wrong.”
“You found Mark?” I asked, shocked.
“What did you see, Marshall? How did you know?” Grady asked, prying her off of me.
“The coffeepot… was left on.” She mopped her eyes with a handkerchief and fought for control. “It was all burned, it stunk. And the Xerox was on… and the computers on the first floor. Everything. I thought someone pulled an all-nighter, so I went upstairs.” She wiped her nose. “Mark… was lying across his desk. His face was to the side and I thought he’d fallen asleep. You know, at his desk like he does?”
I knew. I remembered.
“So I called to wake him up, but he didn’t move. That’s when I saw the… blood.” Her tears welled up again. “There was blood all over the back of his shirt!”
I tried to visualize it. Mark over his desk. His white shirt. His blood spilling out. It was sickening.
A criminalist bumped into me with a dusting kit. The hallway and library swelled with police personnel. A police photographer was climbing down the spiral staircase from the upstairs offices, maybe coming from Mark’s office. I still couldn’t believe he’d been murdered here, in this house. “I have to see for myself,” I said, only half aloud.
“Bennie, wait,” Grady said, but I turned on my heel, barreled past the associates and police, and headed up the spiral staircase, squeezing by the people going downstairs. Up the down staircase, my whole life, but this time I was driven. I reached the second floor, ducked the tape, and hustled down the corridor.
“Miss!” called a uniformed cop behind me, but I ignored him and slipped into Mark’s office.
The sight took my breath away. I leaned on the doorjamb for support. There was a large blackish pool of blood in the middle of Mark’s desk. It soaked the papers and the leather blotter we’d picked out together. It spilled over the side of a desk I’d refinished as a gift. It tainted everything it touched, defiling it. Mark’s lifeblood.
Grady came up behind me. “It’s okay, Bennie.”
“No it isn’t. Nothing about this is okay,” I said, more harshly than I intended. I stared at the pool of blood and flashed with a rising nausea on the murder scenes from my old practice: an anonymous alley, a ransacked apartment, the drafty shell of an abandoned house. This crime scene was different. A place of business, of law, of rules and statutes. Mark’s and mine.
“He must have been working,” Grady said, bending over Mark’s desk to read his papers. “It’s a contract, an agreement to dissolve R amp; B. It looks like he was editing it when he was killed. There’s a noncompete. You agree not to solicit the business of any drug company within a ten-mile radius for the next two years.”
“Boilerplate. He knew I’d never take his clients.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from the desk. Blood buckled the papers covering it. Fingerprint dust smudged its perimeter, in clumps dark as stormclouds.
“I was up here before and nothing looked out of place to me. Does it to you? Anything odd? You would know better.”
I tried to survey the office without emotion. Bay windows cast bright light behind the glossy modern credenza. Against the wall stood teak bookcases, with Mark’s textbooks and other reference books neatly shelved. A matching teak file cabinet sat next to the bookshelves, with a CD player on top. “It all looks the same,” I said numbly.
Grady looked out the windows and across the street. “Maybe someone in one of the other townhouses saw what happened.”
“We’re checking into that,” said a gruff voice.
I turned around, and standing in the door was a detective I hadn’t met. He was built like a fullback and evidently stuffed into a lightweight navy suit, with a white shirt and puffy polyester tie. “I’m Detective Azzic,” he said, extending a hand with a stiff cop-smile. His face was broad-featured, Slavic, with brown eyes that slanted curiously upwards. “Frank Azzic.”
I shook his hand. “Bennie Rosato.”
“I know who you are. The tape is there for a reason, Ms. Rosato. This is my crime scene.”
“It’s also my law firm.”
Even the cop-smile vanished. “I know you don’t have much respect for law enforcement, but we have our rules, and we have them for a reason.”
“Don’t give me this, Detective, not now. I have no quarrel with the police when they enforce the law. It’s when they fence stolen goods I lose my sense of humor.”
“I’m Grady Wells,” Grady said, stepping almost between us. “I’m representing Ms. Rosato in this investigation. She’s very eager to assist you in finding her partner’s killer.”
Azzic snorted. “Is that why she broke into a secured crime scene? In most cases, physical evidence is found at the scene of the crime. She could contaminate the evidence, drop fibers and hairs, or even destroy evidence.”
I didn’t like the insinuation. “Let’s get to the point, Detective. I understand the police think I killed my partner, which is absurd.”
He turned to me calmly. “Maybe it is. Where were you last night after eleven o’clock?”
“Detective,” Grady said, “I’m instructing her not to answer that question. And if she’s in custody, you haven’t Mirandized her.”
Detective Azzic chuckled. “Down, boy. I don’t see any custody situation here. I’m just asking a coupla questions. Maybe we can eliminate the ride downtown here and now, then it won’t matter who drives.”
I doubted it, but answered anyway, “I was rowing.”
“Rowing?” His sparse eyebrows rose and he looked as surprised as a homicide detective can ever be. “Like in a rowboat?”
“Like in a scull.”
“At night? In the dark?”
“I like to row at night. It’s the only time I can find.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Not that I know of.” Grady shifted unhappily at my side.
“How did you get to the boathouse?”
“I walked.”
“Detective,” Grady broke in, “I think this questioning is unnecessary. Isn’t that all the information you need?”
The detective folded his arms. “No, I think we need to continue the interview down at the station.”
“What time?” Grady shot back, and if he were disappointed it didn’t show.
“An hour or so. Give me some time to get my papers together. I have to get the original of Mr. Biscardi’s will.”
“His will?” I asked, and Grady flashed me a discreet let-me-do-this look.
Detective Azzic looked at me, cocking his head. “You didn’t know Mr. Biscardi had a will, Ms. Rosato? Wasn’t he your boyfriend and business partner?”
Grady shot me another warning glance. “Please don’t answer that, Bennie. I’d like to see the will, Detective.”
I clammed up and got my bearings. Mark was murdered. I was a suspect. It made sense that Mark had a will, but we’d never discussed it. I’d never really thought about it, he was a young man. I felt suddenly alarmed.
Detective Azzic slipped a hand inside his breast pocket and retrieved a packet of papers for Grady. “I had this copy made before I bagged it. The will is dated July 11, three years ago, but I guess you didn’t know that, Ms. Rosato.”
I didn’t take the bait, but watched Grady’s eyes tense behind his glasses as he read. There were ten pages or so, but he skimmed them rapidly. His face betrayed nothing as he snapped the papers closed and handed them back to Detective Azzic. “Thanks,” he said.
“Interesting, huh?” the detective asked, looking from Grady to me.
Grady hustled me to the door. “We’ll see you at the Roundhouse, Detective.”
“What did it say?” I whispered, when we hit the hall. Grady was about to reply when we turned the corner and ran smack into Eve Eberlein.
“Oh!” She stood back from us as if shocked. She’d obviously been crying, her eyes were swollen and she wore no makeup. Her short hair was a mess and her chic dress was wrinkled. “What happened, Bennie? What
