On Harrow Hill

“That Slivovak person asked me to make a list. I told him he should go make a copy of the county phone book.”

“Angus generated that much animosity?”

“He was a strong, determined man. He lived by a code that’s gone out of style. Old Testament morality. Eye for an eye. Our so-called ‘society’ has gotten away from that, and we’re paying the price. Angus didn’t suffer fools gladly. He spoke his mind. The plain truth. People don’t like the truth.”

The apartment door opened abruptly and Morgan stepped in, agitated and apologetic. “Something’s come up. Dave, I need you to come with me. Helen, we’ll talk again before you leave.”

Gurney followed Morgan down the staircase and out onto the lawn.

“We have to get back to town,” Morgan said as he strode toward the police vehicles under the portico.

Kyra Barstow was already there, by the tech van, tapping the screen of her phone. Morgan got into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, motioning Gurney to the passenger seat.

“The lab results are in,” he said, starting the engine. He didn’t say anything more until they’d driven through the allée and past the uniformed officer at the gate.

“The scalpel that Slovak found in the conservatory? The blood on it is Angus’s. And the bloody prints on it? They belong to Billy Tate. That piece of fabric in the dog’s mouth? The trace of blood on it belongs to Billy Tate. And there were micro-particles of glass in the fabric that match the smashed pane from the conservatory door. As for the blood traces on the staircase and hall carpets? The blood on the shoe prints is Angus’s—probably from being stepped in. But one of the droplets on the carpet is Tate’s.”

“Tate is definitely dead, right?” asked Gurney.

“I saw it happen. I saw the lightning hit him. I saw him fall. I saw the ME pronounce him dead. I saw the body get wheeled into the mortuary.”

“Sounds pretty definite. You have a next step in mind?”

“I told Kyra to call Brad, fill him in on the lab findings, then meet us at headquarters. I called Peale, asked him to check the mortuary.”

“To make sure your dead suspect is still dead?”

Morgan’s eyes widened in desperation. “I guess. I don’t know. Dead is dead, right? It’s not a temporary condition.” His phone rang. He pushed the speaker button on his steering wheel.

“Chief Morgan here.”

“This is Danforth Peale.”

“Thanks for getting back so quickly. You checked?”

“Where are you?” There was a harsh note in the man’s patrician accent.

“On Waterview Drive. On my way into the village. Is everything . . . all right?”

“You wouldn’t have sent me on this peculiar errand if you expected everything to be all right, would you? You knew damn well something was wrong.”

Morgan’s mouth was slightly open—the look of a man staring at calamity.

The waspy voice went on, ragged at the edge. “The body is gone.”

“Say that again?”

“Gone. Somebody stole Tate’s goddamn body.”

10

Morgan pulled into the parking area behind the big Victorian funeral home, stopping next to the silver Lexus with the jacked-up rear axle.

After he made calls to Slovak and Barstow, giving them the missing-body news and telling them to come directly to the mortuary, he turned to Gurney. “What do you think’s happening here?”

“Hard to say. But it’s an interesting development.”

“Why the hell would someone steal the body?”

Gurney didn’t answer him.

Morgan got out of the Tahoe, lit a cigarette, and began sucking on it as though the smoke were oxygen. Slovak came barreling up the driveway in an unmarked Dodge Charger, followed by Barstow’s tech van.

Morgan ground out his cigarette on the pavement. Barstow opened the back doors of her van and produced four sets of crime-scene coveralls—which would have been overkill at a normal burglary, but was appropriate here, given the missing body’s connection to a murder.

Slovak was the first to speak. “So, what’s the theory? Somebody snatched Tate’s corpse and dragged it into Russell’s house to leave trace evidence? Doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Not necessarily the whole corpse,” said Barstow lightly. “All the killer needed to bring was a little blood for the carpet, maybe some for the fabric in the dog’s mouth, plus a finger or two to make the prints. We know from the mutilation of the victim’s hand that the killer was adept at cutting off fingers.”

Slovak winced. “Then why go to the trouble of carrying the whole body away?”

“Good question.” She looked at Gurney. “Any ideas?”

“Too soon for ideas. We need more information.”

On cue, the back door of the funeral home opened, and a man stepped into the parking area. His pink cashmere sweater and green slacks struck Gurney as being more suited to a golf course than a funeral home.

“Morgan! Get in here.”

It was the same arrogant voice Gurney had heard on the speaker in the Tahoe. The man who’d called himself Danforth Peale looked to be in his late twenties. He had neatly combed blond hair, a pale complexion, and a pouty mouth.

Morgan offered a brittle smile. “Be with you in a second, Dan. Just getting prepared.”