To Sketch a Thief Read online

  She retraced her steps to the front of the house, passing first through the dining room, where a large oak table and six bulky chairs dominated the space, leaving no room for anything else. No need for further scrutiny there.

  The living room had far more potential. Rory made a careful circuit around it, really looking at everything for the first time. The furniture was old, but not yet shabby. The couch and two armchairs were done in cocoa-colored imitation suede, liberally decorated with Hobo’s fur. They were grouped around a rectangular oak cocktail table that was dust free, but marred by numerous fine scratches and a few deeper gouges. Half a dozen magazines were stacked on one end of the table, the top one a copy of Newsweek. Rory stepped closer to read the mailing label. The subscriber was Brenda Hartley, and since the address on the label matched the address of the house, Brenda was also likely to be the home owner. But there was still no way to be sure that she was the woman whose life had drained away on the kitchen floor. The victim could be another member of the family, or even a friend who’d stopped in to take care of Hobo while Brenda was at work or out of town.

  There was a small brick fireplace, its mantel crowded with photos in an assortment of sizes and frames. All but two of them featured Hobo and a tiny white mop of a dog with dark eyes and a topknot of fur tied up in a pink bow. Of the two remaining photos, one was a faded black-andwhite of a bridal couple, the other a group shot of four women wearing summer colors and broad smiles that had probably erupted into laughter a moment after the photo was snapped. Brenda was the second one from the left. It was hard to connect this vital Brenda with the woman who was lying dead just two rooms away.

  Rory was on her way back to the kitchen when a flash of movement in her peripheral vision brought her to an abrupt stop. She spun in that direction, her heart shifting into overdrive. Nothing was there. Maybe it had been a moth or a fly that had caught her attention. She looked around the room. For a moment nothing moved. Then brief snatches of color and texture flashed in front of her and one thing was certain—it wasn’t an insect.

  Bits of Zeke kept appearing then vanishing as if he were trapped in a transporter malfunction on the old Star Trek series. She couldn’t imagine how he was doing it, but one thing was certain—his timing was awful.

  “You have to stop this right now,” Rory said urgently to the empty room. There was no way to time her remarks to coincide with his brief appearances. She just hoped he could hear her and, more important, that he would listen.

  “The police will be here any minute. We’ll talk when I get home.” She held her breath and waited. To her relief, the room remained empty. If Zeke started popping in and out like a jack-in-the-box wherever she went, life was going to get a lot more complicated, but she didn’t have the time to dwell on the problem just then. She glanced at her watch. She might still have a few minutes before the police arrived.

  She made it back into the kitchen without further interruption. Since the room was small and already crowded with a breakfast table and four molded plastic chairs, as well as Brenda, Rory took up a position by the back door. From there she could see the entire room as well as the yard. She peered outside to check on Hobo. He was at the fence line, watering an arborvitae whose lower branches were already brown from his past attentions.

  She turned back to inspect the room. The counters were clean and uncluttered, with only an electric coffeemaker and a dish rack that contained a cup, several utensils and a pair of hot pink rubber gloves. But the kitchen table held some items of interest. There was a checkbook, a pen and a haphazard pile of papers that looked like bills. Brenda had probably been sitting at the table about to tackle those bills when she was interrupted by her assailant. One moment paying the mortgage was the most important issue of her day, the next it didn’t matter at all. It was dizzying how swiftly the currents of life could change.

  Rory debated the ethics of looking through the papers for the better part of a minute before she reached for one of the paper napkins that sat in a dog-shaped holder on the table. Draping the napkin over her thumb and index finger as a buffer, she managed to sift through the papers without actually touching them. There were bills from the electric company, the phone company and a place called Boomer’s Groomers, along with one from a Dr. Stanley Holbrook, who was most likely a veterinarian, since a cartoon dog and cat decorated his letterhead. It seemed Brenda had taken good care of her animals.

  Rory stuffed the napkin into the pocket of her jeans. She’d reached the limits of her investigation. She’d ask Leah to keep her posted as the case went forward. She felt strangely invested in it, maybe because she’d been the one to find Brenda or maybe because of poor, bereft Hobo. She was lost in these thoughts when a horrified scream jolted her nervous system with the power of a lightning strike.

  Chapter 3

  A heavyset woman in her forties, with pepper-and-salt hair as short as a man’s and a deep shelf of a bosom, stood frozen in the kitchen entryway. She’d run out of voice, but her mouth was still wide open. She clamped her plump hands over it as if she were afraid of what else might jump out.

  Rory saw the color drain out of her cheeks as she started to rock back on the heels of her flip-flops. For a woman of her girth, she had surprisingly slender legs and delicate ankles. Rory noted this as she was rushing toward her. She grabbed hold of the woman’s substantial forearm before she could rock backward again and overbalance. It was like playing tug-of-war with the law of gravity, and for a few hectic moments it seemed that gravity might win.

