“Good job,” Ragland said when Quinlan finished his briefing. “I think it’s time we confronted Mr. Chesterfield, don’t you?”
“I don’t know, Pete,” Quinlan said. “There are still big holes in our case.”
“Such as?”
“We don’t have any evidence connecting Chesterfield to the poisoned candy in the Randall murder, and the evidence is even weaker in Gentry’s case.”
Ragland leaned back in his chair and grinned. “That’s the beauty of having two murders with the same MO and a defendant with a motive to kill both victims. I’ll introduce evidence of the Gentry murder at Chesterfield’s trial for the murder of Sophie Randall and vice versa. That will give the jurors in both trials strong circumstantial evidence that Chesterfield killed Randall and Gentry.”
“I still don’t see proof beyond a reasonable doubt,” Quinlan said. “We don’t even have conclusive evidence that Gentry died from cyanide poisoning.”
Ragland flashed Quinlan a patronizing smile. “Leave proving the case to me, Morris. I’ve got the law degree.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What do you think, Roger?” Ragland asked.
“You make some good points,” Dillon said in an attempt to be diplomatic, “but I don’t think we have enough to go for an indictment.”
“Maybe we can get that extra something when we talk to Chesterfield.”
“Aren’t you worried that you’ll tip him off?” Dillon asked.
“It’s too late to worry about that. I called him and he’s expecting us to visit this afternoon.” Ragland stood up. “Gentlemen, let’s take a trip to the coast. Oh, and when we arrive, let me handle thequestions. I’m used to dealing with the class of people who gain admission to the Westmont.”
Most of Oregon’s four million citizens live close to I-5, the highway that runs north to south from Canada to Mexico, so Oregon is sparsely populated east or west of the interstate. The road from Portland to the Pacific passed through small towns, farmland, forests, and mountains. Morris Quinlan drove along it in a driving rain.
When they crossed the Coast Range, Roger Dillon saw patches of snow in the forest. Once they turned south onto the highway that ran along the coast, he distracted himself by watching violent waves crash into the massive rock formations that jutted out of the churning Pacific.
Several miles south of Lincoln City, Quinlan turned seaward onto a narrow, unmarked, gravel driveway bounded by evergreens and shrubbery. The unpaved driveway stopped at a high stone wall divided by a gate. Quinlan lowered his window and pressed a button embedded in an intercom. Ragland was expected, and the gate swung open as soon as the detective identified their party. As they continued along a paved driveway, gaps in the foliage gave Dillon fleeting views of an unruly ocean. A final turn revealed a modern glass, steel, and weathered wood house that sprawled along a cliff. Below the cliff was a sandy windswept beach.
Quinlan parked and the three men rushed under an overhang that shielded the front door from the fury of the storm. Moments later, the door opened into a flagstone entryway where they were greeted by Robert Chesterfield, who was dressed in neatly pressed slacks, a tan sweater, and a sky blue shirt. Chesterfield asked the deputy DA and the detectives to come in. Their host had a charming British accent, and Dillon imagined him standing inthe vaulted hall of an English castle, welcoming members of a fox hunt before the chase.
“How are you, Peter? I don’t think I’ve seen you since we battled over bridge. Sorry you had to drive out in this ghastly weather.”
“The drive wasn’t so bad. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“It’s no trouble. We’re quite isolated out here, and I welcome the company.”
“This is Morris Quinlan and Roger Dillon. They’re the detectives who are investigating Sophie Randall’s murder.”
“Pleased to meet you. Can I get you anything to drink, coffee, tea? In the movies policemen always reject spirits when they’re working, but we’re out of the public eye. Can you imbibe when you’re on duty? I’ve got some exceptional, fifteen-year-old, single malt Scotch.”
“Coffee would be great,” Peter said.
“I’m good,” Quinlan said.
“Coffee for me, if it’s not too much trouble,” Dillon told Chesterfield.
“The houseman and maid are off today, so I’ll have to do the honors. Why don’t you get comfortable while I get the coffee?”
The detectives and the prosecutor walked down three steps into a spacious sunken living room where floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the ocean. The burning logs in a stone fireplace radiated heat into the cavernous space. Ragland chose an armchair near the fire, and the detectives sat on a couch.
“Is Mrs. Dowd going to join us?” Quinlan asked when Chesterfield returned carrying a silver tray with coffee, sugar, and cream.
“Unfortunately, Lily is indisposed. A vicious bug has attacked her. Not unexpected in this inclement weather.”
“Give her my regards,” Peter said.