Moody now, having never been much for looks, didn’t particularly care how he aged. He observed the good-looking guys on the force, the handsome ones with the sculpted faces and athletic bodies, as they fought losing battles with receding hairlines and sagging waists, and he found he didn’t envy them. It was not a bad thing to be content within oneself, he’d decided.
He adopted his most compassionate expression, a halfmoon smile that gave him the look of a tranquil Buddha, or a beardless Santa Claus. It made him resemble a big, sloppy, overgrown hound dog and took away from his bulk, which he knew some people found intimidating. Mrs. Kettrick took notice of him but did not cease her crying.
The coroner techs melted away. Berkowitz gave him a standard cop “Hope-you-have-better-luck-than-I-did” grimace and went off to put the make on a pretty worker from forensics.
“I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Kettrick.”
She didn’t try to reply.
“I’m Detective Moody. I know y’all have been through hell this morning, but I have to ask you some questions. It ain’t quite the way I’m supposed to work it, but if y’all don’t feel you can manage any more right now we can do this later. I’m sure you understand, though, that the more information we have and the sooner we can stick it into the web for analysis, the faster we can start following up potential leads.”
Still not looking up at him, she nodded, blew her nose softly. Moody watched in fascination. It was the first time he’d ever seen anyone blow their nose in sixty-dollar-a-foot linen.
“You’ve been away from home for how long?”
“Two weeks. Some family friends—their daughter was getting married at the Jekyll Island Club. I was helping with the arrangements. I’m supposed—I was supposed to go back next week for the ceremony.” As she spoke she waved the handkerchief around indifferently.
She was keeping herself under control. Enough control to have hired a husband killer? The speculation on his part was as inevitable as it was premature.
Motive? None visible yet. Certainly not money. Why kill to obtain what she already possessed? Still, people could weave webs as complex as anything the spingeneers could imagine.
“Mrs. Kettrick, would you know of any reason why someone might want to kill your husband?”
“Kill him?” She chose a fresh handkerchief from the endless supply in her purse. “I know of a few dozen competitors who probably wished he’d drop dead, but not who’d have him murdered. Of course, you can’t tell about people anymore, can you?”
No you couldn’t, he thought silently. Aloud he was consoling. “I expect someone in your husband’s position must have made his share of enemies. What we need to know is if you’re aware of anyone threatening him overtly.”
“If so, he never mentioned it to me. Elroy didn’t bring his business home with him. He was very good about that. I know it was hard for him, and I always respected and admired him for it. He let us have a real family life. He was such a good man, detective. He worked hard and he took care of his people. Do you know that last Christmas he called in every one of his district managers and their wives? They thought it was for business.” Her expression was tight as she fought the emotions within.
“He’d chartered a plane. He flew all of them down to Havana. For a week, in the best hotel, at company expense. In addition to their regular vacations.”
Moody smiled gently. “Sounds like a man I wouldn’t have minded working for myself.”
“Elroy was no saint, mind. That man could be hard. But he was honest and fair. What I’m tryin’ to say, I guess, is that I don’t think he had any more or less enemies than any other man in his position.”
“What about outside the business?”
As he listened to her replies he would glance occasionally at his spinner. Not to make sure it was recording: that function was practically fail-safe. He was studying the shifting readout on the voice analyzer. The little telltale stayed solid cool green, indicating she was continuing to tell the truth. Though not admissible in a court of law, it was a useful little tool for on-site analysis. There were times when a little ambivalence on the part of a suspect could be highly informative.
Moody wasn’t one of those old-fashioned cops who relied on instinct and personal observation. He was a ready convert to whatever new equipment police R&D managed to chum out. Anything that made his job easier made life easier, and God knew he was all for easy. Experienced cops claimed to have a sixth sense about crime. Moody preferred to use the web.
His spinner told him that he was talking to a truly agonized, distraught widow and not some West Florida version of Lady Mac. It confirmed his initial impressions. Despite that, he would not rule her out as a suspect. Moody never ruled anyone out as a suspect until a case was declared closed. And even then, there were times when he was reluctant.
He questioned her a little longer before excusing himself. Follow-up interviews would provide more information, which he could study at leisure back at the office. When the initial shock wore off some, she might be able to recall useful details presently submerged in her sea of emotional distress.
First you had to assemble the parts of the puzzle. Only then could you start putting them together. He wandered off in search of additional pieces.
“Hi, Nance,” he said to the slight figure working the far side of the living room. She turned to grin at him.
“Hi, good lookin’. Wonderin’ when you’d show.”
He didn’t know why he felt so comfortable with Nancy Welles. Maybe because of all the women he knew on the force, she was the only one who shared his love of fishing. Or maybe it was her sense of humor. Most cops had one, but it was usually not gentle in nature. Nancy’s was.
“You just got here,” she said.
“How’d you know that?”
She gestured past him. “Saw you talking to the widow. That’d be the first thing you’d do. I know your style.”
“Is that a fact?”
“’Tis.”
“So what’ve we got?” Time enough for gentle banter back at the office.
“Not a whole lot.”
“Motive?”
“Preliminary psych suggests something personal. Not necessarily involving the missus. Maybe a disgruntled employee. All pure spec at this point.”
I’ll bet it wasn’t a district manager, Moody reflected silently. Aloud he said, “I just did my own voice scan.” The sergeant nodded, looking past him. “Everybody’s been running her specs. She seems clean. If she’s covering, she’s a champ at it. As for the Jekyll alibi, it checks out too. Couple hundred witnesses.”
“But she found the body and called in.”
“Kettrick’s been dead approximately thirty hours this morning. She only got in a couple hours ago. Air shuttle, everything checks out.”
“Did Kettrick play around?”
“He was a man, wasn’t he?”
“You’re mean-spirited, Nance.”
“Like hell. I just know men. But they’re no dead mistresses lyin’ around, if that’s what you mean. No evidence of any live ones somewhere else, neither. Just the housekeeper.”
Yes, the housekeeper, Moody thought. Whoever had killed Kettrick had also taken the time to eliminate the only witness.
“So we’re back to the disgruntled employee theory.”
“It’s as good a one to start with as any,” she responded. “Maybe some subsidiary owned by one of Kettrick’s companies up in North Dakota fired some guy ten years ago and he’s spent the last decade plotting his revenge. Happens. Kettrick might not even have known the guy who deleted him, though the evidence so far suggests otherwise.”
“How so?”