When his partner didn’t answer, Quinlan glanced at him and saw that he was nervous. Places like the Westmont were as alien to Dillon as a raja’s palace or the wilds of Borneo. He had grown up in Portland’s poorest neighborhood and graduated from its worst high school. Portland State, where he went to night school before the police academy, was not known as a destination for the rich and famous.
“Look, Roger, I’ve dealt with these country-club types before. They may dress better than we do and drive fancy cars, but they take a shit just like you and me. So anytime they start talking down to you, imagine them sitting on the crapper.”
Dillon smiled, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that people who belonged to places like the Westmont didn’t have their servants go to the bathroom for them.
And it wasn’t just the setting that was making Roger nervous. He had made detective a year ago and had just been promoted to Homicide, a rapid rise from newbie to the most sought-after assignment in the Portland Police Bureau. There were whispers that the promotion had been made so that Homicide could have a token African American, but no one who wasn’t jealous would seriously assume that was the reason for Dillon’s promotion.
Roger’s arrest record as a police officer had been among the best and his solve rate as a detective had been exceptional, but those successes didn’t stop the butterflies from flapping in Roger’s stomach as he approached the scene of his first murder case.
A section of the parking lot had been cordoned off for official vehicles, and a uniformed officer showed Quinlan where to park. As Roger followed his partner up the steps and through the front door of the club, he nervously adjusted his tie and pulled down on his jacket.
“Hey, Garrity,” Quinlan said to a young officer who was stationed in the club lobby. “Where’s the scene of the crime?”
Garrity threw a thumb over his shoulder. Quinlan and Dillon walked by a policewoman who was taking down a statement from a distraught middle-aged man and down an oak-paneled hallway crowded with forensic experts. A door was open at the end of the hall. An officer handed the detectives Tyvek suits, booties, and surgical masks. Dillon put on all three, but Quinlan carried his mask in his hand. When the detectives walked through the anteroom, they saw Dr. Max Rothstein, the state medical examiner, bent over the body of a young woman. His face was partially concealed by a surgical mask.
“What have you got for us, Doc?” Quinlan asked.
“Put on your mask, Morris. I won’t know for certain until I get the toxicology report, but I smelled a bitter almond odor when I got close to the victim, so I’m putting my money on cyanide poisoning. You can develop clinically significant cyanide concentrations by inhaling cyanide gas from the body of a victim.”
“Got it,” Quinlan said as he slipped on his mask.
“Who’s the victim?” Dillon asked.
“Sophie Randall.”
“Is this her office?”
“Her boss’s. She’s his secretary.”
“How was she poisoned?” Quinlan asked.
“See that box of candy on her desk?” Dr. Rothstein answered.
The men looked. A lab tech was taking photographs of the box.
“Two pieces are missing. Samuel Moser, Randall’s boss, received the candy as a gift from an unknown person. He’s on a diet so he gave the candy to Mrs. Randall. Moments after she ate the candy, she came into this office, went into convulsions, and died. I’m betting we’ll find cyanide in the candy.”
“We passed a heavyset guy in a suit at the end of the hall. Is that Moser?”
Rothstein nodded. “He saw Mrs. Randall die and he’s really upset, so go easy on him.”
“Got it. We’ll get out of your hair. Let me know as soon as you have more on the cause of death.”
The detectives discarded their Tyvek suits and walked back toward the lobby.
“Hi, Gloria,” Quinlan said to the policewoman who was taking Moser’s statement. “We’d like to talk to Mr. Moser. Are you about done?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Moser, I’m Morris Quinlan and this is Roger Dillon. We’re with Homicide. Is there someplace quiet where we can talk, an office or conference room?”
“There’s a conference room on the second floor.”
“Okay. Lead the way.”
Moser walked toward the stairs with Quinlan following and Dillon bringing up the rear. Dillon was about to climb the stairs when Quinlan swore so quietly that only Dillon heard him.
A deputy district attorney was always assigned to a homicide as soon as possible to observe the crime scene. Dillon turned and saw a short man with styled blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a thin mustache walking toward them. As soon as Dillon recognized Peter Ragland, he knew why his partner was upset.