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_ Tuesday, April 2

Winchester Heights_

A lot of things may be said to swarm. Bees do it, as the old song goes. So do football fans at the stadium gates. Groupies at a rock concert. Relatives at a will reading. The swarm that I see most is cops around the house where somebody turns up a body. Especially when the house is located in a fancy neighborhood.

As far as first looks go, the case wasn't anything spectacular, like a burglary-cum-homicide, or a vendetta killing, or even something juicy enough for the next creepy ghoul-monster-serial-killer movie (a franchise which, rather like its subjects, simply refuses to die). This was a suicide. Or, as the captain put it, "Just a suicide." As a rule, homicide detectives are not dispatched to such scenes; we do, after all, deal with homicide, not suicide. But in the same way that rank hath its privileges, money speaketh loudly, whatever the crime. I had been sent off on this fool's errand because Thomas Christian Thaddeus Glover, feline male, age 47, average weight and build, had significantly above average means. Friends or enemies in high places, financial or political leverage, whatever; I'd seen it all often enough not to give a hot flying anything at this point. Make an appearance, that's all that was required of me.

No one had bothered to suggest why the cat would want to kill himself. Maybe some big problems at the office, maybe money trouble that nobody knew about. From what I'd heard about him from the captain, as well as from various public information sources, he didn't seem the type to be blackmailed -- too damned straight for that. Then again, none of the other categories seemed to fit either, at least not at first glance. I'm not sure if I was being paid to think, or maybe paid not to think. "Any death under unusual circumstances has to be investigated" -- thus it is written in the Sacred Rule Book. Simple truth was that no one cared if you offed yourself (with the possible exception of life insurance companies and anyone you owe money to), and when it came time for somefur to have to go through the motions, I appeared to be the next guy in the barrel. Even if I did my job right, I didn't expect it would take very long.

Nasty little traitors, expectations.

I levered myself out of my car, noticed that the sky was clearing. Some of the other cops were clearing, too. I hoped both were good signs.

"Detective Luton?"

The patrol padded over to me, a new pup on the job, much too cheerful, his uniform much too creased. Ears forward, tail reasonably respectful, eyes bright, golden fur clean and brushed to regs, still hot for this new game he had found to play. I'd have felt unkempt and shabby, if I'd given a damn. I noted the name tag, wondered if it would still be on the rosters in six months. "What've you got, Parsons?"

"You're gonna love this one, sir. One body, two weapons."

I felt an ear twitch. "What?"

A thin forefinger, bearing a carefully clipped claw, wrapped circles around his temple. "Looney Tunes," he said with confidence. "A nut case suicide. They haven't taken the body yet; still there in the library. See for yourself -- unless you've just eaten breakfast."

* * * * * * * * * *

There are days when it just doesn't pay to be canine. It was still strange to me that the young Labrador in the new uniform wasn't overwhelmed by the smells of a fresh body. Granted, the usual issues regarding the extrusion of various bodily wastes hadn't happened yet, but the blood and brains were enough to set most of us to using practically anything in a tin to help deaden the sensitivity of our noses. I may have been only 52, but I'd already had too much of it ten years ago, when still a newbie at the detective game. One thing about collies like me -- we tend to be tenacious. Oh, and practical -- that whole pension thing.

The scene was plenty grisly enough that I didn't need the coroner to tell me the cause of death. The gun was still clenched in the victim's left forepaw, and it was clear that the entry point was the left temple, exiting through the right side of the head -- what was left of it.

"Like I said, Detective: Whacko."

I also didn't need the running commentary, but Parsons seemed to be operating on a different script. Pardon the stereotyping, but Labs can be yappy if they're not given a firm paw at an early age. I chalked it up as another indicator of his occupational virginity. He'd adapt or go; that would be up to him. Meanwhile, back in the adult world, I was doing everything by the numbers -- checking the scene, looking for clues to confirm the obvious, making notes to run by the M.E., and run a check on Glover himself -- but I felt that I was already late to this party. "Has Forensics been here?"