  Fortunately the pressure of Rory’s hand seemed to focus the woman, bringing her around like someone being awakened from a trance. Once she was in control of her faculties, she was able to help keep herself upright. Rory waited a few moments to make sure that her charge was no longer in danger of keeling over, before she maneuvered her out of the doorway and down the hall toward the front door. The woman rocked from side to side as she walked, as if she were trying to navigate the deck of a ship in heavy seas.

  “What happened to Brenda?” she asked breathlessly. “Where are you taking me?”

  “This is a crime scene, ma’am,” Rory said, “so we’re going to have to leave the premises and wait outside for the police.”

  The woman nodded, her double chin waggling, the leather tote on her arm swinging back and forth with each step like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

  When they were outside, Rory helped steady her as she sat down on the top step.

  “Can I get you some water?” she asked, remembering the unopened bottle in her car.

  The question didn’t seem to register with the woman, who was busy riding her own train of thought.

  Rory repeated the question.

  “No—yes—I mean . . . oh dear,” she said, struggling to regroup from the grisly scene in the kitchen. “No, no water. I don’t need water.”

  Rory had yet to meet anyone in this situation who actually needed water. Some of them would say yes to the offer, but after an initial sip would just hold on to the glass or bottle until someone else relieved them of it.

  “What happened to Brenda?” the woman asked, her cheeks beginning to pink up. “Is she . . . dead?” She whispered the word “dead” as if saying it aloud would give it too much power, make it more irrevocable than it already was.

  “Yes, I’m afraid she was gone when I got here,” Rory said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Right.” The woman bobbed her head, then looked up at Rory as if she were seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”

  “Rory McCain.” She held out her hand and the woman grasped it more as a lifeline than a handshake. Rory could feel her trembling, vibrating as if her whole body were a tuning fork. “How did you know Brenda, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Sugarman . . . Marti Sugarman. Brenda’s one of my closest friends . . . oh dear.” Her hand went to her mouth again. “I guess I should have said was. For more than ten years. In fact she called me just this morning and asked me to come over. Were you a
friend of hers too?”

  “No, I never actually met her,” Rory said, gently withdrawing her hand since it was becoming awkward to stand there, leaning over and holding hands with Marti. “I found Hobo wandering around near my house. When I saw the address on his ID tag I figured I’d bring him back.”

  “That was very nice of you,” Marti said, social conditioning kicking in on autopilot. “Hobo can be a handful, but . . . wait a minute, where’s Tootsie?”

  “Who’s Tootsie?”

  “Brenda’s Maltese.” Marti looked around the small front yard as if perhaps Tootsie might have been there all along and just escaped her notice.

  “I haven’t seen another dog since I’ve been here,” Rory said, flashing back to the photos on the mantel. So the little white dog with Hobo was a Maltese who presumably answered to the name of Tootsie.

  Marti’s eyes were filled with a new horror. “Do you think this was a dog abduction gone wrong?”

  “I think Tootsie probably just ran off like Hobo when the intruder left the door open,” Rory said. Why look for zebras when there were perfectly good horses around?

  Marti didn’t seem convinced; worry worked at the lines between her eyebrows. “I have a bad feeling about all this,” she murmured as the first police car turned onto the street, followed closely by an unmarked unit, both with sirens wailing.

  Rory wondered how it would have been possible to have a good feeling about her friend’s violent death, let alone her missing dog, but she chalked the remark up to shock. Surely Marti hadn’t meant it the way it sounded.

  The police cruiser pulled up to the curb and two uniformed cops jumped out, one of them holding a reel of yellow crime scene tape. The unmarked car swung into the driveway, coming to an abrupt stop inches from Rory’s Volvo, the rear half sticking out into the street. Two detectives emerged and conferred briefly with the patrolmen, who then began to set up a perimeter to protect the crime scene and keep the curious away.

  Rory met the detectives halfway down the walk. The older one was in the lead. Rory pegged him for maybe fifty, a hard fifty. He was tall and reedy, with hollowed cheeks that looked like he’d sucked a few too many lemons dry.

  “McCain?” he said, coming to a stop in front of her.

  “Rory McCain.” She nodded. “Detective Cirello?”

  “Can you show me some ID?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  Given the circumstances, Rory decided to let the snub go. After all, without ID she could claim to be anyone. For all he knew, she could be the killer. It wouldn’t be the first time that kind of thing had happened. And if the proverbial shoe were on the other foot, she might be just as wary.

  “I’m afraid I left it home,” she said, adding the short version of why she was at the crime scene.

  “Harvey, she’s the one headquarters vouched for,” the younger detective said. He had a thatch of red hair and the fullness of youth about his face. “She was with Homicide till a few months ago.”

  “Yeah, now I remember hearing about you on the news.” Harvey scowled at her. “Gave the department a bit of a black eye closing those cases by your lonesome.”

  “I just got lucky.” Rory shrugged, wondering what expression they’d wear if she told them she hadn’t done it alone, that she’d had help from a certain U.S. marshal who’d been dead for a century or so. “Besides, I was on the job at the time. My win was a win for all of us.”

  Harvey refused to be jollied. He turned his attention to Marti, who actually seemed to shrink under his scrutiny. “Who are you?”

