A Penny for Your Thoughts (7 page)

I pulled my hairbrush from my purse and redid my chignon, catching sight of my face in the mirror. I looked worn out, I decided, with dark circles just starting to show beneath my blue eyes.
You’re not as young as you used to be,
I thought as I stared at my reflection. At 32, I was beginning to realize that my body couldn’t bounce back from this endless activity the way it once had.

Turning from the mirror, I exhaled slowly, wondering where to begin with my investigation. I usually started in a rather meticulous way (or, according to my friend and coworker Harriet, an overly obsessive way)—by setting up my files, going through the initial paperwork given to me by Tom, gathering what information I could from the internet and other sources. This time, however, I wasn’t investigating the legitimacy of an organization but rather the murder of a human being. Undoubtedly, this case would require an altogether different approach.

Still, no matter what type of investigation it was, step one was always the same: Set up an information database on the computer. Using my laptop I quickly installed the framework, creating the
necessary categories but leaving most of them blank for the time being. As I gathered information, I would load and organize the data into this framework. Then, as the investigation proceeded and I needed to double-check, cross-reference, or sort facts, I could use the computer to help organize my data—and my thoughts.

Once the database was set up, I saved what I had done, then shut down my computer and carried it to my car. I had decided to start the official investigation by returning to Wendell Smythe’s office. There were a few things I needed to know in order to begin.

As I got in the car and started it up, I prayed for insight and for the stamina to see this thing through. My prayer continued as I drove toward the city, retracing the route we had driven earlier. If I were to be successful in this investigation, I knew I would have to put it completely into God’s hands, trusting Him to reveal things to me in His way, in His own time.

I stopped by the Perskie Detective Agency first, eager to get going on the case but knowing I couldn’t do this at all without the proper authority. Duane Perskie turned out to be a big ex-football player-type of guy with an easy smile and a heavy Midwestern accent. As we chatted in his office, I found myself laughing at his jokes, wondering how he knew Tom, what their connection was. I had long ago ceased to be impressed by the variety and extent of my boss’ connections. It often seemed that no matter where I was going or what I was doing, someone somewhere who knew Tom was there to help me out.

By the time I reached the Smythe building, it was just after one in the afternoon. The parking garage was full, but I finally found a spot on the very bottom level, at the end of the row. Glancing at my watch as I headed for the elevator, I tried to calculate just how long the police had been here. My hope was that their investigation of the crime scene was finished and that it was no longer secured.

I rode the elevator to the sixth floor, seeing the familiar signs for Smythe Incorporated and Feed the Need in the hallway as I got off. I turned right and stepped into the reception area, pleased to find the desk there empty. Without missing a beat, I opened the glass door into Feed the Need and strode purposefully through. The place was much more subdued than it had been during my visit earlier that day. Now instead of the busy hum of an office at work, there were only small clusters of employees speaking in hushed tones around their cubicles.

No one seemed to notice me as I reached the door to Gwen’s office and stepped inside. Unfortunately, several people were in there, all of whom looked up as I came in. I recognized Detective Keegan, the man who had interviewed me earlier. He was standing next to a tall, familiar-looking man and a woman I hadn’t seen before.

“So anyway,” the woman was saying, “about three hours and I should have some preliminaries.”

She was holding an opened-topped box that was filled with lunch-sized paper bags—evidence, no doubt. Carefully carrying the box, she headed out the door, the other man holding it open for her.

“I’ll catch a ride with Michelle,” he said to Detective Keegan. “See you back at the station.”

The two of them left, and Keegan turned to me inquisitively.

“Can I help you?” he asked, squinting his eyes as he studied me. “Oh, you changed clothes. Sorry I didn’t recognize you right off.”

“I couldn’t stand that stiff suit any longer,” I said, smiling. “I don’t mind dressing up, but sometimes I get a bit claustrophobic.”

He didn’t laugh but merely raised one eyebrow and continued to look at me.

“I was just wondering if the crime scene has been released.”

“Just finished,” he said. “I think I’m the last one here. Is there something you need?”

“No,” I answered lightly. “I just wanted to take a look around.”

I could tell he wasn’t going to let me off that easily. I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then lowered my voice.

“I’ve been…retained,” I said, “to look into Mr. Smythe’s death.”

“Retained?”

“As an investigator.”

“When I questioned you earlier, you said you were an attorney and that you worked for a foundation.”

“That’s correct. But I’m also a licensed PI. My boss seems to think I might be of some use around here now that Mr. Smythe’s death has definitely been classified as a homicide.”

Detective Keegan didn’t look very pleased.

“You’re licensed in Pennsylvania?” he asked.

“Maryland,” I said. “But I’m working here with the Perskie Detective Agency. I can give you the number of Duane Perskie, if you need to verify it.”

He waited a beat, studying my face.

“No, I know Duane,” he said. Then, with a final nod, he picked up his jacket from the back of Gwen’s chair, slipped it over his shoulders, and headed for the door.

Once he was gone, I turned and went into Wendell’s office. I didn’t blame Detective Keegan for his wary attitude, and I wished there was some way I could assure him that I knew what I was doing, that I was fully aware of the principles of chain of evidence and the like. In time, I supposed, he would see that I wasn’t some incompetent Nancy Drew wanna-be, but a finely trained and meticulous detective. I smiled as I thought of Eli Gold, the man who had taught me everything I knew about investigations. Though he was now retired and living in Florida, he would always be very much a part of my life. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Eli were still looking over my shoulder, interpreting the facts and calmly explaining what I should do next.

