William Bernhardt - Death Row

“But sir, there are strong indications that another person was present.”

“So what? It’s a vacation cabin. She probably had people there all the time.”

“I mean recently. Just before she died.”

“You were supposedly watching the cabin. Did you see anyone?”

“No. But think about it. There was no suicide note. There were cuts and abrasions on her body. A serious blow to her left leg. We found signs that she had fallen down the slope behind the cabin.”

“And none of that amounts to a hill of beans!”

Baxter rose to her feet and faced him down. “With all due respect, sir-you’re not giving me a chance.”

“Why should I give you a chance?” He addressed her more like a drill sergeant than a supervisor. “Maybe I didn’t make this clear when I hired you, Sergeant. I expect results. Not theories. Not botched stakeouts. Results!”

“Sir, if you’ll just give us a little more time…”

“You’ve wasted too much time already. I’ve blown a bundle in taxpayer dollars humoring a rookie detective. I should’ve listened to Major Morelli when he told me to call Faulkner’s death a suicide and close the file.”

Baxter glared at Mike, her eyes like cold steel.

“And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I assume your opinion hasn’t changed any. Not based on this pathetic nonevidence. Right, Morelli?”

Mike sat silently, pursing his lips.

“Well?” Blackwell bore down on him. “Am I right?”

Jones entered Christina’s office and found her nose buried in a huge pile of files. “You look as if you could use a distraction,” he said, holding out a pink message slip.

Christina didn’t look up. “I don’t want to see your honeymoon pictures again.”

“Hardy-har. This is about the Goldman case. Got a call from James Wesley. Erin’s sorta boyfriend. He wants someone to come over to his home. Wants to talk.”

“What about?”

“Wouldn’t say on the phone. But it must relate to Erin Faulkner.”

“Shouldn’t you tell Ben?”

Jones looked away. “He’s busy. And I thought… you might like to take it. Might be good for you.”

The corner of her lips turned up, just barely. “Yeah, you’re right. I need a break.” She snatched the message from his hand. “Thanks.”

“Oh, no,” he said mysteriously, looking away. “Don’t thank me till you get back.”

“Actually,” Mike said tentatively, “I have… somewhat… altered my opinion.”

“What?” Blackwell looked as if he’d been hit by a bulldozer. “What are you babbling about?”

Mike inhaled deeply. “I’m talking about my initial impression that Erin Faulkner’s death was a suicide.”

“You have doubts?”

Mike knew this would only further infuriate Blackwell. But he had no choice. “No, I don’t have any doubts. I’m sure. These deaths weren’t suicides.” He paused. “I was wrong.”

Baxter turned, her lips parted.

“And when did you arrive at this brilliant revelation, detective?” Blackwell demanded.

“I don’t know. I think I’ve known all along, at least a little bit. I just didn’t want to admit it because…” His chest rose, then fell again. “I suppose I didn’t want to admit that Baxter was right.”

“Because she’s a woman?”

Mike frowned. “No. Because she’s… annoying. But I shouldn’t’ve let that affect my judgment. She called this one exactly right.”

Baxter gazed at him, her eyes filled with wonder.

Blackwell was not mollified. “And do you by chance have any evidence in support of this sudden epiphany?”

“We’re still collecting evidence-”

“Don’t stall me, Major.”

Mike’s jaw clenched. “The cuts and abrasions on Sheila Knight’s body can’t be explained by the gun wound. There are signs that she rolled or fell down the slope behind her cabin-and perhaps that she was dragged back up it. There are fresh footprints-not hers-also behind the cabin. We’ve found a key chain-we think it’s a key chain-with some strange design on it. I haven’t identified it yet, but-”

“Is that all you’ve got, Morelli? Because, frankly, it sounds pretty feeble to me. And I am sick of this half-baked, amateurish-”

“Just one goddamn minute,” Mike said, matching his volume. “I’ve been on this force a good long time, and I think I’ve proven I know what a homicide is. I’ve also proven I can solve one, given enough time and support. And I can’t think of any reason why I-or my partner-should have to endure this abusive bullshit!”

The room fell silent. Blackwell took a step back.

“Besides,” Mike said, much more quietly, “it isn’t good for your heart. You might burst a blood vessel or something.”

“Morelli-”

“Look, Chief-just give us a week, okay? That’s all I ask. One week to come up with something. If we don’t-we’ll both agree to close the file.”

“One week to do what?”

“Well… I’m not totally sure. But my partner is right. Always has been.” He glanced at Baxter out the corner of his eye. “And now we’re going to prove it.”

Christina was impressed to see that James Wesley had a house-and a nice-size one at that. After all, he was a single young man, and as far as she knew, he wasn’t the heir to a fortune. The house was nothing fancy-a two-story Federal just north of Fifteenth. But to Christina-who had lived in a two-room apartment for more than a decade-it looked pretty darn good.

She rang the bell, and the door was opened almost immediately-by Michael Palmetto.

“Dr. Palmetto,” Christina said. She extended her hand. “Christina McCall. I interviewed you. With Ben Kincaid. About Erin Faulkner’s death.”

“Of course. You visited shortly after I spoke with the police officers.”

She nodded. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Especially since I heard that there was some bad blood between you and James.

“Well, I’ve only been here a moment.” Was he distracted, or was it her imagination? His eyes kept moving toward the door. “Even though James doesn’t work at the organ clinic anymore, he still does some occasional freelance work.”

“I see.”

“He’s in the basement. You can go on down.”

“In the basement?”

“Yes. He’s always in the basement.”

Visions of Dracula’s coffin flickered through Christina’s brain. “May I ask why?”

“Well, that’s where he does his work.”

“And what work would that be?”

A smile flashed across the Palmetto’s face. “You don’t know?”

“Sorry. I don’t.”

“Well… then you’re in for a big surprise.”

Christina didn’t much care for the sound of that.

“Let me ask you a question. How do you feel about spiders?”

Her face twisted up. “I hate them. Why?”

Palmetto placed his hand on her shoulder. “Ms. McCall, this is going to be the worst interview of your life.”

“Jones is so going to pay for this,” Christina kept muttering. That was the only comfort she could give herself, right at the moment. He was going to pay dearly.

As Christina descended into James Wesley’s basement, she found herself surrounded by more than forty thousand spiders. Yes, forty thousand . All alphabetized and secure in lidded plastic cups, neatly arranged on rows and rows of portable shelving.

“It’s my life’s work,” the handsome black man said proudly as he twirled around the center of the basement. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

Christina was working hard to comprehend. Not just why anyone would want to be surrounded by these horrible creatures. But how she was going to get through the next two minutes without fainting. “But… why?”