Savich and Sherlock looked down at the three dead men on the kitchen floor while Ben filled them in.
“There was another body upstairs, most likely one of the killers. Whoever did this had to be big and strong and fast. These three couldn’t have been easy to take down, much less forcing them to kneel and accept being shot. They were really bad news.”
Sherlock dropped to her knees, studied the three faces, flesh slack and gray, eyes all open, staring at the floor. “This is really bad,” she said. “Really ugly, but no anger, no rage, all business as usual, I’ve got to say. Very controlled. In, do the job, and out. Didn’t take long.”
Horace said, “Yeah, that seems right, but how? Just holding a gun on them doesn’t seem like enough. And I can’t see these three cooperating. No muss, no fuss, just kill us?”
Sherlock lightly touched her palm to the side of Anatoly’s face. “He hasn’t been dead all that long, maybe two hours, more or less, the ME will tell us.” She frowned, then she sniffed. She looked up at Savich. “Dillon, guess what?”
“Busy guy,” Savich said.
“What busy guy?” Horace asked. “What did you smell?”
Sherlock said, “Nothing, Sergeant. We had a cyanide case yesterday, but I don’t smell it here. Ben, you know Kochen was shot with a tranquilizer gun, disabled, then murdered. He was a big guy; the killer didn’t want to take any chances. I think that’s what happened here, too.”
Ben said, “You think this is the same guy who murdered Kochen and Elaine?”
She nodded. “Like you said, the dead men were all big, strong, and vicious, all in prime physical condition but Anatoly. I’d bet my next paycheck all three were unconscious before he dragged them in here, lined them up next to each other, and shot each in the back of the head.” She paused for a moment. “Then he reholstered his gun, job done, and went back to take whatever it was he wanted out of the safe.”
Horace said, “The killer wasn’t alone. Agent Houston found another bad guy is still upstairs, dead, obviously shot in the gut by one of the sons.”
“Then when the son came down yelling and blasting,” Savich said, “the man shot him with the tranquilizer gun, dragged him into the kitchen and killed him, and arranged him with his father and brother. I wager we’ll find some casings and maybe some holes in the banister or in the walls, maybe even his gun.”
Sherlock said, “He didn’t torture them because he knew where to find what he was looking for. He didn’t need them. But why kill them? Maybe because he was told to kill them, or maybe it was simply a reward to himself for a job well done.”
Ben said, “The dead guy upstairs, he bled out, and I don’t think it was fast. His partner just left him.”
Savich said, “No, he wouldn’t care at all, would he?” and he nodded to the three bodies. “Let’s look at the safe again, see if we can’t find a clue to what the killer wanted. And I’d like to look around to see if I can find The Night Tower.”
Horace frowned. “What would a night tower be doing here? What is a night tower?”
Savich smiled. “My grandmother is an artist. The Night Tower is one of her paintings. It was stolen from the Prado in Spain. We’re following a rumor that Mr. Anatoly here had it taken and replaced with a fake, but it was spotted.”