Welcome back to the scene of the crime,
I thought now as I walked around Wendell’s desk and looked down at the floor where his body had lain, dead, this very morning. The police had left a bit of
a mess behind with fingerprint dust on walls and furniture and vivid white chalk marks on the dark blue carpeting. It looked as if they had been very thorough—as one would expect in a high-profile case of a wealthy man such as this.

Still, that didn’t mean there wasn’t more to find. I thought of Eli’s “crime scene checklist”—the 30 things I was supposed to try to ascertain right up front, beginning at the scene of the crime. Eli had made me memorize all 30, in alphabetical order, from Age of Victim to Wound Patterns. As I mentally worked my way through the list now, I knew that there were still a lot of unanswered questions.

Silently, I padded around the room, looking for things the police might’ve missed, reconstructing the events of the morning in my mind. From what I could remember when I first found the man on the floor, nothing had been amiss with either the victim’s clothing or his office. The only thing askew was the trash can, and its contents had since been removed by the police. The papers that had been on Wendell’s desk were gone now, too, as were his appointment calendar and the hard drive from his computer. I went through his drawers but found nothing unusual. I flipped through his Rolodex and noted that he did seem to have a lot of medical-type phone listings, from drug supply stores to dialysis centers. I made a note to ask Marion about any chronic medical conditions that he might have had other than his diabetes, knowing these numbers could either be work-related or personal.

Because I needed to see an appointment calendar, I headed back out to Gwen’s office and easily located hers. It was still open on the desk, the notebook-sized pages heavily penciled on, scribbled through, and otherwise edited. Flipping back a few days, I could see that previous entries were much neater. Turning back to today, however, which was a Monday, I saw that this entire week was kind of a mess. Though Wendell had had appointments scheduled every day this week, Gwen had drawn a large “X” on each day after today, and there were notations next to many of the names, like “left message,” “appt. cxed.” and “resched.”
Obviously, she had been canceling and rescheduling his appointments for the week. I remembered her saying something earlier on the phone about Wendell going in for surgery. I wondered what the surgery was for, and I made a note to ask Marion about it later.

Reading Gwen’s calendar, I jotted down names and numbers that I thought might be relevant. When I had gleaned all I could from the calendar, I put it back on the desk the way I found it; then I turned and went through Wendell’s office to the private bathroom that was attached. This was where the killer had been when I first arrived, but there was nothing notable about the room now; it was just a nice bathroom. Police had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints in here as well, especially around doorknobs and the sink and faucets.

I looked at the door I had run through earlier, the door to the short hallway that led to the stairs. I retraced my steps now, wishing that this sort of work could be easier, wishing that killers dropped calling cards on their way out. I stepped into the stairwell, leaned over the rail, and looked down the center of six flights of stairs, all the way to the ground floor. Something about that frantic chase down the stairs was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I closed my eyes, trying to recall sights, sounds, smells. Nothing in particular came back to me.

I returned to the hallway and headed back to the bathroom, but as I opened the door and stepped through, I could hear a noise in Wendell’s office. I hesitated just inside the bathroom.

Someone was out there, looking for something. I chanced leaning forward to take a glimpse, and I saw the back of a smartly dressed woman who was digging through the files in Wendell’s desk. I stayed where I was, listening as she finally slammed the drawer and then picked up the telephone.

“I don’t see anything here,” she said into the phone after only a moment’s pause. “It looks like the cops took anything of any importance.”

She was quiet for a moment, listening.

“But they took the hard drive, too.”

I wondered who she was and what she was looking for. Her demeanor was more than simply concerned; she seemed nearly frantic.

“What do you mean, ‘cross that bridge when we come to it’? Don’t be stupid.”

She hung up the phone and continued to poke around the desk. Deciding to make my presence known, I softly shut the door, then flushed the toilet. When I came out of the bathroom, she was standing only a few feet away, hands on hips.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And just what are you doing in my father’s bathroom?”

I swallowed hard, feeling my face surge red in spite of myself.

“My name is Callie Webber,” I said. “I’m from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. You’re Judith, I take it? I’m so, so sorry about your father’s death. I know this must’ve been a shock for you.”

She nodded, her expression softening just a little, though she remained there, immovable, in front of me.

“What are you doing here now?” she asked.

I hesitated, studying her. She was quite striking, probably in her late thirties, dressed in an elegant but understated navy suit, her hair cut and colored in an expensive, up-to-the-minute fashion. Even standing perfectly still, she radiated nervous energy, like a hot engine giving off steam.

“More questioning by the police,” I hedged. “I’m the one who found him, you know.”

“Do you think he felt any pain?” she asked suddenly. “I mean, it’s kind of a relief, in a way, that he’s gone. But I’d hate to think he suffered.”

“A relief?”

She nodded, turning away.

“His health was failing fast. His death wasn’t much of a surprise.”

“What was wrong with him?” I asked, coming around the desk.

“What
wasn’t
wrong with him?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “Diabetes, kidney failure, heart disease, you name it. Daddy was a mess.”

I thought of him, dead, his overweight frame in a heap on the floor.

“Kidney failure,” I said. “Was he on dialysis?”

“Three times a week,” she answered. “He was trying to line up a kidney transplant, but the doctors were about to pull the plug on that idea.”

“Why?”

She shook her head, as if suddenly my questions were just a bit too pushy for her.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” she said. “Can I walk you out?”