Angie felt her heart skip a beat and placed a hand on her throat. "You have to get my permission for that?"
"It would certainly make things easier if I didn't have to get a warrant. And since you're his next of kin, you can grant me permission."
"What do I need to do?"
"Call the office, let them know I'm coming and that it's okay with you."
When Tom left, Angie picked up the phone and called Ken Weber's office.
"Hello, Ken. This is Angie. I called to tell you that Tom will be there in a few minutes. He has my permission to go through Bud's files." Her insides trembled. She felt awkward and strange giving this type of consent. Bud had always taken care of the business.
"What's going on?"
"Tom got a preliminary Coroner's report." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It was Bud in the car." Then she managed to choke out. "But they still haven't determined the cause of death."
"That should be easy enough to guess."
Ken's cold response befuddled her. He sounded so insensitive. "They have to run more tests," she whispered.
"I'm sorry, Angie. I apologize for that cruel statement. It's just all so hard to believe. I feel like I'm in some horrible nightmare."
"Yes, I know."
*****
Tom knew this ordeal must be eating away at Angie. On the outside, she appeared to be holding together fairly well. But those normally sparkling blue eyes were dull and glazed.
He drove toward the Nevers Computer Technology building thinking about the information Angie had just dropped. In their close-knit circle of friends, it seemed strange that no one knew this Melinda. Was her visit coincidental or did this woman have something to do with Bud's death?
He parked and scanned the area as he walked toward the Nevers building. When he stepped inside, the receptionist glanced up. "May I help you sir?"
"Tom Hoffman. To see Ken Weber. I'm expected."
She checked her appointment book. "Oh yes. Just a moment." After punching a button and speaking softly into the small headset clipped around her hair, she turned to him. "Mr. Weber will be right out."
Tom shifted from one foot to the other until Ken approached with a ring of credit card-like keys in his hand and motioned for him to follow. He unlocked the door to Bud's office and threw it open, waving Tom inside. "It's all yours. Let me know when you're through and I'll lock it up."
"Thanks."
After Ken disappeared down the hall, Tom shut the door and locked it from the inside, not wanting to be disturbed. He shed his jacket, hung it over the chair, then sat down at Bud's desk. Tom's tingling sense usually alerted him, and it was going off. Something definitely didn't feel right.
He glanced at the top of the oak desk. It looked different. You could tell a lot about a person from his office. Then it hit him. He'd never seen the top of Bud's desk. But today it had been wiped clean of clutter and glistened with new wax.
He stood and ran his finger across the top of the file cabinet. "Damn, it's been dusted," he muttered. Maybe the cleaning crew never got the word. Although no cleaning crew would touch the top of an executive's desk.
Tom sat down and turned on the computer. As it booted up, he opened the long front drawer that contained the usuaclass="underline" paper clips, pens, name tags, stapler and the like. No surprises here. He proceeded through all the desk drawers and cubby-holes, finding nothing out of the ordinary, except for the orderliness.
He then concentrated on the computer and worked until after five o'clock, searching through Bud's files for anything that might give him a clue. He couldn't open many of the folders in the computer, but that didn't surprise him. Every executive had locked files. However, they'd have to be opened if the Coroner proved foul play. He had his suspicions, but hoped in this case they'd be proven wrong.
He thought back over his conversation with Angie and had to agree that Bud knew the roads around here like he'd made the map. And he knew for a fact that Bud never drove when he drank. He'd take a cab first or hail a ride with a sober friend. So drunken driving had to be ruled out.
He stood, rubbed his hands across his face, then stretched his arms above his head. "Dammit," he mumbled. "I need the rest of the Coroner's report."
Chapter Seven
After speaking with Ken, Angie wandered into the kitchen nook where a breeze from the partially opened patio door had scattered the mail across the floor. She halfheartedly gathered up the envelopes and put them in a stack.
Aware that she couldn't concentrate, especially on bills, she put on a sweater and went outside. The air felt chilly, but invigorating. She walked up to the crest. The view from here took her breath away. Bud had worked so hard for all of this. Then her gaze traveled to the gate. Surely this is just some horrible nightmare and Bud will come driving up that driveway right now. How her heart would leap. Then all this pain and anguish would go away.
But the gates didn't open. The wind whipped her hair around and caught in the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her heart felt like a piece of lead in her chest. She raised her face and whispered to the wind. "How will I live without you?"
Her vision blurred as she wrapped her sweater tightly around herself. Wiping tears from her cheeks, she hurried back toward the house.
*****
A few days later, Tom sat in his office, deeply remorseful about his friend's death. It just didn't make sense. He leaned back in his chair, locked his hands behind his head and stared out the window. His mind drifted back to the years he'd shared with the Nevers'. Good friends, always there when you needed them.
His thoughts were interrupted when his partner, Cliff Maxhimer, walked in and dropped a file on the desk. At first glance, Cliff could pass for a homeless man. One of those guys that couldn't look neat if you bought him the most expensive suit in the store. He always kept his long baby-fine hair covered with some sort of hat. Tom couldn't even hide his grin, as today it happened to be a fedora. Wisps of brown and gray hair popped out in half-curls all around the outer edge, refusing to stay inside the brim.
His rumpled jacket separated over his slight beer belly and hung so loosely on each side that he'd given up his shoulder holster and wore his gun either strapped to the calf of his leg or wedged into the belt line at the small of his back. And he might have slept in those wrinkled slacks. Despite his unkempt appearance, however, there was no better investigator on this side of the Mississippi. Besides that, he could shoot the head off a pin and sported a black belt in Karate. Tom always felt safe with this man at his side.
Maxhimer poked at the file he'd just placed on Tom's desk. "This looks like a nasty case."
"I figured you'd say that," Tom said, rolling his chair forward. "Has the coroner come up with the cause of death?"
"Yep. Body chock-full of phenobarbital to the point where he probably passed out. The position of the body in the car, even after impact, indicated to the coroner the body had been placed in the Porsche. He feels that Mr. Nevers didn't get into that car of his own accord. The examination of the car showed that the brakes were never applied. By the time the car got to the curve it had probably hit fifty or sixty miles per hour, flew off the road and slammed into that tree with such force the gas tank literally exploded."