“As a precaution, that’s all. You had a stalker, and your husband’s been murdered.”
“Do whatever you think is necessary.”
McCord looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “I’ll see if Detective Shrader is finished.”
Detective Shrader was not only finished, he was enjoying a cup of coffee and a homemade biscuit while the chauffeur chatted with him about football.
The three detectives rode down in the elevator in silence. For security purposes all visitors to the Mannings’ building were required to register in a large book when they arrived and to sign out when they departed. The keeper of the visitors’ register was an elderly uniformed doorman, whose name tag identified him as “Horace.” He was seated at a curved, black marble desk in the center of the lobby. “Such a shame about Mr. Manning,” Horace said, handing Shrader a pen so that he could sign all three of them out in the big leather-bound book he’d signed them in on earlier.
Instead of taking the pen, Shrader took the book and handed the doorman a folded subpoena. “This subpoena allows us to take this item into evidence,” he told the startled doorman. “Do you have another book that you can use?”
“Well, yes—but we aren’t supposed to start using it until January, and this is only December.”
“Start using the new one right away,” Shrader ordered. “And if anyone asks what happened to this one, just say someone spilled something on it. Can you do that?”
“Yes, but my boss—”
Shrader handed him his card. “Have your boss call me.”
Chapter 30
* * *
Shrader was driving, so Sam took the visitors’ book from him and slid into the backseat, letting McCord sit next to Shrader in the front. She had the book open before they pulled away from the curb, and she began looking through the names, beginning at November 1 and moving forward.
“What did you get from the housekeeper?” McCord asked Shrader.
“According to Hilda Brunner, the Mannings were a ‘perfect’ couple. No quarrels, not even an occasional spat. Mr. Manning came home late sometimes, but he always phoned, and he was always home by eleven or twelve at the latest. He’s taken a few short business trips. Mrs. Manning hasn’t spent a night away from home without him in the three years the Brunner woman has worked for them.
“She confirmed that Manning left the apartment on Sunday morning sometime around eight, and that he made two trips down to his car with items he was taking to the mountains. Among those items were two crystal glasses, a bottle of wine, a bottle of champagne, and . . .” He let the sentence hang for effect before he added with a grin of triumph, “two dark green sleeping bags. She’s sure there were two sleeping bags because she had to help him find them in the back of a closet, and she saw him carry them out of the apartment.”
“Anything else?” McCord asked, pleased.
“Yeah. She gave me a fantastic biscuit and a warning not to upset Mrs. Manning or get crumbs on the floor.”
“What about the chauffeur?”
“His name is Joseph Xavier O’Hara, and he gave me nothing. Zero. Nada. He actually works for another couple—Matthew and Meredith Farrell from Chicago. They left a couple of weeks ago on a world cruise. When the Farrells found out about Leigh Manning’s alleged stalker, they ‘lent’ O’Hara to the Mannings until they get back.”
“That’s it?”
“No. O’Hara knows something—something he doesn’t want to talk about.”
“Valente?”
“Could be. Probably is. You said not to mention Valente, so I didn’t ask O’Hara about him, but he didn’t volunteer anything either.”
“That’s all you got from him?”
“No, I got a warning from him, too.” Shrader said wryly. “He told me not to upset Mrs. Manning and to forget it if we thought she had anything whatsoever to do with her husband’s death. He’s not naïve, and he’s not just a chauffeur. He’s a bodyguard, and he’s licensed to carry a weapon.”
“What about the secretary?” McCord asked.
“Brenna Quade,” Shrader provided. “She actually works mostly for Mrs. Manning, and she backed up the housekeeper’s story—she said the Mannings were a very happy couple. She gave me a copy of the guest list for the party a week ago.” He reached into his jacket pocket and removed several sheets of paper with neatly typed names in alphabetical order. “Another copy was given to the doorman so he knew who the invited guests were. Guess whose name wasn’t on the original list?”
“Valente,” McCord said, unfolding the list and scanning the names.
“Right. His name was added in pencil the afternoon of the party—at Logan Manning’s request.”
“What about you?” Shrader asked McCord. “Did you find out anything interesting?”
McCord inclined his head toward the backseat, where Sam was poring over the visitors’ register. “As a matter of fact,” he said dryly, “I found out that Detective Littleton thinks I’m an elderly, toothless redneck with an oil rag hanging out of my pocket and an uneducated attitude toward doctors of all kinds, and shrinks in particular.”
Sam didn’t bother to defend or explain her actions, and she was a little surprised when McCord did it for her. “Littleton realized I’d spooked the Manning woman, so she teed me up and took a swing at me, right in front of her. In return, she got the woman to sign a release so that their shrink has to talk to us. I couldn’t believe Littleton got her to do it, and so easily.”
“It’s always easy to persuade innocent, uninvolved people to do the right thing,” Sam murmured, turning the page. “I’m not saying I definitely think she’s innocent, but there’s something about her that I just can’t reconcile with being a coconspirator in the murder of her husband. Last night,” she continued, directing her explanation to Shrader, “when we told her that her husband was found shot to death, Leigh Manning held her hand out to me and begged me to say McCord was wrong. My God, I was almost in tears, and—” Sam broke off, staring at a scrawled name entered in the visitors’ register the night before; then she slammed the book closed. “Dammit! I cannot believe it!”
“What can’t you believe?” Shrader asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
McCord’s voice was laced with cynical amusement. “I think Detective Littleton has just discovered that Valente was in Manning’s apartment last night, staying out of sight, while the widow put on her performance for Littleton and almost made her cry.”
Sam’s anger with herself began to turn outward toward a new target—Mitchell McCord. “How did you know that?” she inquired with a calm she didn’t feel.
“I saw Valente’s name in the register last night when I signed us in and out.”
That was exactly what Sam had suspected he was going to say. Furious and disappointed in him, she laid the heavy book on the seat beside her and looked out the window while she forced her features into a pleasant, noncommittal mask. When McCord asked her a few minutes later if she wanted to accompany him to Forensics to check on Manning’s tests, she said very pleasantly, “Of course.”
SHEILA WAS WITH A PATIENT when Leigh called, but she returned the call a few minutes later. “I just have a quick question,” Leigh explained. “By any chance, did you know Logan bought a gun?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so, but the police are going to ask you about it anyway. They think Logan may have confided in a friend.”
Chapter 31
* * *
Ballistics confirmed that the slug that penetrated Logan Manning’s brain and lodged in the left-hand wall of the garage was from the .38 special found in his vehicle. So was the slug recovered from the right-hand wall.
The medical examiner hadn’t completed his written report yet, but Herbert Niles was perfectly willing to give Sam and McCord the highlights of the findings. “Logan Manning definitely went out with a buzz,” he announced cheerfully.
“That’s cute, Herb,” McCord retorted impatiently