"Yes, of course I can," he said with a grim sigh. "With the exception of the broken window, it points to an inside job."
"Sooner or later, Flynn and Cagle are going to run me through the system. I'm sure your cover will hold up, but they won't even have to glance twice to find out I'm not an interior designer in Bell Harbor."
"I'm hoping they'll do it later, rather than sooner. After all, you're an unlikely suspect. Why break into a house you already have a key to?"
"To make it look like an outside job," Sloan said wearily. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
"Andy Cagle is sharp. He'll run me through the system even if it's to rule me out. You should let me tell them the truth, so they can eliminate me as a suspect and concentrate on real possibilities. I think I should talk to them first thing in the morning."
"No," he said sharply. "There's too much chance Carter would find out. I need thirty-six hours before that happens. In thirty-six hours it won't matter."
Sloan opened her eyes and stared at him. "What's happening in thirty-six hours?"
He frowned at his drink again, rolling the glass between his hands. "I can't tell you."
"I'm getting really tired of that—"
"Believe me," he said tightly, "I want to tell you, I would have told you at this point—but I can't. Not after tonight."
Sloan thought he was referring to Edith's murder tonight. She couldn't imagine any sort of connection, but it was obvious he wasn't going to give her a word to go on. "Do you have any hunches about who might have done this tonight, or is that another 'secret' you feel you need to keep?" she asked bitterly.
To her surprise, he actually gave her a complete answer. "That depends. If Flynn and Cagle have something substantial that points to an assisted burglary, I'd start with the local maids, not the regular staff who lives in. Reynolds told me more than once that they've been with the family for years. In any case, whoever the actual perp was used a nine-millimeter weapon, because I saw the casing on the floor, and he was also an amateur."
"You mean because he took so many chances by entering through the study—if he did enter that way?"
"No, because he overlooked some items a pro wouldn't have left behind. While you were outside trying to track him down, I was in the study with Paris. The diamond ring Edith always wore had been taken off her hand, but the perp overlooked a very expensive diamond brooch as well as the ring on her other hand. That's another reason for Cagle and Flynn to discount you as a suspect: Why would you go through the trouble to fake a break-in, kill her, and then leave her valuables behind?"
When Sloan didn't come up with an answer, he said, "By the way, what made you search at the front of the house rather than the rear?"
"I'd just walked through the backyard with Noah and hadn't seen anyone there or on the beach. I knew the front was a long shot, but I had to try."
Weariness was crashing over Sloan in tidal waves, and the tears she'd been fighting threatened to slip from her eyes. She thought of Edith's body on the sofa, her hair still perfectly arranged, her dress primly covering her knees. Someone had stolen her life and her jewelry, but even in death, she'd kept her dignity. Sloan drew a shaky breath and brushed away a tear. "I can't believe she's dead."
"It will hit you tomorrow," Paul said with the philosophical certainty of one who has been here and seen this all many times before. "Let's get some sleep. You're going to need it, and so will I."
Sloan hadn't realized until then how drawn he actually looked. He'd said he was "distracted," but she had a peculiar feeling he was worried. Very worried. He always seemed so utterly self-assured and resolute that it was difficult to imagine him any other way.
"I'll see you in the morning," she said.
In her bedroom, Sloan pulled off her clothes and pulled on an old T-shirt that Sara hadn't removed from the suitcases. Careful not to disturb Paris, she slipped into bed and fell into an instant, troubled sleep.
37
The call Dennis Flynn was waiting for came in at ten-thirty A.M., while he was slumped in his chair in front of his computer terminal, watching the computer banks at the Regional Organized Crime Information Center in Nashville answer his final query with another blank report. He'd already typed in all the other names on his list of family, friends, and employees at the Reynolds residence.
At the desk in front of his, Andy Cagle swiveled his chair around and pushed his glasses up on his nose. He'd already interviewed the remaining housemaids earlier and had finished writing his report. "Anything interesting coming in from ROC?"
"Nothing," Flynn said. "Zero. Zilch. According to ROC, the Reynolds household is one great big bunch of law-abiding citizens."
The phone on his desk rang, and he picked it up; then he straightened expectantly when he recognized the caller's voice. "Tell me something good," he said to the lieutenant in charge of the investigation team at the Reynolds house. "What have you got?"
"We've got a burglary that wasn't a burglary."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that nothing seems to be missing, other than one of the old lady's wedding rings, which we already knew about last night."
Flynn's brow furrowed. "You sure?"
"We've been going room to room with the butler, the assistant, the housekeeper, and Paris Reynolds. None of them can spot anything that's been disturbed or taken except in the study."
"That's it?
"We're still looking, but that's it so far."
"That's bad," Flynn said, watching Captain Hocklin pacing in his office. "The press is all over the place like a swarm of wasps and more of them are arriving by the minute. CNN is camped on our doorstep, the Enquirer is trying to sneak in through the men's room window, and MSNBC is looking for a place to park. Hocklin has already had calls from the mayor and three senators, demanding a quick arrest; he hasn't had any sleep, and he is a little cranky. Be a hero, give me something to tell him to get him off my ass."
"Okay," Lieutenant Fineman said. "Try this: The window in the study was broken from the inside."
"We figured that last night."
"Yeah, but now we're sure. Also, we've ruled out the front fence as an escape route. The flower beds are clean, no footprints. What have you got from the ME?"
"Not much so far. Time of death approximately ten o'clock. Based on the angle of entry, she was shot from a distance of three feet. She was sitting on the sofa, and the assailant was standing. That's all we've got. Keep in touch."