Quinlan squeezed Randall’s shoulder. Then he led Dillon and Ragland out of the room.
“Poor bastard,” Dillon said.
“This is the part of this job I hate,” Quinlan told him. “And it never gets easier.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morris Quinlan had been sitting in the reception area of the accounting firm of Fisk & Combe for fifteen minutes when a severe-looking woman in a gray business suit walked out of a long hall and stopped in front of him.
“Mr. Quinlan?” the woman asked.
“Actually, it’s Detective Quinlan.” He stood up. “And you’re Eileen Paulson?”
“Yes.” Paulson frowned. “Is this about a client?”
“No. I’m with Homicide, and it concerns your father, Arthur Gentry.”
Paulson’s features hardened. “It’s about time. Come back to my office.”
Paulson’s office was halfway down the hall. She had a window with a view of the Willamette River and enough space to let you know that she was a partner in the firm. The decorations were austere, mostly college degrees and professional certificates. The few personal items were a picture of Mrs. Paulson, her husband, and their child, and a framed crayon drawing of a stick figurefather, mother, and child standing in front of a house that Quinlan assumed was a tribute to the daughter’s artistic talent.
“Why did you say that it was about time when I said I was from Homicide?” Quinlan asked when they were seated.
“Two years ago, when it happened, I told the investigating officers that there was something suspicious about my father’s death, but they brushed me off.”
“What made you think something was wrong?”
“My mother passed away several years ago and my father was horribly depressed. We had a wonderful relationship and he moved in for a while. Being around Jill, his granddaughter, was a tonic. After a while, he moved back to his house, but we spoke or visited all the time. But what really pulled him out of his depression was his relationship with Lily Dowd.
“Dad and Mom were longtime members of the Westmont Country Club, and they were very good friends with Lily and her husband, Frank. Frank passed away a year after my mother, and Lily and my father grew close. They started showing up at club events together and I thought they might get married. Then Robert Chesterfield showed up.
“Lily met him in London. She had a place there and she moved to London to get away from Oregon for a while because of the bad memories of her husband’s death. I don’t know what happened in London, but Chesterfield showed up in Portland shortly after Lily returned and started going after her. Lily is very wealthy and Chesterfield is a predator. That was obvious from the get-go, only Lily couldn’t see that.
“My father tried to warn her about him, but Lily was infatuated. Chesterfield was much younger than Lily. He was dashing and sophisticated and he swept her off her feet. She wouldn’t hear anything against him. When my father tried to wake her up, it soured their relationship.
“My father was very concerned about Lily’s welfare and he started looking into Chesterfield’s background. I don’t know what he found, but he told me that he was going to talk to Chesterfield and get him to back off. The next thing I knew, my father was dead.”
“I read the police report,” Quinlan said. “The investigators concluded that your father died from natural causes.”
Paulson’s posture became rigid. She folded her hands on her desk and stared into Quinlan’s eyes. “My father was sixty-two but he had the physique of a man in his early fifties. When he was in college, he swam so well that he almost made the Olympic team, and he never stopped working out. Those workouts were strenuous. His physicals never showed any danger signs. He didn’t smoke, he was a social drinker and rarely had more than a glass of wine. There is no way he would have just keeled over.”
“The police report said that you found your dad.”
Paulson nodded and briefly lost her composure.
“Tell me how that happened and what you saw.”
“Jill is ten and she’s on a swim team. My husband works at Intel and my job keeps me pretty busy, so we often asked Dad to pick up Jill from school and take her to swim practice.” Paulson smiled. “He loved Jill and he loved doing it. On a Monday, the day before I found him, I called to ask if he could take Jill, and the call went to his answering machine. I tried later, but I never got through, so I had to take her. My husband and I both had meetings the next afternoon, so I called again and the calls went straight to voice mail. That’s when I got nervous and drove to his house. I have a key. When I went in, he was lying in the living room.”
“Was there any indication of how he died?”
“There was a pool of vomit. It had dried. It looked old.”
“Was there any food nearby or in the kitchen? Something he might have eaten?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’d rather not say.”