“Yeah,” Dorry said shortly. “That she wanted to kill him.”
“Yes.” Adamat sighed inwardly. This was a crime of rage, not of desperation. Someone had to drop the frying pan, then pick up the candlestick and make sure Brezé was dead, bashing his skull in for thirty or forty seconds straight. Not to say the cook wasn’t capable of rage. He’d have to get her alone for an interview.
Dorry nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. He raised his chin in challenge. “All right, constable. What do you think happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Adamat said. “I try not to jump to conclusions. But I don’t think we can rule out any other kind of foul play.”
“Oh, and who else could have done this?”
“We’ll have to find out. Look for motive, capability. I would rule out self-defense-the motive of the cook-because he was struck from behind. I’ll need to interview the staff.”
Dorry sneered. “My men are already doing that. The cook is the only one with the strength to pull this off. You saw the butler. He’s ancient, and he’s about the most hale of everyone who was in building at the time.”
“Could it have been a burglary?”
“The windows and doors were all locked last night and this morning.”
“What about Lady Brezé?”
“As a witness?”
“As a suspect.”
Dorry scoffed. “Lady Brezé is a twig.”
“Lady Brezé was a championship boxer at Jileman University and has publically castigated her husband for his dalliances.”
“She’s also a second cousin to our esteemed monarch,” a voice said from the door.
Adamat, Dorry, and the two constables all ducked their heads. Commissioner Aleksandre was a bear of a man with a red face and long blond hair tied sharply back behind his head. He was the type of person that dominated any room with both his size and sheer force of presence. His nostrils flared as he examined the crime scene down the bridge of his nose.
“I overheard something about the cook?” Aleksandre asked.
“Yes, sir,” Dorry said. “Our current suspect.”
“Our first suspect, sir,” Adamat amended. “I’m sure there will be more.”
Aleksandre’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Dorry. “I’m sorry, what was your name, constable?”
“Special Detective Constable Adamat, sir.”
“Ah,” Aleksandre said shortly. “I’ve heard of you. The Knacked with the memory?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Constable,” Dorry said quietly, “may I speak with you outside?”
Adamat followed Dorry out into the hallway, where Dorry took him by the sleeve and forced him into the kitchen. “What the pit do you think you’re doing?”
“Introducing myself to the commissioner,” Adamat said, tongue in cheek. Dorry was getting on his nerves and that tended to make him behave petulantly. Adamat wasn’t interested in playing politics. He wanted to solve a murder.
“Are you being intentionally daft?” Dorry demanded. “I made it clear you are not the lead on this investigation.”
“But I am on the investigation. The captain made that clear. We can’t jump to conclusions,” Adamat said.
“The captain doesn’t know how things work in the First Precinct quite yet, constable. Neither do you.” Dorry jabbed a finger at Adamat’s chest. “I recommend that you learn your place quickly. And you will never, ever correct me in front of the commissioner.”
“Are we quite done?” Adamat asked.
“We are,” Dorry said. “Now get the pit out of here. I won’t have a detective barely out of the academy lording over my crime scene.”
Adamat had been annoyed before. Now he was furious. To be ordered off an investigation by a self-righteous imbecile … “And I won’t see an innocent cook sent to the guillotine because you’re being sloppy, lieutenant!” Adamat’s mouth snapped shut as the last word left his mouth, and his stomach sank. That had been a mistake.
“The captain will hear about this,” Dorry growled.
“Yes, she will,” Adamat responded with a bluster he didn’t feel. His talents notwithstanding, he’d crossed the line mouthing off to the lieutenant like that. He forced his breathing to remain steady and strode to the foyer, demanding his hat and coat from the butler.
He took a hackney cab to the precinct building in the center of the city and immediately went to the captain’s office. He knocked once and entered at a terse “come.”
Captain Hewi was a no-nonsense officer about thirty years old. She had brown hair and eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. She’d risen through the ranks from constable to captain in less than ten years thanks to her ability to balance competence with the needs of city politics and had, for some reason, decided to bring Adamat with her on her transfer to the First Precinct.
“What are you doing here, Adamat?” Hewi asked. “Didn’t I just send you over to the Brezé townhome?”
“I had an altercation with Lieutenant Dorry,” Adamat had the presence of mind to look ashamed of it. Inside, he was still fuming. Dorry was a prig.
“You’re joking,” Hewi said.
“No ma’am. I suspect he’ll make a formal complaint.”
The captain made a sour face. “We’ve been here two days and you’re already making friends. How wonderful. What have I told you about keeping your damn mouth shut?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Hewi waved off his apology. “Never mind that. I’m glad you’re back. I’ve got two constables waiting for a detective to come take a look at another murder scene and you’re the first one that’s free.”
“Ma’am?”
“A businessman was just discovered with the body of his mistress. Looks very much like he shot the girl in a drunken stupor. It’s not high profile like Brezé, but big enough to warrant a proper investigation. I want you to take the lead.”
“Of course, ma’am. Thank you.” Adamat breathed a sigh of relief. There would still be consequences from his altercation with Dorry, especially if he went to the commissioner. But at least Hewi wasn’t taking it seriously.
“Don’t thank me quite yet,” Hewi said. “You haven’t heard it all. The businessman is a troublemaker and has a number of very rich enemies. I understand you went to school together. Does the name Ricard Tumblar spark your memory?”
The Kinnen Hotel was less than quarter of a mile from the precinct headquarters. It was a fortress of a building, with hundred-year-old stonework wrought in an austere, ugly fashion that belied the wealth inside. Only three stories tall, it took up an entire city block and had been the destination of visiting dignitaries, merchants, and nobility for decades.
Adamat stopped by the desk and showed his credentials to the concierge, who revealed that Ricard Tumblar had leased the smallest suite on the second floor of the building for a two-week period. Adamat refused an escort and took the main staircase in the grand hall up to the second floor.
The situation was being handled far more discretely than the one at the Brezé townhome but, then again, this was a place of business. A single bag boy stood outside room 211, hands held behind his back, opening the door for Adamat when he showed his papers again.
The suite was a three-room affair with a bedroom, sitting room, and bath complete with running water. A single constable Adamat didn’t recognize stood at the side of a distraught-looking Ricard in the sitting room, while the door to the bedroom was closed.
Ricard surged to his feet at the sight of him. “Adamat?”
“Detective constable,” Adamat introduced himself to the policeman. “Captain Hewi has given me the lead on the investigation.” He ignored Ricard and opened the door to the bedroom.
There was a four-post bed, the curtains pulled back, as well as a mirror and vanity and a pair of chairs by a breakfast table. The two windows faced east, bathing the room in bright white mid-morning light. The room smelled heavily of whiskey.
A Deliv woman with chocolate skin lay face-up on the bed, her nudity covered partially by a sheet. She was young and quite striking, with gentle features, the perfect skin of her face only disrupted by the congealed blood around the bullet wound just above her temple. The white linen beneath her was soaked a deep crimson. The bed, Adamat noted absently, would be a total loss for the hotel.