Myron slowly sank into the chair across from Darwin. Then made the mistake of looking at his boss. Darwin’s face was ashen as he suddenly lurched forward, landing on pudgy hands atop his desk, bracing so far over that for a moment Myron feared he would come clear across and grab his throat. “When did that painting go out and why wasn’t I informed?” he demanded.
“Didn’t we tell you?” Myron asked weakly, and rubbed his hands on his knees again.
Detective Keating walked out to his car in the parking lot, lost the coat and the briefcase and tossed them in the backseat, then climbed in behind the wheel and grinned at Flynn. “We got him.”
“Brilliant,” Flynn said, looking up from a file he’d been studying.
Joe looked at the file on his lap and groaned. “Are you ever going to get over yourself?”
Flynn closed the file. “Naturally, I am required to report to my superiors about my involvement in other law enforcement matters, particularly when I am abroad,” he said.
“Oh, naturally,” Joe said, assuming a really bad British accent. “’To the attention of Snuff and Snuff, I should be pleased to report that I’ve solved a homicide for the bloody Americans, in which I proved that the husband could not have possibly done it, and with a bit of tramping about, I coerced a confession from the scoundrel who did.’” He shook his head and laughed. “Your head’s so big it’s a wonder you can fit it into the car at all.”
“You’re jealous of my keen intuition, admit it.”
Joe snorted, looked out the window. Then he looked at Flynn again. “So really, how’d you know it wasn’t him? I mean, lookit—an extramarital affair, no forced entry, his dog alive and walking around, her dog dead along with her.”
“It was the dog, really,” Flynn said with a very self-satisfied smile. “I’ve owned Labrador retrievers. Lovely dogs, but they can be frighteningly useless. Once I noticed that the male dog—his dog—had been neutered, I was quite confident that he could be easily silenced with a generous chew bone. The female, on the other hand, was a little more curious, and, like most bitches, a little more territorial. She was not so easily swayed by a bone.”
“There was no evidence of any bones!” Joe protested.
“That’s because a neutered male Labrador retriever is also a rather ubiquitous chow hound of anything edible and many things not so edible. They’re terribly friendly and good companions and all that, but I would imagine he trotted up and helped himself to the female’s chew bone without the slightest twinge of conscience.”
Joe laughed, peered at the front entry of the RIHPS. “So how’d you figure out Reyes?”
“Another very simple fact—the gardener told us that his son had brought help. I asked your department to run some files, and there you are, pretty as you please, a connection between Reyes, who happens to be a paroled robber—not the one we originally thought, mind you—but a paroled robber, and the gardener’s son. Granted, the connection was established when the two of them were juveniles, but it was a connection all the same, so it seemed worth a bit of a chat. And then, as you know, his suspicions were raised, and he called his friend, who called his father the gardener, who, fortunately, called you yesterday morning, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Joe smiled sardonically. “I’ve been a detective fifteen years, and I’m here to tell you, pal, that you are one lucky shit. But if you ever want to come back and work a homicide with me again, that’d be cool—I enjoyed it, you lucky bastard. If you’re interested, I know of an international exchange program. Basically, we send a cop to your side of the pond to learn a few things about insurance fraud, and your folks send you over here for a six-month tour of duty to learn a few things about law enforcement. Might be worth talking to your people about. I’d sort of like it if you stuck around a while longer.”
“Careful, mate,” Flynn said with a grin, “or you’ll have me tearing up.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m really quite touched—”
“I mean it, shut up or I’ll shut you up,” Joe said, but he was grinning. “And before you get too full of yourself, remember, we have a little bet riding on the real reason you’re here. What do those Lloyd’s boys think of you dabbling in homicides when you’re supposed to be doing insurance fraud?”
“Naturally, they would prefer I stick to fraud. Speak of the devil—here we are,” he said, motioning with his head toward the front of the building.
It was Professor Tidwell, all right, walking quickly and purposefully out into the fading light of the afternoon, headed for his car. Joe and Flynn watched him start up, then waited for him to pull up to the exit before easing behind him, pulling onto the street and keeping a distance of a car length between them.