An Unconventional Murder (19 page)

"Give me the names of everyone around here who knew Tuck."

"There are quite a few. All of the board members, of course. At one time or another,
each one of us has dealt with him." Upton recited the names of a dozen other CFWA members
who had been represented by Zachary Tuck. When he finished, he added, "There's one other
group we can't overlook."

Catching the edge in Upton's tone, Cameron glanced up from the legal pad. "Oh?"

"The people who had agent appointments with him. Especially the ones he actually met
with."

"Of course," Cameron agreed. "Maybe one of the saw or heard something."

"Or maybe one of them killed him."

He didn't understand what Upton was getting at. "Are you talking about that Ridgeway
woman? I thought she said he stood her up."

"So she said," Upton agreed. "But, that's not what I'm getting at. One person was so mad
at Tuck that he actually talked about killing him. Your son."

Cameron stared. "Brady? You've got to be kidding! You don't really think--?"

"The truth? No, I don't. I think he was just blowing off steam. But he can't be
overlooked. And anyone else who Tuck might have pissed off today. That includes all the people
who attended the morning session in the Aspen Room. Tuck was pretty transparent about his
hostility toward them."

Cameron slammed his pen down on the table. He knew Upton was right. He would have
to consider his own son a possible suspect. "What a mess!"

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Upton asked in a sympathetic tone. "I could
probably--"

"No, I'm the cop. This is my responsibility."

"We could let it sit, and let someone else from the Lakewood PD talk to him tomorrow.
There's no reason--"

"No, I'll do it. This can't wait. Whoever did it probably still has the victim's DNA traces
on him. We're going to need samples."

"Can you question your own son with the kind of objectivity the job requires?"

He stared unflinchingly at Upton. "Yes."

"Then I'll stay out of it. Besides, the way I see it, the odds are he had nothing to do with
it."

"How do you figure that?"

"The other murder. Even if Brady lost his temper and did what everyone else has always
wanted to do to Tuck, how does that explain Johnson?"

"It doesn't," Cameron said. "Maybe the two had nothing to do with one another."

"How likely is that? Especially if it turns out Tuck was killed with the stiletto."

"We won't know until the medical examiner studies the angles and depth of the stab
wounds. Or until we find the stiletto."

"Even so," Upton said, "You'll never convince me that two random, unconnected
murders occurred on the same day at the same hotel. We just have to figure out what connection
Robert Johnson had with Zachary Tuck."

"Any thoughts?"

"Not a clue. Not a single clue. I--" He glanced suddenly at his wrist watch. "Good Lord!
I'm supposed to be upstairs giving my speech!"

* * * *

Upton and Cameron reached the banquet room just as coffee was being served. They
made their way the head table.

As they approached, Ashley Wade jumped to his feet. "Was it Tuck?"

"It was," Upton answered.

"Oh, God!" Ashley said. "What happened?"

Upton started to say, "He was stabbed to death," but cut the words off.
You don't
give out information about the crime.
You never know what incriminating information a
murderer might let slip.
Not that
he suspected Ashley Wade of killing Tuck
.
It was just good procedure.
You learned more when you were listening than when
you were talking.

"I can't discuss it. I'm sorry, Ash."

"I can't believe this. Not Tuck. Not today. I've tried for years to find an agent."

"I know. You'll find another one."

"Do you think you should still give your speech?" Rena said. "Under the circumstances,
maybe it would be better to--"

"I have to. We need to go about our business as much as possible. Do you still feel up to
the task of introducing me?"

"Sure." She stood and walked toward the stage. A smile appeared on her face as she
approached the lectern. "Good evening. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Rena
Oberhaus, the chairperson for this year's convention. I'm the one responsible for all of this
snow."

That brought a titter amusement from the audience.

"First, I want to thank all of you for coming. Before I introduce the President of the
CFWA, there are a few people that I particularly want to thank for all of their help in planning
this shindig." After running through a list of names, Rena said, "And now our keynote speaker.
Arthur Upton is the creator of Frank Diamond, a new kind of hard-boiled private eye. His first
outing won him an Edgar nomination. His second book has been well received by both the critics
and the public..."

