sharply. His ears had been slow to adjust to the silence after the throbbing music. But now he heard a muted drone.

“Yes,” Akira said. “A faint vibration. What's causing it?”

“A refrigerator?” Savage said.

“Graham's kitchen's on the second floor,” Akira said. “We wouldn't hear the refrigerator this far away.”

“Maybe the furnace turned on,” Savage said.

Akira lowered his hand toward a vent. “No rush of air.”

“Then what…?”

“It seems to come from”-Rachel frowned, passing Savage- “this door beside the bookshelf.”

She opened the door and lurched back as thick gray smoke enveloped her. The faint drone became a rumble. Rachel coughed from the acrid stench of the smoke.

Except that it wasn't smoke, Savage realized.

Graham's garage! Savage hurried through the doorway. The garage was dark, but the lights in the living room managed to pierce the dense exhaust rushing past him. He saw Graham's Cadillac, its engine running, a bald, overweight figure slumped behind the steering wheel.

He rushed to lean through the car's open window and twisted the ignition key. The engine stopped. Straining not to breathe, he yanked the driver's door open, clutched Graham, and dragged him across the garage's concrete floor into the living room.

Rachel shoved the door closed, preventing more exhaust from spewing in, but enough had already entered the living room that when Savage finally breathed, he bent over, coughing.

Akira knelt beside Graham, feeling for a pulse.

“His face is deep red,” Rachel said.

“Carbon monoxide.” Akira listened to Graham's chest. “His heart isn't beating.”

Savage knelt opposite Akira, Graham between them. “Give him mouth-to-mouth. I'll work on his heart.”

As Akira opened Graham's mouth and breathed into it, Savage pounded Graham's chest once, then placed both palms over his heart, applying and releasing pressure.

“Rachel, call nine eleven,” Savage blurted, pressing again on Graham's chest, leaning back, pressing once more.

Rachel scrambled toward the phone on Graham's desk. She picked it up and began to press numbers.

“No, Rachel.” Akira sounded sick. “Never mind.” He stared at Graham and slowly stood.

“Keep trying!” Savage said.

Akira shook his head in despair. “Feel how cold he is. Look at his legs. When you set him on the floor, they stayed bent-as if he's still sitting in the car. He's been dead for quite a while. Nothing's going to revive him.”

Savage squinted at Graham's bent knees, swallowed, and stopped pressing Graham's chest.

Rachel set down the phone.

For several seconds, they didn't move.

“Jesus.” Savage's hands shook. He had trouble standing.

Akira's neck muscles were so taut they resembled ropes.

Rachel approached, trying not to look at Graham's corpse.

Savage suddenly noticed how pale she was. He reached her just in time before her legs gave out. He helped her toward a sofa, choosing the one that allowed her to sit with her back to Graham. “Put your head between your knees.”

“I just lost my balance for a second.”

“Sure.”

“I feel better now.”

“Of course. I'll get you some water,” Akira said.

“No, really, I think I'm okay.” Her color was returning. “For a moment there, the room seemed blurry. Now… Yes.” She mustered strength. “I'll be fine. You don't need to worry. I'm not going to faint. I promised myself I wouldn't get in the way. I won't hold you back.” Her blue eyes glinted, stubborn, proud.

“Get in the way? The opposite,” Savage said. “If it hadn't been for you, we probably wouldn't have discovered…” He bit his lower lip and turned toward Graham's body. “The poor bastard. I came here ready to strangle him. Now I'd hug him if he were alive. God, I'll miss him.” He pressed downward with his hands, as if repressing emotion. “So what the hell happened?”

“You mean what appears to have happened,” Akira said.

“Exactly.”

Rachel looked confused.

“Three empty wine bottles,” Akira said.

“Right. A drunken man decides to go out for the evening. He starts his car, but before he can open the garage, he passes out. The exhaust fumes kill him.”

“A coroner will reject that explanation.”

“Of course,” Savage said.

“I don't understand,” Rachel said.

“The garage was dark, and the door from the living room was shut,” Akira said. “Even a drunk would realize that the garage wasn't open when he found himself blundering around in the dark. His first instinct would be to open the outside door.”

“Unless he had an automatic garage-door opener, and he figured he could press the remote control in his car while he started the engine.”

“But Graham's garage actually has two doors. Like the stable doors they're supposed to resemble, they open out on each side, and it has to be done by hand.”

“So the garage was left closed deliberately.”

“I'm missing something,” Rachel said. “It sounds like … Graham committed suicide? ”

“He sits here alone, the stereo blaring while he smokes and drinks and broods. When he's drunk enough to work up his nerve, he goes out to his car. Doesn't bother to shut off the stereo. Why worry about it? Makes sure the living room door is closed to keep the garage sealed. Turns the ignition key. The exhaust smells terrible, but after several deep breaths, his eyes feel heavy. He drifts. He dies. No muss, no fuss. Yeah,” Savage said, “the coroner will buy it.”

“And that's the way Graham would do it. He's too fastidious about his appearance to put a bullet through his head. All the blood would ruin his three-piece suit,” Akira said.

Rachel looked disturbed.

“He'd need a reason to kill himself,” Savage said.

“Problems with his health?”

Savage shrugged. “The last time I saw him, three weeks ago, there didn't seem anything wrong. Overweight, of course, but robust as ever. Even if he suddenly learned he had cancer, he's the type that would pamper himself till every medical option proved useless and he was terminal. Then he might kill himself. But not before.”

“Then business problems.”

“Better,” Savage said.