“I’m very frightened now,” Joan said to Conklin. “What if we find him shot and lying dead on the floor? What if my kidnapping was part of a larger plot?”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Joan. We’ll investigate every piece of evidence we find. If a clue surfaces in your memory, you know where to reach me.”
The brass house numbers were embedded in the gateposts that flanked the driveway leading to a handsome Mediterranean-style stucco house with a tiled roof. The gate was open, revealing manicured gardens inside the walls. Conklin pulled his car up the long driveway and parked it between a blue Mercedes XL sedan and a silver Bentley.
“Which one is Robert’s car?” he asked Joan.
“The Mercedes. The Bentley is mine.”
Conklin went around to the passenger side and helped Joan out of the car. He retrieved her handbag from the foot well and held it open for her while she searched inside it for her keys. When she found them, she handed the set to him.
They reached the front door, and Conklin unlocked it. He pushed the door open and said, “Stay here. I’ll go in first to make sure everything is safe.”
Conklin took three steps into the room, entering the foyer. Lights were on inside the house, but the security alarms weren’t set.
He called out, “Mr. Murphy? This is the SFPD.”
There was no answer. Conklin drew his gun and held it out, but he kept the muzzle pointing down. He walked through the foyer, which emptied into a spacious living area decorated with modern furnishings. The windows along the far wall looked out over lawns with topiary and a small pathway of stone steps. A large swimming pool was across the lawn and off to the right.
He called Mr. Murphy’s name again as he rounded a corner. He heard music coming from outside the sliding glass doors, where a set of teak outdoor furniture faced the ocean.
A man stood up and turned to Conklin, holding a sheaf of paper in his hand. He was big, not just tall, but well-built and handsome. He was wearing what looked to be a cashmere half-zip sweater and expensive jeans. He showed no sign of injury.
Conklin said, “Mr. Murphy?”
The man said, “Who the hell are you? And how did you get into my house?”
“I’m Inspector Conklin, SFPD. I’ve brought your wife home from the hospital.”
“Oh? I didn’t know. Why was Joan in the hospital?”
“She was shot, Mr. Murphy. Let me go get her. I’ll tell her that you’re back here.”
Conklin went back out to the front door and told Joan Murphy that her husband seemed fine. She smiled and then started to weep. Conklin holstered his gun and accompanied the frail woman, who was still wearing blue scrubs, paper slides, and an SFPD windbreaker.
When he saw Joan, her husband opened his arms and folded her in. He patted her back as she sobbed against his chest.
“I almost died, Robert. I almost died.”
Conklin thought that Murphy’s actions were warm, but his expression and his affect seemed to be a little distant. Conklin watched and listened as Joan gave Robert a shorthand version of the story as she knew it. But why didn’t Joan’s husband seem shocked by the news?
Joan told Robert that she had woken up in the morgue. Apparently she had been shot in the shoulder and had a wound on her hip as well, but she had no memory of being attacked. Thank goodness she had no broken bones. She just needed some TLC and rest.
There was no mention of the deceased John Doe.
Robert asked her where this had happened and she said, “At the Warwick, Robert. I was found in a hotel room, bloody and unconscious. The police thought I was dead! My jewelry was gone. That lovely pendant of my mother’s. And oh, my God. My rings were taken, too.”
“Why were you at the Warwick?”
“I have no idea how I got there, Robbie. I think that I was drugged and kidnapped.”
“Drugged and kidnapped? My God, Joan. By whom?”
“That’s my theory, but this kind man, Inspector Conklin, is going to figure out what happened and who is responsible.”
“God, I hope so,” Robert said as he hugged her close one more time. “We’re going to take good care of you, dear.”
From inside his embrace, Joan looked up at her husband and smiled.
“I’m going to change into my own comfortable clothes, Robert. I could use a drink. Tell Marjorie I’m very hungry. I have no idea when I last had a meal. I think I’d like chicken stew. That will fix me right up. Inspector, you’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’ll be right back.”
When Joan had left the room, Conklin turned to Robert Murphy and said, “You mind answering a few questions for me?”
Chapter 14
Murphy nodded his head and directed Conklin to a squared, taupe-colored chair. As Conklin sat down, Murphy took a seat in an identical chair that was situated at a right angle from him. Murphy did finger riffs on his knees, looking impatient and resigned.
Conklin said, “These are routine questions, Mr. Murphy. Your wife was shot and left for dead. So I’m going to need details of your movements over the last forty-eight hours.”
Murphy said, “Right. I know this one. You think the husband did it.”
Conklin said, “Not necessarily. Think of this as the way we clear the husband, Mr. Murphy.”
Murphy sighed, raked back his hair with his fingers, and said, “I didn’t leave the property all weekend and I haven’t left it today, either. Marjorie Bright, our housekeeper and cook, can vouch for me. Our pool boy, Peter Carter, saw me Sunday morning when I went for a swim. Gotta stay fit, no? Peter lives in a cottage in the back. He has the weekends off, but he was there on Sunday.”
Conklin said, “You seriously haven’t left the house in two whole days?”
“Honestly, it’s been longer than that. I have a part in a movie. It’s a thriller called Case Management. Craig Noble is directing and I play Evan Slaughter, the lead detective. I’ve been reading and rehearsing my lines for these past couple days. Marjorie even helped me run through them. She usually does. Anyway, we start shooting next week.”
Conklin asked, “Were you contacted by anyone demanding ransom for Joan’s return?”
“What? No. Of course not. I would have called the police if that had happened.”
Conklin said, “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to hurt Joan?”
“I doubt it. But she does have a strong personality. She always says what she thinks. She’s on a lot of committees and charity boards. Wherever money and politics are involved, people can get pretty pissed off. Thankfully, Joan keeps me out of her business.”
Conklin nodded, wondering, Does this actor really think that murders spring from charity board decisions? Both Joan and Robert had B-movie theories to real-life murder. It was just another clue that they might be hiding something.
Rich said, “Mr. Murphy, when your wife didn’t come home Sunday night, weren’t you worried about her?”
“As I said, Joan does what Joan wants to do. We don’t question each other, Inspector. And if your next question is ‘Do you love your wife?’ the answer is ‘I like her independence, her humor, and her intelligence.’ And yes, I do love her as well.”