But then he had spoken to a dead man on the highway, and after that, a corpse had looked up at him at the morgue and spoken….
Ridiculous. It was all ridiculous.
He’d been working too hard. Or not getting enough sleep. Hell, maybe he actually needed to start drinking more.
“Make yourself at home,” he told Genevieve.
He couldn’t help watching her as she looked around his apartment.
And he couldn’t help wondering if he didn’t have a little bit of a chip on his shoulder where she was concerned. He’d always worked hard and made a decent income, and he was good at investing the extra, so finances weren’t a worry. But Genevieve O’Brien was the kind of rich that went beyond most people’s dreams, including his.
Still, she had chosen a life of service to others, even before her kidnapping. She had worked the meanest streets in town. She had tried to save prostitutes and their children. She had fought against heroin and crack addiction, and dealt with those who were down and out and even those suffering from AIDS. She had never given any indication that she was a spoiled rich kid just because her family had obscene amounts of money.
She smiled, her eyes meeting his. “Joe, this place is great. That’s one of the most fantastic fireplaces ever.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Kitchen is there, so help yourself if you want something to drink. I’ve usually got beer, wine, soda. And food, if you’re hungry. There’s a TV over there, and a pool table downstairs, if you get bored. I’ll be in my office, right down the hall.”
“Thanks. And don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Mind if I go through your CD collection?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, still feeling oddly awkward, and walked down the hall to his office. It was lined with oak bookshelves and three-drawer filing cabinets. His desk was an antique that might have belonged to Uriah Heap, if he’d been real and not a character in a book.
He put through a call to Raif Green at his home.
“Hey, Joe, got anything?” Raif asked as soon as Joe identified himself.
“No, sorry. I was hoping you might have something to tell me.”
“To tell you the truth…we basically have nothing,” Raif admitted. “Except what we’ve known from the beginning. Thorne Bigelow knew his killer. He let the person in, and he was willing to sit there and drink wine with him or her. So we’re looking at friends and acquaintances.”
“What’s your take on the butler?”
“Apparently, he ‘buttled’ very well,” Raif said.
“But he was there the whole time,” Joe pointed out.
“We don’t have a thing on him. We searched the house, but there was no sign of poison anywhere, including in his quarters. Naturally we looked at his son, but there was nothing to prove he was there earlier. Same thing with the aunt. The two of them arrived together.”
“Still, I’m assuming the son had the most to gain from his death?”
“Of course. We’ve talked to Bigelow’s attorney, and except for some special endowments and individual bequests, Jared Bigelow inherits everything.”
“I’m going to assume you’ve looked into the rest of the Ravens’ alibis?” Joe said.
He heard Raif’s sigh. “Yes, of course.”
“Want to give me a list?”
“Larry Levine was at the paper.”
“On the weekend?”
“Yeah, a doorman vouched for him. Brook Avery was at home, watching television. He spoke to a neighbor around three o’clock. Um, hang on. I’ll get my notes.” There was some shuffling. Joe could hear a woman’s voice, calling Raif to dinner. He promised her that he’d be right there. Joe tried to imagine Raif Green’s domestic life. Sometimes he seemed sad and burned-out, but he had kids at home. And a wife. He investigated murders every day, then went home to kids and homework and meatloaf.
Raif came back on the line. “Nat Halloway was working on his clients’ files at his office. He was seen by a cleaning woman. Don Tracy, the actor…was rehearsing a one-man play. We verified his alibi with the director and the rest of the cast. Lila Hawkins was at a blood-donation center, seen by a dozen people around four o’clock. Barbara Hirshorn…home alone watching television. Verified by a neighbor, who saw Barbara when she went out for groceries. Lou Sayles was at an afternoon party for a retiring schoolteacher. Out in Brooklyn Heights. Verified by half a dozen people. I think we’ve got them all covered. Oh, yeah, your friend. Eileen Brideswell. She was home, too, verified by Bertha Landry, her live-in maid, and Henry Grant, her…jack of all trades, I guess you’d call him. Besides, I can guarantee you that Eileen Brideswell is as law-abiding as they come.”
“Thanks,” Joe said. “But you know, Raif…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not sure any one of those is a really good alibi, the kind that guarantees someone didn’t slip out to Bigelow’s place for a half hour or so.”
“Yeah, I know,” Raif said.