THE FOLLOWING MORNING a fax came from Sergeant Young of the state police. Stone read the report, and as he did, the phone rang.
“It’s Ed Rawls,” the gruff voice said. “Did you get the report?”
“I’ve just read it,” Stone said. “It’s nice that Young didn’t call it a suicide.”
“I think you and Dino saw to that,” Rawls said. “I’m glad you were there, because none of the rest of us has any credentials that would make Young take us seriously.”
“I would have thought that your careers would have been enough.”
“We don’t talk about that to civilians,” Rawls said.
“A state cop is a civilian?”
“Everybody who isn’t Agency is a civilian.”
“What about me?”
“You’re kind of a semipro, because of your relationship with Lance Cabot.”
“Thanks.”
“The fellows and I put together Don’s day, before he died,” Rawls said.
“And?”
“He had lunch at the yacht club, picked up his mail and went home. He had dinner alone, called me, then got himself murdered.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. If he’d been anywhere on the island, he’d have been seen.”
“Did he talk to anybody anywhere, except at the yacht club?”
“Nothing more than to say hello.”
“Who’d he have lunch with?”
“He had lunch alone, talked to anybody who dropped by, nothing important.”
“And then he called you and said he’d found out something?”
“After thinking about it all day.”
“Was he alone at home when he called?”
“Until he was joined by his murderer later in the evening.”
“Did he make any phone calls?”
There was a brief silence.
“I’d like to see his phone records,” Stone said.
“He had that caller ID thing,” Rawls replied.
“Then there might be a log of the calls he received.”
“Yeah, but not the calls he made.”
“Can we get into the house?”
“I’ve got a key, and Harley and I are his executors. Fifteen minutes?”
“See you there.” Stone hung up.
RAWLS WAS ALREADY at Don Brown’s house when Stone arrived. He let them into the house, and they went into Brown’s den.
“Here we go,” Stone said. The phone was a Japanese-made combination of answering machine and cordless phone with other features. Stone looked at the buttons carefully, pressed a couple, then a number appeared on the little screen. “Looks like he received only one call.” It was an 800 number.
“That’s an Agency WATS line,” Rawls said. “It’s unpublished, of course, but it’s one of the lines that Agency people can call in on from outside or, of course, receive calls from.”
“Any way to tell who called?” Stone asked.
Rawls shook his head. “Nope. Anybody with an extension from the main switchboard can pick up a phone, dial a number and get a dial tone, then call anywhere in the world.”
“There must be an internal record of which extension used the WATS line,” Stone said.
“I expect there would be.”
“Do you have any way of checking on it?”
“The best way would be through Lance; he’s active, and most of my friends are retired.”
“I’ll call him,” Stone said.
“You can use this phone.”
Stone dialed Lance’s cell number.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone. Bad news from up here.”
“Don Brown? I heard. This is not a good development.”
“Lance, Don received a call from Langley in the late afternoon on the day of his death. Whoever called used an Agency WATS line. Can you find out who made the call?”
“Probably.”
“I’m going to ask the state police to get Don’s phone records, so we can find out who he might have called at Langley.”
“I don’t think that will work,” Lance said.
“Why not?”
“Because he would have called in on the WATS line and asked for a name or an extension. All the Agency would have would be a record that he called in, not which extension he asked for. It’s a deficiency, I know, and it’s being corrected, but it hasn’t been done yet.”
“Whatever you say.”
“That’s not to say that Don might not have made local calls in Maine that might be significant, so I’d ask the cops for his local records.”
“Thanks. When will you get back to me about the WATS line?”
“Later today, if I can.” Lance hung up.
Stone called Sergeant Young and asked for Don Brown’s phone records, and Young promised to fax them to him.
“I guess that’s all we can do for the moment,” Rawls said.
“A thought,” Stone said. “Did Don have an ex-wife who hated him?”
“No, his wife died less than a year ago. They were married for more than fifty years, and I don’t think she had learned to hate him yet. I’ve got a couple who hate me; so does Harley. Mack is a lifelong bachelor.”
“What was the medical condition that required Don to use the wheelchair?”
“It was some complication of diabetes, I think,” Rawls said. “He could get around a bit, not much more than a few steps. I mean, he could get to the bathroom at night, and he could get his scooter in and out of the trunk of his car.”
“Do you know where he kept the .45 that was used to kill him?”
“Bedside table drawer,” Rawls said.
“So it wouldn’t have been hard to find. The murderer could have come in with another gun and found it easily.”
“Yeah, especially if Don tried to go for it.”
“Who knew this house well, besides his housekeeper?”
“Harley, Mack and me; we played poker over here one night a week. Probably a few locals: repairmen, those sorts of folks.”
“So we don’t have any more to go on than we had with Dick’s murder.”
“Looks that way, don’t it.”
“Maybe Lance will be able to tell us something.”
“You’re grasping at straws,” Rawls said, “but then, that’s all we’ve got to grab at.”
“I know.”
“We’re having a little ceremony to scatter Don’s ashes at the yacht club tomorrow morning at ten, if you’d like to join us. I think Don would like that.”
“I’ll be there.”