20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,9

for a go-ahead. Uniforms taped off the walkway to the house and set up a secondary perimeter, kept traffic moving. The front door of the house at 181 San Anselmo Avenue opened, and Charles Clapper, the CSI director, stepped out and waved us in.

Conklin and I started up the walk—but were stopped by high-pitched screams. Two young children, a girl of about four and a boy of maybe six, both in pajamas, tore out of the backyard and crossed the lawn toward the street. Conklin and I captured them, while a pretty woman in a pink, bloodstained tunic over jeans called out, “Christopher. DeeDee. Come to Gretchen right now.”

DeeDee had wrapped herself around my knees. I picked up the little girl and she hugged my neck, hard. Rich held on to her bawling bigger brother until their nanny, also crying, disentangled them and gathered them to her.

Conklin introduced the nanny, Gretchen Linder, who was distraught. Very.

“We’re not allowed—that man told us to sit outside and wait. This is—oh, my God. Their parents. These poor kids. I saw Ramona die. I saw … I’m in charge of them. I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Should I take them to my place?”

It was kind of her to want to take the children home. But that wouldn’t happen.

Richie said, “We need to take your statement. See that gray Ford next to the ambulance? What do you say I take you all to the police station? We’ll figure out what’s best for the kids, short term. And you can help us figure out what happened here.”

Linder nodded. She put her hands over her eyes and sobbed, then wiped her face with her sleeve.

With Richie right behind her, she shepherded the children to the squad car.

CHAPTER 15

“I’VE NEVER SEEN a room like this inside a house,” I said to Clapper.

Clapper and I stood together in the foyer of the Barons’ house, staring into a screening room that took up most of the ground floor. Wall fixtures threw soft light on a half dozen sectionals arranged in a horseshoe angled toward the wall of large TV screens. Photos of Paul Baron with entertainers he’d produced hung over the back bar.

I said, “It feels corporate.”

“Like a first-class airport lounge.”

At the far end of the screening room, two pairs of wide-open French doors revealed an open-space family/kitchen/ dining room, remains of breakfast still on the table.

I asked, “Where was the point of entry?”

Clapper shook his head and said, “The doors and windows were all secured, except the front door. The nanny opened that and shut off the alarm.”

“What, then? An inside job?”

Charlie Clapper is not only a former homicide investigator, but he’s a meticulous CSI. He said, “Here’s what I know so far.

“The basement level is the recording studio, accessed by the elevator over there,” he said, pointing to the door under the rising staircase, “and the stairs at the back of the kitchen.”

He continued, “The studio is like a big, soundproof safe with professional recording equipment. No windows. A fire door with a bar lock leads to the outside. Air comes through vents from up here. There’s no way to get into that room from the outside unless someone opens the door for you.”

“So you’re thinking someone let the killer in?”

“Patience, Boxer. Let’s go upstairs. Four bedrooms and baths, and the Barons had an office off the master. That’s where they were shot dead, one bullet each.”

“Murder-suicide?”

“Crossed my mind, but there’s no weapon in the room.”

“A locked-room murder mystery in real life?”

Clapper grinned. “Hello, Agatha Christie. But I don’t think so. You met Gretchen Linder?”

“Conklin’s taking her and the kids back to the Hall.”

Clapper said, “Here’s what she told me. That she came to work this morning, quarter to nine on the dot as always. Front door was locked. She used her key and disarmed the alarm. Called out, ‘Hellooooo.’ No answer. She didn’t see the kids, or anyone, so she went upstairs. Ramona was still breathing. Gretchen called 911. By the time we arrived, Ramona had expired. I kept the EMTs from destroying the scene. From the temperature of Paul’s body, I’d say he was shot at around eight thirty, give or take. Likely the shooter knew when the nanny was due to arrive.”

I said, “How about giving me the tour?”

Together Clapper and I climbed a winding staircase, walked down a long hallway, passing open doors to the kids’ rooms, bedrooms, and baths.

Clapper paused at the entrance to an open room at the end