"Been and gone."

"Everything? Photos, sketches, prints, fur, fiber, ingress, egress?"

"And a partridge in a pear tree. The M.E. is running behind schedule -- caught in traffic. We're waiting for him to okay us to take the body and the weapon. Weapons," he corrected himself with an almost gleeful swish of his tail.

I knelt by the desk chair, a plush but efficient design like everything else in the meticulously kept study. (Note to Self: Check for a housekeeper. No self-respecting heterosexual male is this neat.) Glover himself was already dressed-for-success, ready for the office, or perhaps in this case, for his funeral. I still couldn't say for sure if he was the tiger he appeared to be by other fur color and markings; too much of his head had been blown away. My guess was a magnum shell, something that mushroomed out and probably lodged (if any of it stayed intact) in the opposite wall somewhere. Even so, one ear appeared to have the correct colorations for him to be panthera tigris. It would only be important for identification purposes, and his new widow would probably give us that if pawprints and DNA didn't do the job. (I corrected myself: A member of the Bar would have pawprints and, depending on his law firm, DNA records as well. No respectable shysters [pardon the oxymoron] would let members of their firm not have identity markers in some private repository somewhere. The more perceived power you get, the greater the paranoia.)

I looked carefully at the second weapon. Glover's right forepaw had clutched spasmodically about the shining gold hilt of a brilliantly polished short sword. I could still smell the metal cleaner on it; not a smudge, fingerprint, or blemish on the entire length. Symbols or runes of some kind had been etched down the center of the blade, and they had oxidized sufficiently to stand out in beautiful relief.

"Nothin' like a little certifiable flip-out to renew your faith in natural selection, eh, Detective?"

"You like natural selection, do you, Parsons?"

"No likin' or dislikin', Detective. Just is."

"That's what they say, isn't it? It is what it is."

"Yah, and that's how it is."

"No flies on you, Parsons."

I let him try to figure out what that meant while I kept looking things over. The desk pad contained a series of scribbles, notations, question marks, doodles -- all the components of a forensic psychoanalyst's wet dream. It also contained, in a carefully marked-off section, several scrawls that appeared to be the same as the sword runes. No, check that -- not the same, but similar. An ornate pen holder lay up and to the right of the desk pad; the only pen in view lay on the right side of the pad itself, virtually pointing toward the scrawled runes.

"Some mess, huh?" continued Parsons jovially.

I could see no suicide note. Not everyone leaves one, of course, but it was another fact to put into my mental list. I stood and scanned the room. Nothing disturbed; shelves of hardcover books, many appearing to be collectables, slipcased, gilt lettering on the spines, perfectly filed away and kept free of dust (yeah, definitely a housekeeper; subconsciously, I added the unnamed maid to the list of people to question). Two paintings, tastefully framed, hung precisely in carefully measured niches; to my untrained eye, they looked like originals, although I couldn't place the artist any nearer than 19th century.

The Lab forced a brief chuckle. "Jesus, they'll never get it out of that carpet."

The floor was covered from wall to wall in a thick white pile, easy on the hindpaws, beautiful but cold. On one wall, a mini-bar stood well-stocked and orderly, each element of its finely polished oaken rack precisely placed. All of the glasses were set and clean, the bottles reasonably full. Even the pipe rack was immaculate, perhaps to the point of being merely decorative. There was no scent of tobacco anywhere, and even housekeepers can't take away the scent well enough to keep it from a nose like mine.

"Are you in charge?" The heavy-set pug who had just entered the room regarded me with respectfully professional uncertainty through Coke-bottle-bottom glasses perched above his pinched muzzle.

"Not necessarily," I responded. I extended a forepaw as the traditional litany exited my lips unadorned. "Max Luton, Homicide."

