“No sign of forced entry and not much of a struggle.”
“What about the housekeeper?”
“In the same room as Kettrick.” The sergeant accessed her own pocket spinner. “Anna Hernandez, fifty-eight, single, been with the family six years seven months. Had combinations to every lock in the place, used the maglide tube to do the shopping, lived in room downstairs in front. Trusted family employee. Too bad for her.”
“How was she killed? Same as Kettrick?”
“Looks that way.”
“Coroner done a determination on that yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Welles frowned slightly. “Wonder what’s takin”em so long? They’re talking gun, but without real assurance.”
“What kind?”
“Ask ’em yourself. Me, I’m just a lowly sergeant. They don’t tell me nuthin’.”
She led him down a hallway, past other members of the department intent on their work.
“I just got a quick look at the body before the boys from forensics descended and shooed out everybody who didn’t know the secret handshake. If a gun was used, it was a weird little sucker.”
“Why do you think that?”
“No blood. I got an early call, got here fast. There’s no blood anywhere, Vernon. He’s just lying dead in the middle of the floor and the old gal’s nearby on some steps, and both of ’em as clean as an embalmer’s sample pack.”
“Then why do they think it’s a shooting?”
“Because each of the poor dears has two holes in ’em. Kettrick in his neck, the housekeeper in the middle of her back. And no blood. Holes aren’t real helpful, either. No vital organs punctured, appears to be complete cauterization at point-of-entry, but they’re still both dead.”
“The main veins and arteries are intact?”
“Yup. Coroner’s been talkin’ trauma. Hell, what trauma?
No signs of battery, use of a blunt instrument, no other marks of any kind on either of ’em.”
Moody glanced up the long hallway. “Where y’all taking me?”
“My secret orgy room. Where’d you think?” She let out a derisive snort. “Apparently this guy Kettrick was a world-class collector of primitive art. To me it all looks like the kind of junk you find out on lawns at Labor Day garage sales over in Clearwater, but it must be worth something to somebody, because it’s housed in a room all to its lonesome. Place is built like a vault. Hurricane-flood-proof walls, its own climate control system: you name it. Then there’s the security setup. First class. I wouldn’t give you squat for the best of the collection, but Nickerson from your office— yeah, he’s here too—he says it’s museum quality. All that tells me is that it’s the kind of stuff rich people buy for investment purposes. You can judge for yourself.”
The big room was suffused with bright, soft light that spilled from unobtrusive sources set high in the ceiling. Bolted to the neutral gray walls were cases and cabinets of tempered glass. Sculptures of wood and bone and clay were mounted on pedestals welded to the floor. Some of the pieces in the room were oddly appealing in appearance. A few were pretty. Moody thought many downright ugly.
Welles pointed out Nickerson, pinched Moody on the butt, and left him with a wink. Moody watched her go, then turned and entered the vault.
He knew Nickerson well enough. They’d teamed together on several cases, even though Moody kept mostly to headquarters while his younger counterpart worked the glamour districts along the coast. Moody didn’t envy the younger detective his rapid advancement or notoriety. Every cat to its ashcan. In a beachfront pit the sly, slim Nickerson would blend in effectively while Moody would stand out like a beached baleen. Maybe the guy got laid more often, but he
didn’t make any more money than Moody and he didn’t command any more respect.
In his own defense, Nickerson wasn’t responsible for his good looks. Nor was he a poseur. Every cop in the Greater Tampa Bay area knew Moody’s reputation, and Nickerson was no exception. He valued the big man’s advice and opinions and didn’t make fun of him.
“What d’you think of this stuff, Vernon?” he said by way of greeting.
Moody looked round the museum. That was the only way to think of it, as a museum.
“Not my taste. Y’all know how it is with art. You got this here stuff at one end and black velvet paintings of St. Elvis at the other.” He held up a big hand and wiggled his fingers. “The kind of stuff I like’s somewheres in the middle.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Want to see the latest exhibit?”
Near the back of the room someone from forensics was running a scanner over Kettrick’s body. The industrialist had been a big man, older than Moody and packing a lot less excess avoirdupois. Six-three or -four, the detective estimated. About two-ten, two-twenty. Someone who could manhandle an attacker, middle-aged or not. It hadn’t saved him, just as age hadn’t protected the unlucky housekeeper. Moody decided Mrs. Kettrick was damn lucky she’d been in Georgia this past Tuesday. Otherwise this room would be serving as morgue for three bodies instead of two.
He didn’t linger. The coroner’s report would tell him everything useful.
What caught his interest was the wall behind the body. Bright art lights illuminated every square inch of it. Something had been displayed there quite recently. Now there was nothing except four chromed bolts from which hung jagged shards of shattered plexan.
At the base of the wall was a pile of debris composed of more transparent fragments mixed with broken bits of wood and colored sand. Kneeling, Moody picked up a handful and let the brightly dyed grains trickle through his fingers. That’s all it was: sand and sawdust. It smelled dry and musty. He glanced up at Nickerson.
“What the hell’s this stuff?”
“You mean, what was it.” The younger detective eyed the pile bemusedly. “A big picture of some kind. We checked with the widow.”
Moody rose. “She had enough sense to tell you what was missing and what wasn’t?”
“Nope, but she did know where her husband stored the catalog for his collection. Easy enough to access.” He waved at the rest of the room. “There’s nothing else missing, and this isn’t really missing either. Just vandalized.” Moody grunted, studying the pile. “Pulverized is more like it. Y’all said it was a picture. What’s with the sand?”
“It was a sandpainting.”
“You mean, a painting on sand?”
“That’s what I thought.” Nickerson brushed self-consciously at his hair. “The sand itself is colored first, then applied to a background. In this case, a wooden one. Cheap wood at that.”
“Great. So we’re looking for a homicidal critic.”
“Doesn’t this look like more than just vandalism to you, Vernon? I mean, whoever busted up this piece of work wanted to make sure nobody could put it back together again.”
“Okay, so we’re looking for a serious homicidal critic.” The detective shook his head slowly. “Somebody slips in here, murders Kettrick, kills his housekeeper ’cause she’s a witness, takes nothing. All he or she does is waste one piece of primitive art, which if it was as gruesome as the rest of the stuff in here, hardly seems worth the price of a cheap arson job, much less a double murder.”
Nickerson was nodding. “That’s about what we’ve got. You make anything off that?”
“Off the top of my head?” Moody responded without hesitation.
“Off the top of your head.”
“A nut, but a nut with a purpose.”
“Why purposeful?”
“Because he only went after this one item. A total psycho would’ve trashed more than this. Since he only wasted one piece, it stands to reason his purpose in coming here was to do just that. He knew what he wanted to do before he got here, knew what he was after.” Moody studied the pile of debris thoughtfully. “Whoever did this took their time making sure. Not much of a motive to work with.”