Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

Aside from the hair, her features were unremarkable—neither especially ugly or pretty. A face you wouldn’t notice in a crowd. Dark cinnamon skin. No makeup. One very small silver stud in each ear. But you might notice her eyes. She had very intense dark brown eyes.

“Inspector Manziuk?” she asked coolly.

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re Ryan and you’re secondary.”

“Have you seen the body yet?” Her voice was businesslike, well modulated.

“Just got here.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

Manziuk raised his eyebrows, but he picked up his briefcase and acquiesced without a word.

Constable Waite led the way along the right front of the house and through an archway into a garden. They walked by beautifully pruned trees and shrubs, over several tiny bridges topping rippling streams, down a cobblestone path to a cement bench. There, in the midst of all this beauty, spotlighted by a beam of sunlight, lay the body.

Manziuk stared for a moment at the neat foot in the gold high heels. Why did women wear such flimsy shoes? He followed the foot up the beautifully formed legs to the peach sundress. Good figure, he thought. He looked at the cascades of tumbled blonde hair—golden blonde, he thought they called it. Natural? Perhaps. Looked real. Nice tan. But it had a bluish tinge to it now.

He had a good look, then nodded to one of the men from the Forensics Identification Team, and the body was rolled over.

Manziuk looked at the flushed face for an instant, and stepped back. Beside him, Ryan made a choking sound and turned away.

A short man in a creased brown suit stepped toward them. “Not very nice, is it? I’ll just finish my examination now.”

Manziuk said, “Go ahead,” but his voice was unsteady. God, how terrible it was. Even after twenty-nine years on the force, the sight of death still made him queasy, especially death such as this. He could understand mercy killing—understand, not condone; and he could also understand, but not condone, killing in anger. But this! No, he would never understand this kind of killing.

At his elbow, Ryan coughed.

He looked down at her and a smile twisted his lips. “First?”

She nodded her head. “This kind.”

“Get used to it,” he said, knowing he never would. “I’ve seen lots worse.”

Ryan grimaced, then took a firm grip on the strap of her purse. “What do we do now?”

“We talk to the pathologist here and see if he can determine the cause of death. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“You know?”

“I think so. What do you think?”

Ryan bit her lip and moved closer to see past the kneeling doctor. “Her face looks flushed, but that could be just lividity from the blood pooling there since she was lying on her stomach. However, I’d say the other facial features and the bruising on her neck indicate strangulation.”

“That’s right,” agreed the small man, who stood up and began dusting the knees of his pants. “A lot of bruising on the back of the neck and a line around the neck. Straight line. No noticeable abrasions or scratching.”

Manziuk was writing in a small coil notebook. “Something smooth?”

“That’s right. Smooth and thin.”

“Scarf?”

“Maybe, but I’d prefer something firmer. A smooth rope, if there is such a thing.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Rigor mortis is just starting. ’Course, it’s awfully hot. Speed things up. Some lividity. Still on the warm side. I’d guess not earlier than 2:00 p.m.”

“The body was found shortly after 4:00 p.m.,” Constable Waite said.

“No question it was murder?” Manziuk asked Munsen flatly, knowing the answer.

“None whatsoever.”

“Okay.”

“Terrible thing,” said the pathologist. “I hope you catch him.”

“Him?”

“What? Oh, I see. No, not necessarily. A strong woman could have done it. If it were done quickly, so the victim didn’t struggle too much, it could have been over in a couple of minutes. No, you can’t rule out the women.” The stooped, slightly shabby doctor leaned over to study the neck again. “See the marks at the front of her neck there?” he asked. “She clawed at the rope. Not for long, though. Whoever did it had no hesitation. A very fast, clean job.”

“When can you do the autopsy?” Manziuk asked.

“Got to stand in line. Not before three tomorrow afternoon. Do my best to work it in. Should be straightforward enough, poor thing.”

“Was she killed here?”

“From her position, I’d suggest she was sitting on the bench and someone got behind her. Afterward, she seems to have toppled off the bench face first.”

Manziuk looked around. About eight feet in front of the bench, a unique Japanese waterfall gave forth a tiny stream of water that likely fascinated many visitors to the house. He’d seen something similar in a Vancouver garden he’d visited with his wife years ago. Someday he’d like to put something like that in his own backyard. A curiosity. But for now that was beside the point. Not to mention impossible due to lack of time.

But he had more time than the girl who maybe a few hours ago had been watching that fountain but was now lying dead.

He continued to stare at the fountain and bench for a moment. Then, as if remembering where he was, he turned and saw the small group from Ident waiting. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thinking. You’ve done a preliminary search?”

“Yes, sir.” Special Constable Ford stepped out from the others. “Not much. Considering it’s outdoors, this place is clean as a whistle. We found a couple of cigarette butts, a wrapper from a chocolate bar, and this,” he held out a paper bag and Manziuk took it. Inside was something that looked like a loose wreath made from some kind of daisies. “Could mean something, I guess,” Ford said.

“Let me jot down a few things and then I’ll release the body.” Manziuk made more notes. Then he pulled out a sketch pad.

“What now?” Ryan asked.

“Now we do a sketch of the scene. Got a pad?”

“I have a recorder.” She opened her purse and pulled out a tiny black unit.

“Nice. But what’s that got to do with the scene?”

“I can describe it on tape. Same result. Besides, there’s a team to take photos and a video.”

“Sure there is. But what if the batteries fail or the film won’t develop properly or the tape gets wrecked? What then?”

“All those things won’t happen.”

