Triumph (20 page)

“Could mean a lot of things. None of the windows were open,” Deke said. “And we know he didn’t go off the roof because the door was locked and the soot and dust in that area, inside and out, also hadn’t been disturbed.”

“Got it.”

“So if he went off the balcony, he didn’t vault it or climb over it. Since there were no marks on the railing, he was probably thrown.”

Gunther had been fit and he was tall. There had to have been a struggle. Deke seemed to be giving her a chance to figure it out. Nice of him. “It took two to do that.”

“Or one man who was strong enough and tall enough to hurl him clear of the railing.”

Kelly thought. “Someone would remember a man like that.”

“It’s a big-city apartment building,” Deke said. “People who live there don’t hang around in the halls. But we’re interviewing everyone, starting at the top and working down. So far no one heard or saw anything out of the ordinary.”

Which reminded Kelly. “An old lady who lives on his floor was at the memorial service. Frances Berry was her name—it seemed to me that she actually knew Gunther.”

“Thank God for old ladies,” Deke said.

“So did you talk to her?”

There was a brief pause. “She was out.” He was making a note. “But we will.”

“Moving right along,” she said briskly, “do you have any details about the autopsy?”

Deke sighed. “I hate to cross the line and give out information.”

“Do you want me to sign a confidentiality agreement?”

He laughed. “I don’t have that kind of authority. And a piece of paper isn’t going to stop you.”

“Just tell me. I’m not going to blurt it out on air. Dave Maples might faint. He can’t stand gore.”

“All right.”

She guessed Deke was consulting a notebook.

“Given the condition of the body, the medical examiner had a tough time identifying subtler signs of trauma, but he’s sure Bach was roughed up before he died. As far as the toxicology analysis, the results won’t be back for a couple of weeks at least.”

“What are they looking for?”

Deke stopped. “Kelly, I’ll be straight with you. This case could tank—and the evidence made inadmissible in court—if you’re all over it.”

“You’re in too deep to back out now,” she retorted. “Believe me, I’m not typing this into a laptop and I’m not going to make a single word of this public, even though it’s killing me. I keep reminding myself that I owe you.”

“What for?”

“Oh, you know, saving my life. That right there could be enough to keep me in line.”

Deke acknowledged that with a laugh. “All right. Drug and toxin tests are routine in an autopsy. What they’re looking for is a heavy-duty tranquilizer, according to the medical examiner. Hang on. I’ll give you the details.”

She waited.

“New psychoactive, experimental in Europe with restricted availability,” Deke reeled off. “In FDA trials here, not likely to be approved in the US.”

Kelly found a pen and scratch pad and jotted down the brand name. That wasn’t classified information. “If the toxicology results take weeks to come back, how do they know the name of the drug?”

“There was an intact pill stuck in Bach’s throat,” Deke explained. “The brand was readable. He may have been unknowingly drugged at first, then forced to swallow more.”

“Why?”

“Maybe his killers wanted to make sure he wouldn’t struggle or scream.”

Kelly shuddered. “That’s awful.”

“There was a new bottle of spray cleaner under the sink. A torn rag soaked in it was found in Bach’s kitchen garbage.”

“How convenient.”

“Not really. We sorted through every damn garbage bag in the building’s Dumpster before we found one with a receipt that had his signature. Ask me how many bags we opened.”

“James Bond didn’t have to do stuff like that. Two hundred and five?”

“Close enough.” Deke continued, “Our guess is that the spray cleaner was used to remove fingerprints, and thoroughly. The techs didn’t pick up a single one, anywhere. With the exception of the balcony, the whole place was immaculate.”

Kelly listened.

“The rest of the rag got stuffed down Gunther’s throat, on top of the pill,” Deke said tersely. “He probably didn’t have the strength to fight his attacker, Kelly. But he didn’t go down easy.”

She was lost in thought after the call concluded, finally switching the key in the ignition so she could listen to the radio and take her mind off what Deke had told her. A rap on the car window snapped her out of her reverie.

Kelly pressed the button to roll it down. “Natalie—sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Completely understandable.” Natalie pulled the collar of her light coat up and took car keys from an Hermès bag. “Do you want to follow me?”

“Yes. But please give me the address. I can use the GPS app on my phone just in case we get separated.”

Natalie provided it and waved to indicate her car. Kelly got out and went around to the driver’s side of hers, taking a long look at the sleek sports car as Natalie unlocked it from steps away. The taillights flashed twice. Their distinctive configuration would be easy to follow.

She slid behind the wheel of her car, thinking how much Natalie’s must have cost. Kelly had never cared all that much about what she drove. But the sports car was definitely out of her league.

 

Natalie Conrad’s mansion in Buckhead was old and oppressive—and totally different from the clean, contemporary look of the planned museum.

Just for the hell of it, Kelly silently counted windows on the second floor as she followed Natalie from the porte-cochère. Monroe Capp hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said the house had twenty bedrooms.

She entered the carved doors with a feeling of apprehension. There was a servant waiting just inside who’d evidently opened them at the sight of Natalie’s car rolling up. She seemed to be in late middle age, wearing a dark uniform dress with a white collar. She didn’t meet Kelly’s gaze, responding first to Natalie’s sharply voiced request.

“Tea and light sandwiches in the drawing room, Finley. And be quick about it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Conrad.”

Natalie took off her lightweight coat and tossed it on a massive sideboard that had pride of place in the foyer. There was nothing else on it but a black marble vase.