  Marti heaved herself up and tottered down the steps to stand beside Rory. “I’m Martha Sugarman,” she said respectfully. “I was a friend of Brenda’s.”

  “Did Brenda have a last name?”

  “Well, yes; yes, of course she did,” Marti said, flustered by his sarcasm.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Hartley. Brenda Hartley.”

  “She was the single owner of the residence,” the young detective said. “I checked it out.”

  “Don’t know what I’d do without Danny Boy the computer geek,” Harvey said dryly.

  To Rory there was nothing good-natured in the ribbing. She’d had enough. She was about to tell Harvey what she thought of his social skills, but Danny caught her eye and, with the barest of head movements, made it clear that he didn’t want her to say anything.

  “Where’s the deceased?” Harvey went on, oblivious to the undercurrent swirling around him.

  “In the kitchen,” Rory said tightly, “exactly as I found her.” She’d be damned if she was going to be pleasant to this boor. She took less than a minute to tell him where she and Marti had been in the house and that she’d secured Hobo in the backyard.

  Harvey wagged his head as if he were tired of suffering the fools of the world and made his way up to the front door. “Hang around,” he threw over his shoulder as he walked inside. “Homicide’s gonna be here soon.”

  “Thanks for your help, ladies,” Danny murmured before following his partner into the house. He said it with the easy grace of one who’s had a lot of practice smoothing ruffled feathers.

  “I have to wait here for some other detectives?” A peevish tone had crept into Marti’s voice, and she was starting to sound more put out than saddened by her friend’s death.

  Rory nodded. “The detectives from Homicide will need to speak to us. If you have another appointment, you should cancel it A murder investigation takes precedence over pretty much everything else, short of a stroke or a heart attack.”

  Marti made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh and went back to her seat on the front stoop. Too restless to sit down, Rory walked around the side of the house to check on Hobo. He met her at the gate, tail wagging, butt wiggling with pleasure at seeing her. She was surprised by the enthusiasm of his greeting, until she realized that on this sad day she was the most familiar face around. Well, Marti was there of course, but either his nose hadn’t told him she was nearby or she wasn’t on his list of favorite humans.

  She hung out with him there, the chain-link fence between them making her feel like she was visiting a prisoner at a work camp. Ten minutes later she saw Leah’s unmarked car arrive, her partner Jeff riding shotgun. In spite of how much Rory enjoyed being self-employed, she sorely missed her closest friend. When she’d left the police department, they’d vowed to see each other regularly. But life had a habit of getting in the way, especially for Leah, who had a husband and three kids. So they did their best to enjoy whatever time they spent together, even if it was during the course of work.

  Leah walked across the lawn to Rory. She was wearing her business face, her wild curls pulled back in a sturdy clip. Off duty, Leah left her hair unfettered so that it framed her face and softened her angular features. She’d recently complained to Rory that the few gray hairs she’d had at thirty were well on their way to claiming dominion over the brown hair of her youth. Any day now she’d be joining the ranks of the dye dependent.

  The two women hugged and Rory provided her with what little information she had. By the time they’d walked back to the stoop, Jeff was done questioning Marti. He handed her his card in case she thought of anything else that might be helpful.

  “Why don’t you go on inside?” Leah said to him. “I’ll be right there.”

  “So that’s it?” Marti asked, glancing longingly at her green Highlander parked across the street.

  “Wait a minute,” Rory said. “What about Hobo? Do you think you could take him home for the night?”

  “Hobo?” she repeated, as if it were the strangest request she’d ever heard. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. No, no, that’s not a good idea at all.”

  “But he knows you and it doesn’t have to be a permanent thing. Just to get him over this rough spot. I’d hate to have to turn him over to Animal Control after what he’s been through today.”

  “He doesn’t get along with my dog,” Marti said, her mouth setting in
a stubborn line.

  “But surely you could manage for one night, considering the circumstances and all. I’m sure it’s what Brenda would have wanted,” Rory added, playing what she thought was her trump card.

  Marti wasn’t budging. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question,” she said, her words snapping like a flag in a high wind. “Am I allowed to go now?”

  Leah looked at Rory, who just shrugged. They couldn’t very well detain her until she broke down and agreed to take Hobo, even if the idea was somewhat appealing.

  “Yeah, you can go,” Leah told her.

  “Wouldn’t your dog like a playmate?” Rory asked her as they watched Marti toddle off in her flip-flops.

  “Not a chance, my friend. You had a better shot with Marti.”

  The CSI van arrived as Marti was pulling out. Other cars crawled by, the drivers trying to figure out what was going on in their neighborhood. A crowd of people had gathered on the lawn across the street, courtesy of the local gossip mill. Dinner and homework were forgotten. Kids threw Frisbees they could barely see in the waning light or ran after the last lightning bugs of the season. TV crews and reporters were suddenly swarming everywhere, like cicadas that had sprung straight from the ground. The police called in reinforcements. Brenda’s death had become an event.

  Cirello and his partner emerged from the house and headed back to their car.

  “I’d better get in there,” Leah said. “Why don’t you take the dog, Rory? He’d be good company for you.”