“Maybe. But I still do my own sketches. It helps me think.”

There was silence as he began a quick drawing of the body, the bench, and the fountain. Then he pulled a measuring tape out of his pocket. He walked to the bushes behind the bench. He turned to look at Ryan, who was standing still. “Before we do anything else, we go over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. We talk to the witnesses later. After we have some kind of idea what we’re talking about.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Watch.”

She bit her bottom lip.

He went over every inch of ground in the clearing and the area surrounding the body, measuring and recording the measurements on the sketch he had drawn.

“I could be helping,” she said at last.

“How many cases have you been on in homicide so far?”

“This is my first, but—”

“So watch and learn.”

When he’d finished the sketch, he pulled out his own recorder and went over the scene and the measurements on it.

“Okay, the body’s all yours,” he said to the Forensics Team as he put his notebook and tape recorder away.

A few minutes later, with Ryan hurrying to match his long strides, Manziuk followed Constable Waite’s directions through the garden to the back of the house. In a way, he wished his wife were here. She would have enjoyed the garden.

Well, he couldn’t say his job didn’t take him to interesting places. Not all as ritzy as this, though. Not by a long shot.

When they passed through the wooden archway that marked the end or beginning of the garden, depending on which way a person was going, Manziuk took a few more long strides and then turned to look behind. Little chance that anyone not at the scene of the murder could have witnessed what had taken place. The shrubs and hedges and manicured trees were too dense.

He turned and gazed up at the side of the imposing house. There were five windows, three on ground level and two above. He’d have to have a look out them.

He continued down the pathway. In front of them was a large swimming pool surrounded by tiled patio. The patio in turn was sprinkled with pots of yellow, red, and white flowers, half a dozen red, yellow, and white striped lounge chairs, and three yellow tables with vivid red umbrellas and matching red chairs. Despite the intense heat, the patio was empty and rather forlorn-looking.

Beyond the pool area, he saw what looked to be another garden. This one was much less dense, though it did abound with trellises. The arched opening was lavishly surrounded by climbing roses.

At the end of the pool near the house was a low building which Manziuk took to be a change house. This sort of place would have something like that. All the frills.

Four sets of patio doors came out onto the patio, along with a regular door near the other end of the house.

At this door stood Special Constable Benson, a man Manziuk knew well. He was talking earnestly with another officer who looked to be standing guard.

Manziuk strode toward them, wondering as he went what awaited him inside the house. Thus far, the place was like a movie set, with the police running around like so many ants. But inside that house were real people, and one of them could be a murderer.

“Well, Benson, what brings you here?” The question was given in a rather amused tone.

The young constable Benson had been talking with looked slightly offended at the interruption, but Benson ignored him. “Perhaps we should find a place to sit down, sir.”

“Excellent idea. Lead the way.”

Benson opened the door and went into a back hallway. The kitchen was to the right, a large pantry to the left. “This way, please. Mr. Brodie said we are welcome to use his study.

“That should do nicely,” Manziuk replied.

It was a comfortable room with two walls of books, mainly legal ones, with a few mysteries, some popular novels, and old yearbooks, presumably from Brodie’s university days, scattered throughout. There was a fireplace on the third wall, with two orange overstuffed chairs drawn up in front, a table with a typewriter tucked into one corner, a desk in the center of the room, and a few straight-backed business chairs. There was a laptop computer open on the desk.

“This will do quite nicely,” Manziuk remarked.

“You take the desk,” he said to Benson as he pulled one of the chairs around so it faced the desk. Then he noticed Ryan standing just inside the door. “Close the door and find a chair. Sam, this is Detective Constable Ryan on her first homicide. Ryan, Special Constable Benson, Public Affairs Officer.”

Manziuk settled into his chair. “Okay, what have we got that brings you here?”

Benson leaned comfortably into the executive chair and stretched his hands behind his head.

“Want a cushy desk job?” Manziuk asked.

Benson laughed. “Not for a while yet.” He sat forward again. “Okay, let’s look at this one. You’ve heard of Brodie, Fischer, and Martin?”

“The name rings a bell.”

“Law firm with a lot of important clients. Clients that don’t want notoriety, if you know what I mean.”

“So they have a lot of squeamish clients. What’s that to me?”

“Jillian Martin, the victim, is the wife of the youngest partner, Peter Martin. It would be unfortunate if there was a lot of destructive publicity surrounding the case.”

“So you want to do the talking to the press, is that it?”

“In a nutshell.”

“And am I supposed to investigate thoroughly everyone who might be involved?”

“Absolutely. We don’t want whitewash. But we don’t want unnecessary speculation, either. And as little dirt as possible. So, have I got your cooperation?”

“You can tell the press anything you like. But you don’t touch my investigation.”

“You’ve got it.”

“I mean it, Sam. I don’t want any problems from sensitive toes calling headquarters because I accidentally trod on them.”

“I’ll let you have as much line as you need. But you know the score. So try not to churn up too much water unless you’ve got the fish hooked good and solid. Especially if it’s a big fish. Okay?” Obviously Manziuk wasn’t the only one who thought his job had a lot of similarities to angling.

“Fine. We’ll need a search warrant for the house.”

“It’s on the way.”

“Good. Now get out of here and let me do my job.”

“One question. We’ve got a young woman here. What are the chances this is connected to the four unsolved cases you’re working on?”

“Doubtful. The other four all had red hair. This woman is blond. The method used is similar, but the location is very different. And if it turns out it was somebody in this house, the chances are virtually nil.”