Upton stepped to the lectern, slightly embarrassed at the praise she had heaped upon
him. "You make me sound like Ghandi." The ripple of laughter that ran through the crowd helped
him relax. "As I'm sure all of you know, it's still snowing like crazy out there. Except for those of
you who are lucky enough to be driving HumVees, it looks like we're all going to be stranded
here for the night. Oh, sure, I know what you're thinking," he commented, growing more
confident as he spoke, "those CFWA folks will do anything to get us to come to the Sunday
morning sessions."

He paused for the laughter he knew his comment would bring.

"Actually, we understand that this is no laughing matter. The Marquis Hotel has
graciously agreed to provide accommodations for everyone who is stranded here. If you'll stop
down at the front desk sometime this evening, the manager will help get you situated."

A dozen members of the audience rose instantly and headed rapidly toward the
exits.

"I didn't mean during my speech," Upton protested. "If the rest of you are willing to wait
for half an hour, I'll keep my comments as brief as I can."

He launched into his prepared speech, abbreviating some of the vignettes he had been
planning to tell--tales of other writers' successes, which he hoped would inspire the audience
members to keep writing. After all, the point of these conventions was to inspire the struggling
writers, to give them some sense of belonging to a community. But somehow, in light of two
murders and an arson fire, it seemed to Upton that his stories had lost much of their luster and he
skipped over several of them. He spoke for less than twenty minutes.

Later, he couldn't remember what parts of his speech he had actually given and what he
had omitted.

* * * *

When Upton began delivering his speech, Cameron quietly slipped out of the room. He
had work to do. As he waited for the elevator, he called his wife, to let her know he was still
stranded at the Marquis Hotel and had no choice but to spend the night. He was careful to
mention only the blizzard as his reason for not coming home, discretely omitting the police
matters he was handling, so that she wouldn't spend the night worrying about him.

When he reached the main floor of the hotel, he headed directly toward the front desk.
He found a frazzled-looking Jimmy facing a long line of people hoping to snap up one of the
vacant rooms. Gently, he pushed his way to the front of the line.

"You'll have to wait your turn, sir," Jimmy said without looking up from his computer
screen.

"I don't need a room," Cameron said. "I just need a key to room 562."

"Five sixty-two? The room is occupied. I can't--"

Cameron lowered his voice. "Yes, you can, Jimmy. It's part of the matter you came to
see me about a while ago."

Jimmy finally glanced up, staring blankly at Cameron. "What the--oh!" he exclaimed.
"
That
matter."

"Right. I need a key."

"Sure. Of course. No problem."

Jimmy reached for a plastic card and inserted it into the coding machine. In ten seconds,
he handed the newly-created key to Cameron.

On the fifth floor, Cameron headed straight toward Tuck's room. He knocked and
strained his ears for any sign of activity. After half a minute, he knocked again, this time much
louder. Still nothing. He inserted the key in the slot, turned the handle and quickly shoved the
door open.

The room was dark. He fumbled to find the light switch. It was immediately obvious that
there was no one in the room.

It was equally apparent that someone had thoroughly searched the place.

Someone in a hurry, with no concern about tidiness.

A suitcase had been dumped on the floor, with no effort made to pick up the clothing
that had tumbled out. From the little Cameron had seen of Zachary Tuck, he was quite certain the
prissy literary agent hadn't left his room this way.

No, someone had taken the dead man's room key and made a frantic search of the room.
What were they looking for? And, had they found it?

In a corner of the room was a leather briefcase, its lid open. Cameron paged through the
papers inside. The only thing that seemed notable was a file marked, "Wade, Ashley." Cameron
opened the file. It contained a document entitled ,
Agency Agreement
, signed by
"Zachary Tuck, as agent for The Madeline Brogner Agency, Inc." There was an unsigned
signature line for Ashley Wade. Below the agreement was a manuscript written by Ashley Wade.
Cameron paged through it, long enough to figure out that it was a police procedural novel about a
series of jewelry store robberies.

