“Don’t call the police,” Rick said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Rick, we don’t want the corpse to get much colder, and it’s not a good idea to cover this up. We’ll call the police in fifteen minutes. You get here as fast as you can, and I’ll see what I can learn in the meantime.”
“I’m on my way.” He hung up.
“You stay here,” Stone said to Mirabelle, “while I go downstairs and do some things. In fifteen minutes call the police, not your brother. After the first call, then your brother. He’ll want everything to have been done by the book.”
She nodded, pulled a sweater over her head, then sat down on the bed.
“It might do you good to lie down until they get here, but don’t fall asleep. When they arrive, answer their questions truthfully.”
“All right.” She glanced at the bedside clock, then stretched out on the bed.
Stone pulled on some clothes and went downstairs. He turned on all the lights he could find in the room, including the one over the stove, then he looked under the kitchen sink and found some rubber dishwashing gloves and put them on. He walked over to the corpse and stood astride it, staring at the face. He hadn’t seen the man before. He appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties. No scars. He pulled up the black sweatshirt and checked the abdomen. Flat, no scars or tattoos. He pushed back the lips and looked at the teeth. All of them were white, even, very handsome. He bent over and felt the pockets of his trousers: empty. He reached under the corpse and felt the hip pockets: still nothing. He found an empty holster on the belt in the small of the back. He looked at the man’s hands: no rings or tattoos. A cheap wristwatch on the right wrist. Nothing hanging around the neck. No ID of any kind. The man was a pro; the question was: What kind of a pro? Burglar? Assassin?
Stone returned the gloves to the cabinet under the sink, then went back upstairs. Mirabelle seemed to be sleeping. He stroked her pale face, and she jerked awake. “Time to call the police,” he said.
15
Rick LaRose, amazingly, got there first, wearing jeans and a sweater, looking interested, but unflustered. He took off his shoes and walked around the corpse in his stocking feet. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he? What have you learned?” he asked Stone.
“Caucasian male, mid-thirties, six feet, a hundred and eighty, very fit, either extensive and expensive dental work or the most perfect natural teeth you’ve ever seen. No identifying marks, tattoos, or scars. No ID, no indication of nationality, had a manicure recently, no possessions, except a pistol, a holster, an extra magazine, the tool bag on the doormat, and a cheap wristwatch. Wears the wristwatch on the right wrist but is right-handed.”
“Why do you think he’s right-handed?”
“Because that’s the hand that went for the gun.”
Rick took another good look at the corpse. “Well observed,” he said. “Part of you is still a cop.”
“Always will be.”
A claxon could be heard approaching from a distance, getting louder. Then it got softer.
“He’s missed the drive,” Stone said.
The claxon got louder again, then found the driveway and a car and an ambulance pulled into the forecourt, lights flashing.
“What an entrance!” Rick said, laughing. “It might be Inspector Clouseau!”
The gendarmes were quiet, quick, and all business.
Before they could speak Rick showed them an ID and jerked a thumb toward Stone and said something in French.