Heather Graham - The Death Dealer

“So was the note found?”

“Right on his desk. Just one piece of paper among a bunch of others—no one even noticed it at first. Looked like—and forensics proved—it had come right out of his own printer. Computer was dusted, of course, and there weren’t any prints, so it had been wiped down,” Tom told him.

“What was the timing? And why did the sister-in-law show up?” Joe asked.

“The son showed up first to tell his dad it was time to go. And he’d already been to get his aunt. They were all going to some dinner party. The butler didn’t come out until after the son and sister-in-law arrived,” Tom explained.

Raif continued the report. “When the son walked in, it looked like the old man had been drinking his special vintage wine, and then just keeled over.”

“There was just one wineglass?” Joe asked.

“Just one,” Raif said.

Tom waved what was left of his turkey-and-Swiss in the air. “In a nutshell, we think Bigelow was alone. He was due at that dinner party at eight, and he’d been dead about an hour when he was found. He had a visitor earlier, though. He last spoke to the butler around five and told him someone was coming before closing himself into his office. But whoever it was must have come and gone, because Bigelow was drinking alone.”

Joe shrugged. “Either that, or the killer took his wineglass with him. Anyone check to see if a glass was missing?”

Tom flushed and looked at Raif.

“I don’t know,” Raif admitted, reddening.

“No one saw anyone come or go?” Joe asked.

“No one. The chauffeur was waiting for them out in the garage, sleeping behind the wheel, by his own admission,” Tom said. “And, yes, we canvassed the neighborhood. No one saw anything.”

“What about the—the other Ravens?” Joe asked.

“We’ve spoken with them. They all claim to have alibis, but we have a lot of legwork to do, checking them all out.”

“Anything you can tell me about the family?” Joe asked.

Raif looked at Tom.

“Come on, you know I’m licensed, and I’ve been hired by an interested party,” Joe said.

“Yeah, okay. We’ve got some files on the rest of the board. I’ll fax ’em to you,” Raif said. “I’d just as soon you not mention it around, though. Some guys on the force aren’t all that fond of outside interest, you know?”

“I do know. And thanks,” Joe told him. He hesitated, then asked. “What do you think about that woman on TV, the one who claimed to be psychic?”

Raif and Tom exchanged glances again.

Joe groaned softly. “Oh, Lord. You two believed her?”

Tom laughed softly.

Raif’s lips twitched.

“What?” Joe demanded.

“Jerry Grant in vice has picked her up at least three times,” he said.

“For fraud?” Joe suggested.

“Hell, no,” Raif said. “Vice doesn’t handle fraud.”

“He picked her up for prostitution,” Tom said. “I noticed that last night she was going by Lori Star. When the cops picked her up, she was going by Candy Cane.”

“She did say she was an actress,” Joe said dryly.

“Yeah. She’s put on a few innocent acts at the station, all right,” Raif said. “Still, we’re going to talk to her.”

“When?”

“Now, as soon as Tom Turkey here finishes his sandwich,” Raif said.

“Mind if I tag along?” Joe asked.

“What the hell, we’re on your dime today,” Tom said.

Raif was staring at him. “You don’t think it would bother you?” he asked. “Your cousin’s fiancée…that Leslie MacIntyre. She was supposed to be the real deal.”

“I should definitely go. I’ll know the real thing when I see it.”

Sam Latham was an all-around good guy. Thirty-six years old, married and the father of two young children. He worked in the editorial department of one of the major publishers, and he simply loved books, especially mysteries, and joined scholars everywhere in considering Edgar Allan Poe to be the father of the detective novel. Genevieve had met him through her mother, and though she couldn’t say she knew him well, she had always liked him, his wife and their kids, Vickie, eleven, and Geoffrey, fourteen.

When she arrived at the hospital, she expected something more than what she found: a quiet hallway; Dorothy, Sam’s wife, in the room with him; and a woman who introduced herself as his mother, Stella, returning with coffee from the hospital cafeteria.

No cops in the hallways, no one on guard.

Because apparently no one believed that Sam had been the intended victim of a killer. Despite the so-called psychic.

“Genevieve!” Sam said with pleasure, seeing her at the door. He had a cut below one eye, and the bruising that accompanied it, but other than that he appeared to be fine, though the sheets could have been covering other injuries.

“Sam, Dorothy…Mrs. Latham,” she said after introductions were made.

His mother was probably around sixty-five. She had stunning silver hair styled to set off her tiny features. She immediately looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Sam was expecting visitors. I could have gotten you a coffee.”

“It’s all right, but thank you so much for the thought,” Genevieve said. She’d stopped downstairs for a flower arrangement, which Dorothy came forward to accept.

“How are you?” Genevieve asked Sam, as Dorothy added the flowers to the others filling the room.

“Fine,” Sam said.

“He’s such a liar,” Dorothy said, distressed. “He goes into surgery tomorrow. For his leg.”

“Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry,” Genevieve said.

His mother cleared her throat. “Are you going to be here for a while, dear? I thought Dorothy and I might go grab something to eat.”

“They won’t leave me alone,” Sam said with a groan.

Genevieve glanced quickly at Dorothy, who tried to appear impassive. Apparently Dorothy was more worried than the police were. Maybe she’d seen the psychic on TV.

“I’ll be happy to stay and chat with Sam until you return,” Genevieve said.

His mother flashed her a grateful smile; Dorothy gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Sam,” Dorothy asked, “will you be okay?”

“Honey, go eat. Genevieve will guard me. She has a black belt now.”

Gen didn’t have a black belt. But she didn’t contradict him.

The other two women left, and Genevieve took the chair by the bed. She looked at the IV drip, and the various tubes to which he was attached.

“Well, other than the hardware, you do look good,” she told him.

He showed her a little clicker which had been hidden in his hand. “Morphine,” he said, with a dry grin.

“Wow, Sam, I’m so sorry. It must have been a horrible accident.”

“Yeah. A horrible accident,” he repeated.

“But it was an accident,” she said. “Right?”

He looked at her, as if suddenly realizing she had come for more than a simple visit. “I guess,” he told her. “Genevieve, I didn’t see anything. I was driving along, thinking about a new manuscript we’d just paid a small fortune for, and then…”

She could have chatted a while, talked more about his kids, pretended. But Sam wasn’t about to pretend, so she wouldn’t, either.

“Then…bang.”

“Yep. Then…that sound. That awful impact,” he said, shaking his head.

She inhaled deeply. “Well…you look good,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

He shook his head. “Genevieve, you’re full of bull. I look like shit. And you’re a nice person, and I’m sure you’d visit me no matter what, but you’re worried because of Thorne Bigelow. You think someone wants to kill all the Ravens. Including your mother.”

She didn’t attempt to deny it. “What do you think?” she asked him.