Jeff sat down next to Robin.
“It was probably someone in the PPB,” Robin said. “I wonder who.”
“I don’t,” he whispered in her ear.
Robin stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’re horny. We made love this morning.”
Jeff smiled. “I can’t help it if I find you incredibly sexy.”
“God—men!” Robin said as she feigned a lack of interest, but she couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have Jeff in her life. He was smart, definitely sexy, and really nice—a terrific trifecta.
Jeff kissed her ear. “We could watch the weather station.”
Robin laughed. “I give up,” she said as she folded into him. Moments later, they had their clothes off and had tumbled off the sofa and onto the shag rug that covered the living room floor.
Robin was exhausted by the long workday and the round of very athletic lovemaking. She assumed she would fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but the scene in front of Regina’s house intruded on her peace of mind as soon as her eyes closed. Someone had tried to murder Regina the same way Sophie Randall had been murdered. Chesterfield, the chief suspect in Randall’s murder, had been murdered. But how were the crimes linked?
Robin tried to block her thoughts so she could sleep. Eventually she succeeded, but weird dreams plagued her. When she woke up, she opened her eyes and the dreams evaporated like morning mist. She tried to remember them because she was certain that thedreams had sent her an important subconscious message, but they were gone.
What had been so important? She was certain that one of the dreams had been about a murder—not Sophie Randall’s or Chesterfield’s but some other murder. She just couldn’t remember the name of the victim.
CHAPTER FORTY
When Morris Quinlan was in high school, he had been a third team all-state linebacker. That had not been good enough to draw attention from a school like Alabama or Ohio State, but he did get scholarship offers from a few Division II schools and ended up in Idaho. In high school, Morris was smart enough to get decent grades without studying too hard, so he had never learned how to study. Morris did know how to party, so he joined a fraternity. Several of the brothers had a perpetual bridge game going in the basement of the fraternity house, and one of them explained the game to Morris, who soon became addicted to it.
The demands of playing football, weekends of partying, and hours spent playing bridge did not leave much time for classwork. Morris had an academic advisor who kept tabs on the football players. Halfway through Morris’s first semester, the advisor told him that he was going to be placed on academic probation if he didn’t straighten up. That would have cost him his football scholarship. Morris could not afford college without the scholarship and he couldn’t give up the parties, so he decided that bridge had to go, and he did not play again until a fellow police retireetold him about the regular bridge game at the community center a few blocks from his house.
A few days after the arrival of the poisoned chocolates at Regina’s home, and shortly before Morris was going to leave for the community center, Roger Dillon asked Morris to meet him for dinner, but wouldn’t say why. Morris was distracted. Much to his partner’s annoyance, he misbid or misplayed hands several times.
As soon as the bridge games ended, Morris walked four blocks to a neighborhood Italian restaurant. Roger was seated in a booth near the front of the restaurant, and a bottle of Chianti was standing in the center of the table.
“Okay, Roger, enough mystery. Why have you purchased my favorite Chianti?”
“It’s part of your consulting fee. Dinner is the other half.”
“Consulting on what?”
“A very interesting case. I assume you know that Robert Chesterfield was murdered onstage in the middle of the finale to his magic show.”
“Everyone knows that. It’s been front-page news.”
“Do you also know that someone sent Regina Barrister, Chesterfield’s old attorney, a box of poisoned chocolates?”
“It was on the news.”
“What did you think about when you heard about the chocolates?”
“Sophie Randall’s case.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think there’s a connection?”
“That’s why I’m buying you dinner and giving you these,” Dillon said as he reached below the table and brought up a stack of police reports. “This is everything we know about the murder in the theater and the attempt on Regina. I’ve also included the reports from the Arthur Gentry and Sophie Randall cases. I’m curious to see if you can make anything of them.”
“Is giving me the reports legal? I’m not a cop anymore.”
“No, you’re not. But the minute you take a sip of this Chianti, you will be a paid consultant.”