Dennis Flynn was in his late forties, pudgy in build, average in height, with a round, jolly face that belonged on either an Irish priest or an Irish con artist. And yet, there was something about him that inspired confidence—and confidences, which Sloan assumed was probably why he'd been called out on this job.
Andy Cagle was his opposite. In his late twenties, Cagle was tall and thin, with a narrow face dominated by a pair of thick, studious-looking glasses that he was constantly pushing back up onto the bridge of his nose. There was a self-conscious awkwardness in everything he did. He actually apologized to Sloan three times for having to bother her with questions about her name and address and where she'd been that night. He looked like the sort of reticent, naive boy-man who would rather apologize than disagree and who wouldn't know a lie if he was introduced to it by name. Sloan suspected he was actually the keener and more formidable of the two detectives.
Since Paul had instructed her to stick with their cover story, half of what Sloan told Detective Cagle had been a lie, but under the circumstances it made little difference whether she was an interior designer on vacation or a police detective working with the FBI: Edith Reynolds was dead either way. If Sloan had stayed home, Edith might still be alive. Sloan's only feeble consolation, and one she clung to, was that her great-grandmother had not suffered.
"Mr. Reynolds," Flynn began, "you said you got home around eleven P.M.?"
Sloan watched Carter's hand shake as he raked his hair back off his forehead. He was white-faced with shock, and her heart softened just a little toward him. Edith couldn't have been easy to live with, but he was clearly overwrought by the way she'd died. He nodded in answer to Flynn's question and cleared his throat. "That's right I played poker with a group of friends until ten-forty-five. I drove straight home; that takes about fifteen minutes. I parked my car in the garage; then I went up to bed."
"Now, think carefully. When you drove up to the house, did you notice any vehicles parked on the street or notice anything suspicious at all?"
"You asked me that earlier, and I've been trying to think. It seems to me I saw a white van parked down the street."
"What did you notice about it?"
"Only that I'd seen a van like that there before one day this week."
Flynn nodded and made another note in his pad.
"You said you drove into the garage. There are four rear entrances into the house—one enters the kitchen from the garage and one enters the kitchen from the back lawn. The other two also open into the backyard but from different rooms. After you parked in the garage, which entrance did you use?"
Carter looked at him as if he were an imbecile. "I used the door in the garage that opens into the kitchen, of course."
Unruffled by Carter's attitude, Detective Flynn made a note on his pad.
"Did you pass by the room where the victim was found on your way to your bedroom or hear any sounds in there?"
"No. I walked out of the kitchen and toward the staircase, then upstairs."
"Was it customary for Mrs. Reynolds to be alone in that room, with the door closed, in the evening?"
"Not with the door closed, but she liked that room in the evening because it looks out on the lawn, and it has a television set with a very large screen. She didn't like the solarium at night because she had to turn on so many lights in order to make it pleasant." Carter was sitting with his forearms propped on his knees, his hands folded, but now he put his head in his hands as if he couldn't bear the memory of what she had been like only a few hours before.
"Would you say it was customary for her to sit in there then, with the drapes open?"
He nodded.
"So if someone were watching the house from the beach, they would be able to ascertain that?"
His head jerked up. "Are you suggesting some psychopath has been lurking around here, night after night, waiting for a chance to murder her?"
"It's possible. Was Mrs. Reynolds handicapped in any way?"
"She was ninety-five years old. That's a handicap in itself"
"But she was able to walk?"
Carter nodded. "She got around extremely well for her age."
"How was her eyesight?"
"She needed thick glasses to read, but she's needed those for as long as I can remember."
"Was she hard-of-hearing?"
He swallowed audibly. "Only when she wanted to be. Why are you asking all this?"
"It's standard."
Flynn was lying, and Sloan knew it. Alarm bells had started ringing in her head as soon as Hocklin mentioned a broken window in the study. Edith should have been able to hear or see something that would have alerted her that someone was breaking in, and she'd have tried to flee. But she hadn't. When Sloan found her, she'd been lying facedown on the sofa. On the other hand, Sloan knew her joints were stiff and sometimes it took her a long time to stand up. Maybe she'd tried but couldn't do it in time. Either way Flynn and Cagle should know about her limitation. "Mrs. Reynolds had arthritis," Sloan said carefully, drawing Flynn and Cagle's instant attention. "I know that's not exactly a handicap, but it bothered her badly at times and made it especially hard for her to stand up if she felt stiff."
"I'm glad you thought to mention that, Miss Reynolds," Hocklin said quickly. "It could be helpful. Thank you."
She glanced at Paul, who was seated across from her on a sofa with Noah, to see how Paul was reacting to her having provided information the detectives hadn't thought to ask for. Paul was watching Paris, his expression as unreadable as it was intent.
Noah caught her eye and gave her a smile of quiet encouragement and support, and she wished devoutly that she could put her head on his broad shoulder and weep. She was a cop, and yet she hadn't been able to prevent a member of her own family from being murdered. She was a cop, schooled to notice anything suspicious off duty or on, and yet she'd quite possibly strolled within a few yards of Edith's murderer when she left the house for the beach, and she hadn't noticed anything.
"Miss Reynolds," Flynn said, looking at Paris after reviewing his notes. "You said you took some migraine medication in the afternoon and woke up around ten. Do you know what woke you up?"
"No. I'd been sleeping for hours, and the pills were probably wearing off."
"After you woke up, what did you do?"
"I told you—I felt like getting some air, and I went out onto the balcony."
"Did you see anything suspicious?"