anything about the yardman’s routine as far as those greenhouse plants were concerned?”
“When I think about cyanide, I think of gold mining and rodent extermination rather than plants, so—”
“Ms. Rose, I don’t have all day. Just answer the question.”
“Sorry, yes, Ben took a special interest in those roses. He cut the most beautiful stems for the house, and we’ve had vases and vases in every room all summer.”
He leveled a “lady, you have the IQ of a cactus” stare my way and said, “That tells me nothing about his routine. Who knew what he did out there?”
“Well... I guess anyone who’s been around on a regular basis.”
“Like who? How many people had access to your property?”
“Since you’ve already established I’m not too efficient about securing the grounds, I guess just about anyone.”
He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“Of course, I could give you a complete list of everyone I know, but... you don’t have all day.”
He chewed his gum for a few seconds, never taking his eyes off me. “Keep up the jokes if this situation amuses you. But I intend to find out what happened here. There is nothing funny about someone sniffing enough cyanide gas to make him look like a bowl of boiled crawfish.”
I blinked, genuinely sorry for my smart-ass attitude, but before I could apologize, he leaned toward me.
“Maybe I need to point out that
He smelled like cinnamon, and I might have liked his fine-looking face six inches from mine if I hadn’t just discovered he considered me capable of murder.
The sound of his ringing cell phone interrupted the unsettling silence that filled the kitchen.
“Excuse me.” He stood and unclipped the phone from his belt, then turned away. He’d left his little notebook on the table, so I furtively turned it toward me, trying to peek at what was written there.
But before I could read two words he whirled and snatched the notebook up. After offering single-syllable responses to whoever was on the other end of the conversation, he hung up.
“Do you seriously believe I could have hurt Ben?” I asked.
“We’ll pick this up another time, Ms. Rose.” He started for the back door.
“But what about Ben?” I called after him.
He stopped and faced me. “What about him?”
“Have you located his family?”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
“I think it is. Has someone claimed his body?”
“Maybe no one cares enough to claim the body of an accused killer. You see, Ms. Rose, this job reminds me every day that what goes around comes around.”
He scanned the room, pausing at the late-model refrigerator with the see-through door, moving on to the grill in the island and taking in the antique trunk and Oriental rug in front of the fireplace before his gaze returned to me. “You were acquainted with the dead man, and by all appearances you and your sister can afford a casket —and maybe even a little prayer for the victim.”
I felt my face redden, a mix of embarrassment and anger replacing my earlier irritation. “It doesn’t take a NASA engineer to see we have money, but that’s not the point. Even though I didn’t know Ben Garrison all that well, I cared about him, and I’m certain he had someone who cared a whole lot more than I do.”
“If it’s that important, go find his people yourself. Just make sure your bleeding heart doesn’t ruin your fine foreign carpet when you head out the door.” His faded-denim eyes held mine for an instant before he whirled and strode the length of the kitchen.
He paused, hand on the door, and said over his shoulder, “And by the way, if you plan to find his family, you might want to know his name wasn’t Garrison.”
4
Although Sergeant Kline had told me Ben’s last name wasn’t Garrison, I still had no idea what his real name was, and I would need that information to locate the family. Since Kate’s longtime boyfriend, psychologist Dr. Terry Armstrong, consults for HPD on occasion, I thought maybe he could help me out.
So right after Kline left my house, I paged Terry. Though hesitant, he finally agreed to meet me at the office he sometimes uses at HPD headquarters. But when I arrived and went up to his floor, I saw him at the end of the hallway walking toward me, briefcase in hand.
When we met halfway down the corridor, he said, “After I showed up here, I bumped into a cop who wants me to consult on a case, so I need to get downstairs for a prisoner interview.”
“Did you find out anything about Ben?” I asked, matching Terry’s long strides as we headed back to the elevators. The man’s so tall, I practically need a stepladder to look him in the eye.
“Same thing you could have learned if you’d waited for the five-o’clock news. I tried to call you, but you didn’t have your cell turned on. Ben’s real last name was Grayson.”
“And he was
Terry nodded, stabbing the down button.
“I was hoping you might help me with more than his name. See, Ben apparently had a criminal history.”
Terry looked down at me, his usual bland expression replaced by concern. “And he was living right there with you and Kate?”
“Both of us thought he was a genuinely nice guy, Terry. Sweet and gentle. I’d like to know more about that old murder charge, because I can’t believe we misjudged him that badly. Think you could find out for me?”
“A murder charge? Uh, Abby, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“You have access to an HPD database, right?”
“Limited access. I’m betting those Homicide dicks—pretty intense crowd, those guys—don’t want me messing around in this.”
“All I need is Ben’s former address, maybe a little background information on the charges against him.”
Terry looked down at me, still not convinced. “What does Kate think about your coming down here?”
“She’s the one who sent me. One of your ‘intense’ Homicide guys practically accused us of murder.” Okay, so maybe I was manipulating the facts a little, but Terry adored Kate. He’d be more inclined to help if he thought she’d sent me here.
The ploy worked. A minute later we were in Terry’s cramped little office, and he was typing commands on his computer while I looked over his shoulder. But after he hit a few keys, the dreaded window demanding another password appeared.
Terry swiveled in the chair and looked up at me. “I don’t think I’d better press my luck. I doubt the lead detective—Sergeant Kline, right?—would offer me access unless I was officially on the case.”
“Can’t one of your cop friends lend you their password?”
“If I want to keep a nice hunk of city change coming my way for consultations, don’t you think I’d better respect my limits?”
I picked up Terry’s phone and held it under his nose. “Would you call Homicide for information, then? Kline won’t tell me anything.”
Terry gently took the phone and replaced the receiver. “HPD has plenty to do without being hounded with requests from the curious public.”
“I am not the curious public! We’re talking about locating a dead man’s family. That old murder file would give me names and addresses of people who should be informed about Ben’s death.”
“Abby, leave this alone. Just because HPD isn’t doling out information doesn’t mean Kline hasn’t notified Ben’s family.” Terry backed out of the program and turned off the computer. “I may have to work with the guy on a case sometime, so I don’t want to get on his bad side.”
