Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,35

from the second floor.

A uniformed officer stood guard at the foot of the stairway. Against the showy backdrop, he was a disturbing reminder that life wasn’t always pretty or pleasing.

Rosco approached the cop. “Hey, Jerry. Lever’s expecting me.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Is there somewhere Belle can wait for me?”

The officer pointed toward a door from which the sound of voices rose. “The family’s in that living room there. The rest of the house is off-limits to everyone but the maid until the crime scene boys finish up.”

“Thanks.”

Belle and Rosco turned toward the room, and as they did Todd Collins emerged. His eyes were red and swollen with tears, his face was a waxy white, and his limp also seemed more prominent as though grief were bearing down on his bones.

“Rosco! Thank heavens you’re here!” He slapped his bad leg. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but our get-together slipped my mind completely.” He paused and squared his shoulders. “I’ve been pulling my hair out all morning. These damn detectives! I can’t get jack out of them. They won’t even let me go back in there to be with Ryan. Do you hold any sway with these clowns?”

“I’m on my way up there now, Mr. Collins,” Rosco said. He made no attempt to soften the edginess that had found its way into his voice. “Al Lever’s a friend of mine. Clown isn’t a word I’d use to describe him.”

In his distressed state Collins missed the sharpness of Rosco’s reply. In fact, his sorrow only served to heighten his inflexibility and resolve. “Good. Consider yourself hired. I want to know what’s going on in that room up there. I want the creep who killed Ryan strung up by his fingernails. I don’t care what it costs. Friend or no friend, cops don’t move fast enough for me. I want answers, and I want them now.”

“That’s all well and good, Mr. Collins, and I’m more than happy to help uncover your answers, but I’m afraid I can’t accept any money from you or be considered under your employment. It would be a conflict of interest.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been hired by the Dartmouth Group to investigate the stable fire. I can’t ethically accept employment from any of the principles in that case—”

“What?” Collins nearly shouted. “You think I burned down my own stable?”

Rosco held up his hands. “I’m not saying that, Mr. Collins.”

“Well, you better damn well not be implying anything like it!” A sob wracked his chest and broke up the words.

“I understand how upset you are, sir. And I recognize the fact that you want answers—”

“And pronto!” Todd barked out. “That’s my wife who’s lying dead up there!”

“Yes, sir. I understand that,” Rosco continued. “I can only repeat that this is a sticky situation. However, whether or not I can accept employment from you doesn’t mean I won’t do everything in my power to help apprehend the person who attacked your wife.”

The statement seemed to calm Todd a bit. After a long moment of silence, he gave a decisive nod. “Okay, I see what you’re getting at. I appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Good . . . I was wondering if Belle might be able to wait in the living room with your family while I take a look around upstairs? I shouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

A weak smile found its way to his lips. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry. In all of this ugliness I didn’t think; here I am standing next to my favorite crossword puzzle person.” He offered his hand to Belle. “This was my whole reason in having you out to King Wenstarin Farms—to meet the infallible Annabella Graham.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Belle said, and followed it with a sympathetic, “This is just horrible, sir. My deepest sympathies.”

Todd led Belle into the living room, and Rosco crossed back over to the police officer.

“Pretty gruesome up there?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it’s a good one.”

CHAPTER

13

“Left at the top of the stairs,” the uniformed officer told Rosco as he passed. “Then down the hallway. Just follow your nose.”

Rosco climbed the long staircase, but when he reached the landing he realized the cop’s directions had been immaterial. Outside the entry to one of the bedrooms, the hall was buzzing with activity. A police photographer was in the process of packing up her equipment, a member of Abe Jones’s forensics team was lifting fingerprints from the door jamb, and another was moving