"I'm the M.E.," he snuffled, taking my paw briskly, smiling. "Daimler, Bertram Daimler -- like the car. A little out of date, and I don't idle so good, but I'm still running." He released me and set down his black bag -- a prop guaranteed to identify him in almost any situation. Just to keep it official, he motioned to the ID tag clipped to his coat; it was proper issue, and no one else would want to be here anyway. He reached into the bag, removing and then snapping on a pair of equally proper issue gloves while I assured him that everyone else had come and gone.

Parsons padded toward the desk, and I intercepted him. "They want to bring in the gurney to bag this guy."

"Another few minutes, Parsons."

"You want me to stick around?"

"Take five and go mark a tree. Our guest of honor," I said to the doctor, stepping back to let the old dog work.

He considered briefly. "Standard disclaimers. Victim appears to be the tiger known as Thomas Glover, according to photos and other information on file. We'll get verification of that along the way. The obvious C.O.D. may not be it, depending. Some clever bugger might have poisoned him, then staged the suicide scene, hoping we're not thorough."

"How likely is that?"

"Too ridiculous to be credited, but bets are made to be hedged." Daimler continued peering through his thick lenses, the occasional grunt or murmur probably meant to reassure me that he really was taking all this seriously. "You've noticed the obvious?"

"Yes."

"Good. Nice to have a homicide detective I don't have to train." He considered further, brought out a probe from his bag and managed to maneuver himself to the victim's left and kneel next to it. "Anyone hear the shot?"

"Wife called it in early this morning; she says 'something' woke her early this morning."

"I'm getting a little old for this," he growled softly, maneuvering himself to find a way to insert the probe into the space between two shirt buttons and then into the body. I had to give him bonus points for not simply pushing through the cloth itself. "What's her definition of early?"

"Nine-one-one call is recorded as being at 6:24."

After a moment, he removed the probe and nodded. "Close as makes no odds. I'll try to be more exact, if it proves to be important."

"Probably won't," I admitted, offering him a paw to help him unfold himself from his squatting position. "Anything else for preliminary?"

He shook his head. "At the risk of dating myself, what you see is what you get. They can take the body, and..." Another headshake. "There's no nice way of saying this: I'll make sure they scrape up whatever they can. I'll see that it's properly analyzed."

"Thanks, Doc."

The old pug removed the gloves and reassembled his bag. "I'll get a proper report to you as soon as I can. Since it appears to be suicide, you'll ask about...?"

"The usual suspects." I padded to the doorway and performed the faintly unpleasant task of calling for Parsons. The Lab appeared all too quickly, along with a pair of suitably-attired attendants with a gurney in tow. "Make sure you bag'n'tag, and I want a make on the gun and the sword."

"How can there be a make on a sword?" the patrol asked sarcastically.

"I want to know what it's made of, who made it, where it came from. It may tell us why he had to keep hold of it, even at the last."

"Because, maybe, he's a fruitcake?"

"Is Mrs. Glover available?"

He jerked a chin toward the front of the house, where I knew the living room to be. "In there."

"I'm going in to talk with her."

"I'll take you in."

I leaned into the pup's face, feeling my ears rise and go backward. "Parsons... who's your boss?"

He blinked. "McPherson. Sergeant McPherson, out of the two-six."

"Wrong answer. You got called into a case I'm working on. You're on my detail, and I'm the one you have to make happy so that you can keep moving up your ladder. So unless you want me to call McPherson at the two-six and get your tail stuck on parking meters for the next six months, I strongly suggest that you get to work on getting that gun checked out and to get more information about that sword. Fail to do so, and I'll see that you discover a new form of parking meter duty that involves being seated, suddenly, completely, and without lube. Do you need me to write that down for you in words of single syllables?"

Give him credit: The pup didn't piss himself. "No, sir."

"Get on it."

He looked like he wasn't sure if he should salute or genuflect. I didn't give him time to do either. I had a grieving widow to talk to.