The huge house exuded gloom. There were fabric covers over most of the furniture Kelly could see, and the drapes were closed everywhere she looked. A wide, floor-to-ceiling window in the drawing room was the exception. Kelly walked past a set of antique armchairs to get to it, drawn to the splash of sunlight.

“That’s quite a view.”

A plush green lawn that hadn’t been mowed recently sloped down to an ornamental pond surrounded by willows. Nearer to the house were tall, shaggy hedges that almost concealed narrow paths winding through them.

“It used to be much nicer. The grounds are in dire need of landscaping,” was Natalie Conrad’s reply.

Kelly didn’t mind the overgrown look. But she couldn’t say so in those words—Natalie might take it the wrong way. She turned away from the window toward the arrangement of armchairs, noticing for the first time that the wallpaper was sun-faded, except for several large patches where it looked new, as if paintings had been removed.

Natalie, who had seated herself, seemed to expect a question on the subject. “Are you wondering where the art went?”

“I was, yes.”

“Many of our paintings are on extended loan to museums,” the older woman said. “They are safer there, since I so rarely come to Buckhead.”

“That makes sense.”

“I find it more satisfying to give these days. One can only acquire so much before it becomes overwhelming.”

Kelly didn’t know much about the ins and outs of the art world, but obviously a loan and a gift were two different things. It was interesting that Natalie didn’t bother to draw a distinction.

“That’s admirable,” she said. “Will the Conrad collection go to the new museum?”

Natalie turned in her chair to face the empty wall. “Yes. Eventually. I do hope that it will be built in my lifetime. So far, the benefactors have had to use their imaginations. All I have to show them are blueprints and that architect’s model.” She laughed lightly. “We may be years away from approval. So many regulations, permits, forms—thank goodness I have people to see to all that. It never seems to end.”

“Someday it will.”

“Yes. I can’t complain, Kelly. But it is a great shame that Gunther will never see the museum. He would have been so proud.”

Kelly didn’t know exactly what to say. The details of Gunther Bach’s death weren’t something she could share. “It’s hard to believe that he’s gone.”

She paused, hoping Natalie might feel the need to fill in a few blanks. But the older woman seemed pensive. “He shall be missed.”

Kelly wasn’t going to mention Gunther’s financial crash if Natalie hadn’t heard about it—it wasn’t public knowledge yet. With luck, she hadn’t invested with him. Kelly assumed she had advisers and accountants by the score.

But she was beginning to get an inkling that Natalie Conrad didn’t have as much money as people thought. The downturn in the economy had hit some very wealthy people hard—no one was completely immune. This house might be proof of that.

Kelly supposed there wasn’t much point in keeping up a place if no one lived in it, but even so. Despite its luxurious, Old World furnishings, the darkened mansion had a faintly musty atmosphere. And so far she had seen only one servant, though there had to be others around somewhere. It would take a small army to manage a place this size. Still, there was something shabby about Natalie Conrad’s house, grand as it was. Somehow Kelly had been expecting more.

But the Buckhead mansion was only one of many houses that the Conrads had owned and Natalie had inherited. If Kelly officially landed the interview—and even better, coaxed Natalie to reveal more about her connection to the mysteriously dead Gunther Bach—they would shoot it elsewhere.

A telephone rang on a lacquered desk.

“Excuse me.”

Thick rugs softened every step Natalie took to answer it. She murmured a few responses to the caller and ended the conversation, moving to a set of crystal decanters and pouring herself a stiff drink.

“Would you like something stronger than tea?” she asked Kelly. “I can’t imagine why Finley is taking so long.”

“No thanks.”

Natalie shrugged and gulped down the amber liquid, pouring herself another before she returned to sit with Kelly again.

“That was Luc, a young friend of mine, who just called. I think he’s about your age. He’s an artist—I suppose you could say I collect them too.” Her eyes were shining. Alcohol or not, she seemed happier.

Kelly smiled. It wasn’t her job to judge.

“He’s working on a new series about death and rebirth. Luc never does anything frivolous.” Natalie finished her second drink and set the glass aside.

“Oh. How interesting.”

Natalie sat back and ran a hand over the brocade of her armchair. “Which is why he hates this place,” she said.

That was more than Kelly needed to know. She just listened.

“To think I once considered it and everything in it the height of elegance,” Natalie continued. “Now, pah. If there was a fire and it all burned to ashes, I would miss nothing. Too many possessions can be a burden, don’t you agree?”

For someone who had everything, maybe that was easy to say. Kelly only laughed. “It’s not something I think about.”

“And why is that?”

“I have what I need, but that’s not much. I travel a lot and I’ve lived in a lot of different places. I like to be able to just go.”

The arrival of Finley, the servant with no first name, came as a welcome distraction. She carried a large silver tray, laden with all that was needed for afternoon tea, including small, crustless sandwiches. Kelly hadn’t eaten at the memorial service buffet, and the food looked tempting.

At Natalie’s nod, the woman put the tray on the low table between the two chairs and retreated.

“How do you like your tea?” Natalie inquired, preparing to pour.

“With lemon. Thanks.”

She took the porcelain cup from the older woman’s hand and took a sip. It was cool enough to drink. No doubt the kitchen was some distance from the drawing room, and Kelly had guessed that Finley was on her own in it.

The tiny sandwiches were filling and not as posh as they looked. That was tuna fish in them.

The conversation continued somewhat randomly as they ate. Natalie did most of the talking. When they had finished the food, she put down her teacup and glanced out the window. Kelly saw an indistinct figure pass by.

“Dear me. I think I see—yes, that is the landscaper. He’s long overdue.”

Natalie rose and looked through the glass, tapping on it to get the man’s attention. Evidently she succeeded.