Whiskey Beach(127)
She opened her briefcase, took out a file. “As you know, the Suskinds recently separated. I figured she might change her tune now that the marriage is going under. I talked to her yesterday. She’s bitter, she’s tired, she’s done with the husband and the marriage, but she doesn’t change her story.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Well, if you cheat with one, maybe you cheat with others. Maybe another lover isn’t happy about her and Suskind, or maybe another wife confronts her. I haven’t found anybody yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. Mind?” Sherrilyn asked, and gestured to the coffeemaker.
“No, sure.”
“I’d make it myself, but that machine looks like I’d need a training manual.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks. So you’ll see—and I believe your previous investigator reported—she didn’t always use a credit card for rooms. Sometimes she used cash, and that’s hard to track.
“At this point we have witnesses who’ve identified Justin Suskind as her companion in several locations. Now we look for some that identify someone else.”
He brought the fresh coffee back, sat again to skim through the files while Sherrilyn talked.
“She let her killer into the house. Turned her back on him. She knew who killed her, so we look at who she knew. BPD was thorough, but they liked you for it, and the lead investigator was dug in hard on that.”
“Wolfe.”
“He’s a bulldog. You fit the bill for him. I can see where he’s coming from. And you’re a criminal defense attorney. That’s the enemy. He busts his ass to take bad guys off the street, you line your pockets getting them back out.”
“Black and white.”
“I was a cop for five years before I went private.” Cupping the coffee in both hands, she leaned back to enjoy it. “I see plenty of gray, but it’s a pisser when some hotshot suit gets an asshole a pass on some technicality or because he’s got good style with some fancy tap dance. Wolfe looks at you, he sees rich, privileged, spoiled, conniving and guilty. He built a damn good circumstantial case, but he couldn’t shoot it home. Now here you are in Whiskey Beach, and before you know it, there’s another murder on your doorstep.”
“Now you’re not sounding like my lawyer. You sound like a cop.”
“I have many voices,” she said easily.
She took out another file, set it on the counter. “Kirby Duncan. He was basically a one-man operation, kept it low-key, and low-tech. He wasn’t bargain basement, but you’d find him on the sale rack. Cops liked him. He’d been one of them and he played things pretty straight. Wolfe knew him, was friendly with him, and he’s pissed off he can’t pin this on you, then boomerang off it to circle your wife’s death back on you.”
“I got that, loud and clear,” Eli agreed.
“But in this case, none of it fits. Duncan wasn’t an idiot, and he wouldn’t have met the guy he was shadowing alone, in a deserted area. Unless he got a wild hair to go to the lighthouse at night in the middle of a storm, he went to meet someone and most likely someone he knew. And someone killed him. You’re alibied, and there’s absolutely nothing to indicate you and Duncan ever met or spoke. Nothing to indicate you hauled your butt from Boston, where it’s confirmed you were when Abra Walsh was assaulted here in this house, then arranged to meet Duncan, killed him, then hauled back to Boston to toss his office, his apartment, then hauled back here again. Nobody’s buying that.”
“Wolfe—”
Sherrilyn shook her head. “I’m not sure even Wolfe can swallow it, as hard as he might try. Now if he can tie Walsh to it somehow so you had help, or find you contacted an accessory in Boston to do that end, that would go down.”
“Someone planted the murder weapon in Abra’s house.”
“What?” She straightened up, her eyes as sharp and annoyed as her tone. “Why the hell didn’t I know about this?”
“I’m sorry. I just found out myself Monday.”
Mouth grim, she took a notebook and pen out of her briefcase. “Give me the rundown.”
He told her what he knew, watched her write her notes in what he thought of as cop shorthand.
“Sloppy frame-up,” she concluded. “Whoever did it is impulsive, disorganized and maybe a little stupid.”
“He murdered a seasoned investigator, and so far he’s gotten away with it.”
“Even stupid can be lucky. I’d like to see this cottage before I go back to Boston.”
“I’ll ask Abra.”