* * * * * * * * * *

As it turned out, I was only partially right: I would be talking to a widow. Helena Glover was a tigress of self-imposed regal bearing, too thin for my taste, and too thin for a tigress, I would have thought. She looked almost too thin to have born three kits, although their faces showed in photographs on the wall, all in pride of place, all with the sort of smiles that parents inflict upon their children when evidence of their perfection requires proof in still life. All three were away at boarding school, no doubt being put through their paces.

I sat on the sofa, mindful of my tail and hindpaws. This was one of those living rooms where not a whole lot of living was expected. The tigress herself sat stiffly but calmly in the smaller of a matched pair of wingbacks, his'n'hers thrones of careful design. I gave her a moment or two to ready herself for the onslaught of questions that she was expecting. I'd been nursing one of those "bad feelings" that cops are supposed to get about certain cases, so despite the idea that I was probably there mostly for procedural window dressing, I had a pretty good idea of the information that I was going to get. As a famous barrister once said, "Never ask a question unless you're sure of the answer."

"Mrs. Glover," I said softly, bringing out my notebook as a prop for the show, "I know that you've been questioned already, and I apologize for putting you through it all again..."

"Get on with it, Detective."

Her voice pitched low, raspy, almost masculine, as if deepened by a good number of years of scotch and cigarettes, neither of which was in evidence in this part of the house. At that point, I reckoned that the high collar about her neck was not merely a fashion statement. I decided against pressing the issue. "Yes, ma'am. You found Mr. Glover?"

"I heard the shot."

"About what time?"

"Not too long after I got up."

"That would be...?"

"A little after six. Before the alarm. I felt that I was awakened by something, but I didn't know what it was. A sound, maybe. Anyway, I felt that I wouldn't get back to sleep, so I was getting myself ready to come downstairs when I heard the shot. I came downstairs to see--"

"That was bold of you, Mrs. Glover."

She actually looked at me for the first time. Anyone needing to get the truth out of someone else will tell you that body language usually speaks louder than spoken words. Her tail held resolutely still, although one ear flicked in irritation. Ears, as a rule, are much more difficult to control, as are pupils which may dilate or shift when the subject is irritated, surprised, or disingenuous. In this case, I figured "irritated."

"I have a license for my own weapon, Detective, and I practice at a shooting range at least twice a year. I may not be able to predate openly, but I can defend myself quite well."

I nodded a demurral. "Please continue."

She gathered herself. "I came downstairs -- yes, with my pistol -- hearing nothing, seeing no one. The alarm system was undisturbed, the doors locked. I went to my husband's study and found..." She trailed off, seeming for the first time shaken in her resolve.

"Did your husband have any visitors last night?"

"No." She reached for a coffee cup that was likely on its fifth recharge. I was only vaguely surprised that she wasn't taking something stronger, but perhaps she realized how easily I'd smell it on her.

"How would you describe your husband's mood recently?"

"Fine." Her response came swiftly. "He was fine."

"And when he came home last night?"

"Fine."

"Nothing worrying him?"

"Thomas was always worried about something."

I nodded, letting the little fibs grow larger in their own good time. I moved the pen around to make it appear that I was writing down the holy writ of unimpeachable testimony. "Do you know what he was working on recently?"

"He rarely spoke of his work."

"I'm sure his office can tell me, particularly if it has any relevance."

"I doubt that it does." She caught herself just a little too late, shifted slightly in her throne, trying to recover. "He specialized in real estate law. I believe that his latest case involved squatters on some country land. Some... commune." She spat out the word as if it were distasteful to her refined senses. "The client wanted them evicted, and Thomas spearheaded the case. He was to present his case to the court today. I wanted to make sure that he would be there on time, because he was--"

Again, the tigress caught herself, although this time it was the tip of her tail that gave the game away. She had begun speaking the truth, and her body was reacting to it automatically. There was little doubt in my mind that the words she was about to speak were _because he was upset._I let the point go.

"You found him in his study. Was the door open, closed...?"

"Closed and locked."

My expression asked the question.

