Unearthed

Officious and no-nonsense as ever, Krebs held up a hand as Molly got out of the limousine. A frown darkened the woman’s square-jawed face. Her short blond hair moved slightly in the breeze. “I’ll have to ask you to stay there, Mrs. Graham.”

“I want to see my husband.” Molly worked hard to keep the panic from her voice.

Krebs put one hand on her uniform belt and jerked her other thumb over her shoulder. “We can’t disturb the site of the shooting. I can assure you that he’s fine.”

“He told me that much over the phone.”

Krebs shook her head. “Mr. Graham is being questioned. He shouldn’t be giving out information over his mobile.” She reached for the walkie-talkie at her belt.

Exasperated, Molly leaned a hip against the limousine.

The locals had turned out by the dozens. They stood just beyond the yellow tape and collapsible sawhorses used to mark the scene. All of them talked and gestured, pointing to the parking area.

A man’s body lay sprawled across the small lot but Molly had lost sight of Michael. Then she spotted Paddington. The Detective Chief Inspector was a large man but carried his weight well because he was broad shouldered. He paced in front of a Jaguar that looked suspiciously like Aleister Crowe’s and pulled at his fierce mustache. The inspector was in quite the mood, just as Michael had said.

“Does anyone know the identity of the man that was shot?” Molly asked Krebs, amazed she was calm enough to pose such a question.

Krebs pursed her lips before answering. “That’s police business, Mrs. Graham. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” Her eyes locked on Nanny Myrie. “Is this Mr. Wallace’s family?”

“His grandmother, yes. Mrs. Nanny Myrie.”

A moment passed as Krebs considered the situation. “I think it would be a good idea if you and Mrs. Myrie went into the hospital. I know the inspector will want to talk to you, Mrs. Myrie.” The sergeant lifted the crime-scene tape. “Come along now.”

Talk to us or grill us? Molly wondered. Based on past experience with the inspector, she knew Paddington tended toward surly when upset. Reluctantly, Molly guided Nanny under the tape and toward the hospital.

PERCHED ON THE EDGE of Paddington’s car fender, Michael was glad most of his panic had subsided. Residual adrenaline still made his hands shake, but for the most part he was again in control of himself. He’d examined the knife wound and judged it to be minor, the bleeding already stopped.

“You’re sure you’ve never seen the dead man before today?” Paddington stood in front of Michael. The effort it took for the man to remain still made him almost vibrate. He kept his hands busy with his pipe.

“I’m sure.”

“But he knew Rohan Wallace.”

“He knew Rohan’s name. He called him ‘mate.’ But I couldn’t testify to how close their relationship was.”

Paddington puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “He said Rohan left him hanging?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“And that people were looking for him?”

“Yes.” Michael was conscious of the microrecorder in the inspector’s pocket. He felt sick, and his awareness of the body lying only a short distance away felt more and more disturbing.

“He didn’t happen to say why they were looking for him?”

Michael gestured at his bruised face. “There wasn’t much time for chatting, Inspector. I walked in on him and he made to leave. I tried to stop him.”

“Why would you do that, Mr. Graham? You could just as easily have allowed him to go.”

Surprised, Michael considered that. Then he thought about why the inspector might have asked the question and pointed out the option. “I want to know what happened to Rohan. That man, whoever he was, offered an opportunity to find out.”

“What made you so sure of that?”

“I wasn’t. We didn’t get very far into the discussion when he pulled a knife on me. A switchblade. You’ll find it under Rohan’s bed.”

Paddington glanced at one of the policemen beside him. “Be a good lad and go secure that weapon.”

The policeman nodded and left.

Paddington swiveled his gaze back to Michael. “Rohan Wallace was shot while burgling the Crowe home.”

“I’m not satisfied that’s the whole truth of the matter.”

A short distance away, Aleister Crowe slid off his vehicle and approached Michael, thrusting an angry finger in his direction. “What are you trying to say? That I deliberately shot a man with no justification?”

Blood boiling with renewed anger, Michael stood and faced Crowe. “Did you?”

“No.”

“No one found a weapon on Rohan that night, Crowe.”

“You can strangle a man with your bare hands while he’s sleeping.”

“It’s not as fast as shooting people, though, is it?”

Crowe took another step forward and Michael automatically raised his hands in defense.

Quick as a fox, Crowe’s blond companion stepped between Michael and Crowe and held Crowe back. “Aleister. Aleister. Listen to me. You’re not doing yourself any good here. Let it go.”

Paddington had placed a big hand in the middle of Michael’s chest, but focused on the blond man. “Who are you?”

“Lockwood Nightingale.”

“What business did you have here today, Mr. Nightingale?”

“I’m a friend of Mr. Crowe’s.”

“Really?”

Breathing hard, Michael retreated to Paddington’s car.

Paddington shifted his attention to Crowe. “You often meet your friends at the hospital, Mr. Crowe?”

“I was here on business, Inspector.” Nightingale straightened his jacket and smiled.

“What business might that be?”

Crowe leaned in, his face tight with anger. “My business, and none of yours.”