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Wanting Sheila Dead(23)

By:Jane Haddam


“You’re American,” Gregor said blandly.

“I was born in Yerevan,” Mrs. Vardanian said, “and so was Sophie. And I told you this morning that something was wrong. I told you.”

“She did tell me,” Gregor admitted. He pointed across to the other two of the Very Old Ladies. “The three of them did. Apparently, they’ve been watching this other woman, the one we found in there with the body, go in and out, and—”

“For God’s sake,” somebody said from inside the house, very loudly.

Gregor and the crowd all turned to look in unison. All of a sudden, there was a fury of activity. People were running in and out of the house. Somebody climbed into the ambulance and started up first the motor, and then the lights and sirens. Two uniformed police officers raced out of the house into the crowd and started clearing the street.

“Let’s get a pathway, let’s get a pathway,” one of them said. His voice sounded loud enough to be coming out of a bullhorn, although it wasn’t.

“I wonder what’s happening,” Bennis said.

“My guess,” Gregor said, “is that we don’t have a murder quite yet.”

There was another flurry of activity, and four paramedics came down the stairs carrying a gurney with a woman strapped to it. She had an oxygen mask over her face.

“She’s alive?” Mrs. Vardanian asked, sounding stunned. “She was dead. Dead on the floor. We all saw her.”

They had done more than see her. Gregor had actually tried to take a pulse while they were waiting for the paramedics to arrive. He hadn’t gotten one, or at least he hadn’t detected one. He felt like an idiot.

“I’m not trained for this,” he told David Mortimer. “I tried to see if she were alive, but I couldn’t get anything in the way of a pulse, so I just assumed—”

They all watched as the screaming ambulance edged through the crowd. Police were now running up and down the block and onto the next one, pushing people back onto the sidewalk. Three other police cars had arrived and blocked off the side streets so that the ambulance would have a clear path. The crowd was doing what crowds do. It got back on the sidewalk. It fell off again.

The ambulance let out a long series of screaming wails at a volume Gregor thought must be something new, and then it was free, careening off into the street with all its lights going and an equally lit and screaming police car following it.

Gregor looked at David Mortimer. “There’s another woman in there,” he said. “She was just standing there.”

David Mortimer jerked his head in the direction of the door and began to move. Gregor followed him. Everybody in the city knew John Jackman’s aides. Nobody bothered them. David Mortimer led Gregor through the little clusters of police officers as easily as if the scene had been entirely unpopulated.

When they got in through the front door, Gregor saw that the woman he had first seen standing over the body was still there, and still standing. There were half a dozen police officers standing in front of her, but she did not looked worried, or frightened, or—anything. She looked blank.

David Mortimer went up to one of the police officers and whispered in his ear. The police officer turned around and held out his hand.

“Mr. Demarkian,” he said. “I’m Officer Kelsowicz. I’m glad to meet you.”

“What’s going on with the woman?”

“We don’t know.” It was another officer, a woman. She didn’t offer her name. “We’ve been trying to talk to her,” she said. “She seems to be drugged, or maybe mentally ill. It’s hard to tell.”

“Do you think anyone would mind?” Gregor asked.

“Oh, no,” Officer Kelsowicz said. He put his hand out and tapped the officer nearest the old woman on the shoulder. When the officer turned, Kelsowicz said, “It’s Gregor Demarkian. He wants to try to talk to her.”

“Gregor Demarkian,” the third officer said.

A fourth officer looked around. “That’s Mortimer from the Mayor’s Office,” he said.

“But it’s Gregor Demarkian,” Officer Kelsowicz said.

Gregor stepped forward and put an end to the confusion. Now that he was up close and paying attention, he could see that the woman was not only old and shabby, but very clean, shiny clean, as if everything about her—her clothes, her body, her hair—had been newly washed and sort of polished. She was wearing some kind of perfume, or cologne, too. It smelled like flowers, but not any particular one.

Gregor held out his hand. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Gregor Demarkian. It’s very nice to meet you.”