"There's a set of keys for every room in the house, Detective. They're inside a cabinet door, in the utility room. When I got no answer from Thomas, and when I realized that I could smell cordite from inside the room, I fetched the key and opened the door."

I nodded, pretending to make a note on my pad.

"Aren't you going to ask if I unlocked the door, killed my husband, then relocked the door behind me?"

"Did you?"

"No!"

"I didn't think so."

"One of your fellow officers seemed to think it possible."

I shook my head. "The average beat cop who dreams of being a detective one day also dreams up ridiculous scenarios, trying them on like bad clothing. If you were going to go to such lengths, you wouldn't have ruined your alibi by leaving the house alarm undisturbed and the doors and windows carefully locked. I'm sorry if they offended you."

"I'm not easily offended."

That was particularly easy to believe. I shifted my hindpaws slightly, trying to prevent my back from tightening up, as it had a tendency to do these days. "Considering what you found there, Mrs. Glover, it may be ridiculous to ask if you notice anything missing, out of place, unusual...?"

She finished what was in her coffee cup and set it back down. "Not that I noticed. I did worry about an intruder, of course; that was why I noticed that the French doors to the patio were closed. I couldn't tell if they were locked, at that distance, and I didn't go to look. I was shocked, of course. When I couldn't find anyone else in the house, I ran to the kitchen to call nine-one-one. I didn't notice anything unusual."

"You recognized the sword?"

Once more, the veneer almost broke. I kept my eyes soft, waited for her. "I don't know."

"It wasn't familiar to you?"

"It wasn't something that was kept on display."

"It belonged to your husband?"

"So far as I know."

"What do you know about it."

"Nothing."

Between the terse answers and the hardened expression in her eyes, my keen detective skills told me that I wasn't likely to get more information out of her on this topic. Changing directions seemed best. I brought out Formulaic Question #47. "Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to kill your husband?"

"He was rich, and a lawyer, but he didn't go around making enemies. He was generous to the best charities, an active member of the Bar Association, even spoke at a few conferences on crime prevention. He wasn't the type to stir up trouble. Even so, anyone who has something is the enemy of someone who has nothing." She frowned at the coffee cup, reached to the front of the arm of her chair and pressed a button that otherwise looked like part of the stuffing. I fancied that I heard a buzzer somewhere in the offing, but it could have been my imagination.

"I asked that we not be disturbed, Mrs. Glover; I won't be much longer. Just don't blame your staff."

The look on her face became harder. "Well?"

"Am I to understand that your husband had no enemies?"

"He did not."

"No one who might--"

"Detective Luton, the answer is no. There have been no life-endangering cases, no crime bosses, no threats, no black lists, no one at all who would want to kill him."

"Very well, then. What about suicide?"

Her face changed significantly at that point. Her voice came out as a soft choke. "What?"

"If we rule out murder, then it must be suicide."

"No." Her headshake made it final.

I paused, calculating the right effect, setting my ears just so, shifting my hindpaws a little. "Mrs. Glover, if no one else could have killed him, then--"

"It couldn't have been suicide. He had his whole life..."

The silence rebutted her without any assistance on my part.

"Impossible," she reiterated softly.

Closing my notebook, I stood slowly. "Mrs. Glover, with that insistence on your part, I must ask you not to leave town for a while. I can't make any charges, because there's no evidence. You've made yourself into the only suspect in a murder case, I have little choice in the matter. I can see myself out."

She made no move, and I thought for a moment that I might have gone too far. Taking a tip from the famous television detective, I turned back to consider her more closely. "Mrs. Glover, your husband was right-paw dominant, wasn't he?"

A blink, a nervous thap of her tail, something registering or not. "Yes. Right-pawed, yes."

I nodded wisely. "Thank you."

"Detective?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

A long pause. "Why?"

"I can only try to find out, Mrs. Glover."

Her eyes glazed slightly. I turned to leave, her voice haunting me.

"Couldn't... couldn't be..."