officer had been among the best and his solve rate as a detective had been exceptional, but those successes didn’t stop the butterflies from flapping in Roger’s stomach as he approached the scene of his first murder case.
A section of the parking lot had been cordoned off for official vehicles, and a uniformed officer showed Quinlan where to park. As Roger followed his partner up the steps and through the front door of the club, he nervously adjusted his tie and pulled down on his jacket.
“Hey, Garrity,” Quinlan said to a young officer who was stationed in the club lobby. “Where’s the scene of the crime?”
Garrity threw a thumb over his shoulder. Quinlan and Dillon walked by a policewoman who was taking down a statement from a distraught middle-aged man and down an oak-paneled hallway crowded with forensic experts. A door was open at the end of the hall. An officer handed the detectives Tyvek suits, booties, and surgical masks. Dillon put on all three, but Quinlan carried his mask in his hand. When the detectives walked through the anteroom, they saw Dr. Max Rothstein, the state medical examiner, bent over the body of a young woman. His face was partially concealed by a surgical mask.
“What have you got for us, Doc?” Quinlan asked.
“Put on your mask, Morris. I won’t know for certain until I get the toxicology report, but I smelled a bitter almond odor when I got close to the victim, so I’m putting my money on cyanide poisoning. You can develop clinically significant cyanide concentrations by inhaling cyanide gas from the body of a victim.”
“Got it,” Quinlan said as he slipped on his mask.
“Who’s the victim?” Dillon asked.
“Sophie Randall.”
“Is this her office?”
“Her boss’s. She’s his secretary.”
“How was she poisoned?” Quinlan asked.
“See that box of candy on her desk?” Dr. Rothstein answered.
The men looked. A lab tech was taking photographs of the box.
“Two pieces are missing. Samuel Moser, Randall’s boss, received the candy as a gift from an unknown person. He’s on a diet so he gave the candy to Mrs. Randall. Moments after she ate the candy, she came into this office, went into convulsions, and died. I’m betting we’ll find cyanide in the candy.”
“We passed a heavyset guy in a suit at the end of the hall. Is that Moser?”
Rothstein nodded. “He saw Mrs. Randall die and he’s really upset, so go easy on him.”
“Got it. We’ll get out of your hair. Let me know as soon as you have more on the cause of death.”
The detectives discarded their Tyvek suits and walked back toward the lobby.
“Hi, Gloria,” Quinlan said to the policewoman who was taking Moser’s statement. “We’d like to talk to Mr. Moser. Are you about done?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Moser, I’m Morris Quinlan and this is Roger Dillon. We’re with Homicide. Is there someplace quiet where we can talk, an office or conference room?”
“There’s a conference room on the second floor.”
“Okay. Lead the way.”
Moser walked toward the stairs with Quinlan following and Dillon bringing up the rear. Dillon was about to climb the stairs when Quinlan swore so quietly that only Dillon heard him.
A deputy district attorney was always assigned to a homicide as soon as possible to observe the crime scene. Dillon turned and saw a short man with styled blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a thin mustache walking toward them. As soon as Dillon recognized Peter Ragland, he knew why his partner was upset.
Ragland spotted Quinlan and waved.
“What are you doing here, Pete?” Quinlan asked.
“I’m a member of the Westmont, Morris. When the boss heard there was a homicide at the club, I was the natural pick to handle the case.”
Moser turned when he heard Quinlan speak to Ragland.
“Mr. Moser,” Quinlan said, “this is Deputy District Attorney Peter Ragland.”
“No need for an introduction, is there, Sam?” Ragland said. “Fill me in. What have we got here?”
“Mr. Moser’s secretary, Sophie Randall, was poisoned and we’re going upstairs to get some background.”
“It looks like I got here just in time.”
Ragland followed the trio, and a few minutes later, the four men were seated at one end of a long oak table.
“How are you doing?” Quinlan asked Moser.
“Not great.”
“I noticed what looks like a liquor cabinet when we walked in. Any chance there’s a bottle of Scotch in there?”
Moser flashed a sad smile. “Yes, but that’s not necessary. Ask your questions.”
“Okay. So, what’s your position at the Westmont Country Club?”
“I manage the Westmont.”
“What’s that entail?”
Quinlan didn’t care about Moser’s duties, but he hoped that leading him