From what he read, there was nothing even remotely similar to a murder at a writer's
convention or the murder of a literary agent.

Under the file folder was a yellow legal pad with notes that Tuck had evidently made
during his appointments with writers. Cameron glanced through the entries, written in a tight
cursive script. They seemed to consist entirely of insulting comments: nasty descriptions of the
way the author looked or smart aleck descriptions of the writer's work. He was beginning to
understand why everyone felt such animosity toward Zachary Tuck.

Cameron thumbed through the stack of papers scattered across the top of the dresser.
The top sheet bore the title,
Inequitable Conduct
,
by Thelma Ridgeway. He slid
the page aside, expecting to find the first chapter of the manuscript. Instead, he found half a
dozen pages from the middle of a story by another author, and then two more different sample
chapters from other aspiring authors, whose names he did not recognize. The type faces weren't
the same, and the headers at the top of the pages were different. As he scanned the sheets, he
realized that they had been scrambled, as though someone dropped the stack on the floor and
scooped it up without regard to which page belonged with which manuscript.

Or had someone deliberately mixed up the pages?

He shrugged. It would all get sorted out eventually. His weary brain was too tired to
make any sense out of the new facts. Instead, he went about the routine of documenting the
condition and contents of the room. He could practically do that on auto-pilot. Reaching for the
digital camera, he began taking pictures, making a slow panorama from his left to right and
noting on his legal pad what he intended to depict. He was getting pretty good at this, he
thought.

If he wasn't careful, he thought, he might get transferred to the Crime Lab.

Of course, worse things could happen to a cop.

When was the last time anyone heard of someone from the Crime Lab getting shot in the
line of duty? Meg would be relieved if he were out of the danger zone. He rubbed his chin,
thinking that maybe he ought to think of signing up for some night courses. He'd need science
classes, mostly. That had always been his weakest subject in school.

As he worked, something occurred to him. Brady had met with Tuck early in the
afternoon. The agent was so brutal that Brady had to blow off steam by pounding on a trash
receptacle. Cameron felt a pang of sympathy for his son.

But that wasn't the point. What mattered was that Brady had met with the agent.

So why wasn't Brady's name among the people listed on Tuck's yellow legal pad?

* * * *

Cameron slipped back into the banquet room just as Upton was finishing his speech.
Evidently it had gone well, because the crowd was applauding vigorously. He waited for the
noise to die down. Glancing at his wrist watch, he stifled a yawn. It was nearly ten o'clock.

The crowd began to move. Some of them headed toward the far end of the room, where
the book fair had been set up. Others began filtering out into the hallway. Many lingered at their
tables, sipping coffee or after dinner drinks.

Cameron worked his way into the room, moving against the tide. He could see the board
members moving
en masse
toward the author tables. They wouldn't be leaving any time
soon. He could talk to them later. Suzanne GP was already signing copies of her books.
Remembering her inscription on the book he found in Robert Johnson's room, Cameron made a
mental note to find out what she was writing.

He strained to catch sight of the person he sought. His pulse quickened when he caught
sight of his man, just getting in line to buy a book. Cameron pressed his way through the crowd.
His prey was reading the back cover of
A Far Cry
by Arthur Upton. The author, seated
behind the table, was watching the young man with more than casual interest.

Cameron said, "I heard you were at the convention."

"Yeah, I'm here." His son didn't look up from the book. "Do you have a problem with
that?"

"Why would I?"

Brady turned to confront him. "Yeah, why would you? It's a free country, isn't it? A man
can go anywhere he wants to."

"That's true. I hear you've got a knack for writing."

"Yeah? Where did you hear that? From Zachary Tuck?" He practically spat the
name.

"No," Cameron said with a gesture toward Upton, who at the moment was watching the
exchange with interest. "From the President of the Colorado Fiction Writers Association. He tells
me your writing shows promise."