Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“I was asleep,” she said, sounding drugged.

“It’s all right,” Rocco replied. “Go back to sleep.” He turned her around gently and guided her into a bedroom, then tucked her in.

She rolled onto her left side, with her back to him.

Rocco thought about it for a moment: what he had here, he said to himself, was a very convenient murder-suicide. He unsheathed the pistol, stepped over to her, and put a bullet through her right temple. The small-caliber slug didn’t make a mess, just a neat hole. He shot her once more in the back of the head, then left the room and went back to the dining room. He looked out the window and saw Craft, still undisturbed. He held the gun out the window and dropped it. It bounced off Craft’s body and lay near him.

Rocco had a look around the dining room and kitchen for traces of his visit and found none. He retrieved his umbrella, left by the kitchen door, and pressed B in the elevator. It descended with no stops. His luck was holding.

In the basement, Rocco had a look around and saw a woman on a treadmill in the gym, her back to him. He walked past the laundry to the side door of the building and found a box to the right of it labeled GATE. He pressed the button and looked outside. The wrought-iron gate was slowly swinging open.

He walked quickly to the top of the alley and checked the street. The two FBI agents were standing under the awning at the entrance, earnestly engaged in conversation.

The gate began to close itself, and Rocco stepped through the gap, opened his umbrella, and put on his heavy, black-rimmed glasses, folded and pocketed the Trilby and put on the tweed cap, then he turned and walked toward the agents, who ignored him as he passed. He walked to the corner of Park Avenue and turned south, then right on East Sixty-fourth. The streets were mostly empty because of the rain.

Shortly, he was at the hotel’s service entrance and took the elevator upstairs. Back in his room, he stripped off his clothes and put them into a plastic bag marked dry cleaning . He filled out the ticket and put that into the bag, too, then hung it on the doorknob. Then he went into the bathroom and used a solvent to free the beard, which he washed and dried with the hair dryer, then put back into its case. Finally, he showered, scrubbing with a brush the areas that had been exposed.

He dried his hair with the hair dryer, got back into his robe, found his slippers and his key card, then walked down the hall to Debby’s suite and knocked softly on the door.

“Who’s there?” she asked from inside.

“Rocco.”

She opened the door, still dressed in her robe, and closed it behind him.

“Tell me how it went,” she said.

“From all appearances, Mr. Craft had a disagreement with his girlfriend, and he shot her twice in the head as she lay in bed. Then he went into his study, opened a window, and departed for the alley below. He was still in the alley, undisturbed, when I last saw him. I dropped the weapon after him, and it rests near his body. Then I got the hell out of there.”

“Rocco,” she said, kissing him and feeling for the opening of his robe, “you’re a wonder.”

“I believe I am, at that,” Rocco replied, freeing her of her garment.

She led him to bed. “Let’s celebrate,” she said, pulling him in behind her.

“Hip, hip, hooray!” Rocco said.

Stone and Maren were taking a walk up Park Avenue in the late afternoon when Maren got a call. She stopped. “Excuse me for a moment, Stone. Yes?” She listened intently. “What’s the address? Cross street? I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up and took Stone’s arm again, and they walked on. She was very quiet.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“Well,” she said. “It appears that I’ve lost my witness, who could have convicted Little Debby.”

“Eddie Craft?”

She nodded. “We’re only a few blocks away. You’re an old homicide detective, Stone. I’d like you to give me your take on this.” She wouldn’t say more.

They reached East Sixty-third Street and crossed Park. “Here we are,” she said.

“This is Dino’s building.”

“I know.” They entered the building, and she flashed her badge to the doorman.

An agent stood nearby. “I’ll take you up, Director,” he said, then led the way to the elevator.

The door to apartment 14D stood open, and Stone could see men down the hall in the living room.

“This way,” their agent said, pointing at the doorway. “Bedroom is right, then left.”

Stone and Maren bent over the body. “One in the temple, one in the back of the head,” he said. He saw a pill bottle and read the label. “Ambien.”

“This way, Director,” the agent behind them said. He led them through the living room to the dining room, where a window stood wide open. “Stand on the chair and look down,” he said, then helped Maren up. She got down, and Stone took a turn.

“Any conclusions?” Maren asked Stone.

“Only the obvious ones: he shot her twice while she was sleeping, then took a dive out the window, taking the gun with him. It’s next to the body. I’d like to hear from the medical examiner before I go any further.”

“Why would he shoot her?” Maren asked.

“The ME isn’t going to tell us that. My guess is they were married or longtime companions, and that makes this a case of domestic violence. They’re unpredictable before the fact and, often, unsolvable afterward, unless you can locate a few good friends and hear what they have to say about the relationship. My guess is that Eddie was a loner, except for his girl, so he wouldn’t have a lot of friends.”

“You don’t see anything professional in this, then?” she asked.

Stone shook his head. “Not unless your crime scene team comes up with some DNA or other evidence indicating the presence of a third party.”

“So, it’s a murder-suicide?”

“Probably. It would be a hard thing for a pro to plan, but he might have done it on the fly, found himself in circumstances that required killing them both. Someone recently mentioned Occam’s razor to me.”

“We’d never solve anything, if we didn’t look beyond Occam’s razor,” she said.

“Good point, but why tie yourself in knots? If you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

Maren managed a chuckle.

“I think you would spend your time more profitably looking for someone who can back up Eddie’s story about Little Debby stealing the gun from the D.C. evidence locker.”

“We’ve already interviewed his neighbors in the lockup. The cop in charge was in the john with a crossword.”

“Hang on,” Stone said.

“What?”

“Let’s go take a look at the scene in the alley.”

They rode the elevator down and walked outside, then around the corner. The rain had stopped an hour before, but they had to avoid puddles.

Eddie’s body was a crumpled heap, and the weapon lay nearby. “What kind of weapon was stolen from the evidence room?” Stone asked.

“A .22 semiautomatic pistol with a silencer,” Maren said.

Stone pointed at the gun near the body. “Voilà,” he said.

They were walking back up the alley when the ME’s van backed in. Maren slapped a palm on the fender; it stopped and a door opened. She gave the man her card. “Call me when you’re done; I don’t want to wait for the written report.”

They walked on up the alley to the street. “Let’s steal a car,” she said, pointing at an FBI vehicle.

“Go right ahead, Director,” an agent said.

“Hello, Karl. I’d like you to get a ballistics report on the weapon at the scene. It resembles one stolen from a D.C. evidence room, and I want a comparison.”