Read Online The Art of Detection by Laurie R. King - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie R. King
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery Fiction, California, Police Procedural, San Francisco, Policewomen, San Francisco (Calif.), Murder - Investigation, Policewomen - California - San Francisco, Kate (Fictitious character), Martinelli
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leather briefcase in his hand. The entire package read: lawyer called in on his day off. His hair was carefully styled to hide the fact that it was going thin on top, and the tan of his face in winter testified to either a Mexican holiday or hours on the slopes. One hand jabbed his controls at the car, which responded with a flash of lights. Kate heard him call a greeting to the rose pruner across the street as she opened the door to let him in.
“Inspector Martinelli? Tom Rutland. Sorry to make you wait for me.” He didn’t sound in the least sorry; still, in spite of her instant antagonism it was all Kate could do not to reach out and caress the sumptuous leather of his jacket. His casual day-off shirt was either silk or heavy rayon, and just under the fold of the collar was a small pin that read “221B.” He had no goggle marks around his eyes: Mexico, not ski slopes.
“No problem,” she replied easily, standing back to let him in. “This is Inspector Williams, from the Park Police.”
Hands were shaken, then the lawyer arranged his face into a suitably mournful set, lowered his voice, and said, “I was shocked to hear of Philip’s death. He was a friend, as well as a client. What happened? Not an automobile accident—I saw his car outside.” He directed his question to Williams, and Kate allowed the Park Service man to answer.
“No,” Williams said. “Mr. Rutland, there appears to be a possibility that Mr. Gilbert was murdered.”
“ Murdered? Philip? A break-in, oh God, I told him he should upgrade that alarm system of his—”
“We’ve found no signs of a break-in, Mr. Rutland, and his body was found elsewhere.”
“Then, what?”
“As I said, it’s under investigation. Were you friends?”
“Murdered?” Rutland repeated, working to get his mind around the idea. Clearly, the lawyer’s practice did not embrace a lot of criminal law.
“You say you were friends?” Williams prompted. This time, to effect.
“Yes. Not close friends, but I suppose about as close as Philip had. The kind of friendship that, when he needed to consult me about something, he’d schedule it for late morning and when we finished we’d go for lunch. Mostly I saw him at a dinner group we both belonged to. I’d be seeing him next week. I’ll have to tell the others about it. Christ, it’s hard to believe.”
“Mr. Rutland, do you know of any business Mr. Gilbert might have had in the parkland just north of the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“What, on Point Bonita? Not that I know of. He isn’t—wasn’t—much of an outdoorsman.”
To say nothing of the fact that he was in his pajamas, thought Kate.
“Why?” the lawyer asked. “Is that where he…where you found him?”
“Yes,” Williams answered, “although it would appear that he died elsewhere.”
“Murdered. Jesus.”
“It is only a possibility,” Williams reminded him. “Is there at least some family?”
“He has a cousin somewhere in the Midwest, two nieces in Texas, an ex-wife in Boston. I don’t think he was close to any of them. If it’s someone to identify the body you need, I could do it.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, if you could let us have the family’s names and phone numbers, we’ll at least need to talk to them.”
“I didn’t bring that information with me. I’ll put it together for you when I get back, and e-mail or fax it to you. But I did bring a copy of the will, I figured you’d need me to go over it with you.”
“That was very thoughtful.”
Rutland looked around, as if realizing for the first time that they’d been standing in the gloomy entranceway all this time. “You want to go up to the study, where there’s light?”
“Um, let me just check if the room’s clear.” Kate left Williams and the lawyer downstairs and trotted up to stick her head inside the door to the study. “The lawyer’s here, has some papers he wants to go over. How long until we won’t be in your way?”
“We’re
“Inspector Martinelli? Tom Rutland. Sorry to make you wait for me.” He didn’t sound in the least sorry; still, in spite of her instant antagonism it was all Kate could do not to reach out and caress the sumptuous leather of his jacket. His casual day-off shirt was either silk or heavy rayon, and just under the fold of the collar was a small pin that read “221B.” He had no goggle marks around his eyes: Mexico, not ski slopes.
“No problem,” she replied easily, standing back to let him in. “This is Inspector Williams, from the Park Police.”
Hands were shaken, then the lawyer arranged his face into a suitably mournful set, lowered his voice, and said, “I was shocked to hear of Philip’s death. He was a friend, as well as a client. What happened? Not an automobile accident—I saw his car outside.” He directed his question to Williams, and Kate allowed the Park Service man to answer.
“No,” Williams said. “Mr. Rutland, there appears to be a possibility that Mr. Gilbert was murdered.”
“ Murdered? Philip? A break-in, oh God, I told him he should upgrade that alarm system of his—”
“We’ve found no signs of a break-in, Mr. Rutland, and his body was found elsewhere.”
“Then, what?”
“As I said, it’s under investigation. Were you friends?”
“Murdered?” Rutland repeated, working to get his mind around the idea. Clearly, the lawyer’s practice did not embrace a lot of criminal law.
“You say you were friends?” Williams prompted. This time, to effect.
“Yes. Not close friends, but I suppose about as close as Philip had. The kind of friendship that, when he needed to consult me about something, he’d schedule it for late morning and when we finished we’d go for lunch. Mostly I saw him at a dinner group we both belonged to. I’d be seeing him next week. I’ll have to tell the others about it. Christ, it’s hard to believe.”
“Mr. Rutland, do you know of any business Mr. Gilbert might have had in the parkland just north of the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“What, on Point Bonita? Not that I know of. He isn’t—wasn’t—much of an outdoorsman.”
To say nothing of the fact that he was in his pajamas, thought Kate.
“Why?” the lawyer asked. “Is that where he…where you found him?”
“Yes,” Williams answered, “although it would appear that he died elsewhere.”
“Murdered. Jesus.”
“It is only a possibility,” Williams reminded him. “Is there at least some family?”
“He has a cousin somewhere in the Midwest, two nieces in Texas, an ex-wife in Boston. I don’t think he was close to any of them. If it’s someone to identify the body you need, I could do it.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, if you could let us have the family’s names and phone numbers, we’ll at least need to talk to them.”
“I didn’t bring that information with me. I’ll put it together for you when I get back, and e-mail or fax it to you. But I did bring a copy of the will, I figured you’d need me to go over it with you.”
“That was very thoughtful.”
Rutland looked around, as if realizing for the first time that they’d been standing in the gloomy entranceway all this time. “You want to go up to the study, where there’s light?”
“Um, let me just check if the room’s clear.” Kate left Williams and the lawyer downstairs and trotted up to stick her head inside the door to the study. “The lawyer’s here, has some papers he wants to go over. How long until we won’t be in your way?”
“We’re
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