SIXTY-NINE

“I thought Ernest was going to tear my head off when he got out of that truck.”

“I handled him,” Quinn replied, gaze on the road.

“Bandanna Man claims Flora is touched in the head, but I don’t buy it. Flora’s body was frail, but her mind was just as sharp as yours or mine—well, maybe not mine, but you get what I mean. I heard no ‘crazy talk’ from her.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

“How so?”

“You and I are going to the Brewster estate. If it’s occupied, as Flora claimed, they’re likely members of the domestic staff. If we’re lucky, one of them was around on the night Harlan took his last ride. We can find out if he was alone, where he was going, his state of mind—”

“Didn’t the local police already investigate that?”

Quinn shook his head. “They treated Harlan’s death like a routine traffic accident.”

“Maybe it was routine,” I said. “On the other hand, Galloping Gwen’s flashlight story certainly seemed credible.”

“I agree,” Quinn replied, “though there was no blood or anything to indicate someone was sitting next to Harlan during the crash.”

“What about the backseat?”

“The backseat.” Quinn fell silent a moment. “That’s a thought.”

“Care to share it?”

“I saw something once as a rookie. There was a high-speed chase along the FDR Drive that ended at a road construction site where the perps slammed into a concrete abutment. The car was totaled and the pair in the front seat died instantly. But a girlfriend cowering on the floor in the back walked away. Someone from the Traffic Division told me her position in the car saved her.”

“You’re saying someone might have been crouched in the backseat?”

“I’m saying it’s possible.”

Quinn fell silent after that, and I gazed out the window. The sun had set, clouds were moving in off the ocean, and the rural roads were becoming as dark and scary as the night I arrived. Things didn’t get any better on the drive to the Brewsters’ estate.

Quinn saw the address in the police report, but even with GPS we made two wrong turns on the narrow two-lane blacktop and wasted twenty minutes before we finally saw the brush-covered stone sign that read Sandcastle.

The wrought iron gates were closed and locked. Had we come in daylight, we might have assumed the place was empty. But it was night, and we could clearly see the glowing windows through the trees.

“I can’t wait to find out who’s at home,” I said.

“Yeah, you’re still Clare,” Quinn replied with barely suppressed amusement.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. Just don’t set your expectations too high. It could be some hired house sitter who never met Harlan and doesn’t have a clue how to answer our questions.”

But for once Detective Quinn was wrong. When he pressed the intercom button, a familiar male voice answered.

“May I help you?” Despite the electronic distortion, I knew I’d heard this man’s inflection before—and recently.

“Is this the Brewster residence?” Quinn asked.

“It is.”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“Owen Wimmer. I’m the Brewsters’ attorney. And you are?”

“Detective Quinn, New York Police Department, and my partner—”

I frantically shook my head and waved my hands. Then I dived under the dashboard (no mean feat in a compact car).

“—isn’t with me now. I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Wimmer.”

“Oh, yes. Come in, come in,” Owen said eagerly. “I’d like to speak with you as well, Detective.”

The lock clicked, and the iron doors opened automatically.

I didn’t utter a sound until we were on the long driveway leading up to the sprawling house. Then, in a whisper, I explained how I’d encountered the young lawyer before, at the Parkview Palace, and that he was sure to recognize me. I was even wearing the same blond wig and big glasses, minus the Poetry in Motion jacket.

Wily Quinn then appeared to channel Odysseus and come up with a solution as sneaky as the Trojan horse.

“When I get out of the car, you do the same, but crouch low and stay hidden until I get inside the house. I’ll distract the lawyer while you have a look around the place.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Signs that anyone else is present in the house: a domestic, a cook, a guest. We can try to interview them separately later, see if they can offer any information. Wimmer will likely disarm the security system to let me in, but I wouldn’t touch the windows or doors anyway. Just peek through them.”

I was nervous but tried not to show it. “Will do, partner.”

As we drove closer, I couldn’t help admiring the mansion, which had great, old character. It was built in the same Italianate architectural style as the Parkview Palace, minus the gargoyles and about fifteen stories. The exterior was lit by spotlights that sprang to life as we moved along the drive.

Quinn parked with the passenger side facing away from the house. When he opened his door, I popped mine, and we closed them together. Then he sauntered to the brilliantly lit front entrance, and I ducked into shadows behind the Toyota, and waited.

The night was a lot cooler than the afternoon, and my sweater was now woefully inadequate. I longed for that cozy Poetry in Motion jacket to ward off the chill.

Quinn hadn’t even reached the top of the steps before the ornate front door quickly opened. No domestic staff here. The diminutive lawyer—dressed in the same casual style as Quinn (in Matt’s clothes)—greeted the detective personally. The two shook hands, spoke briefly, and then Owen Wimmer invited Quinn inside.

The moment the front door closed, all the exterior lighting went out, plunging me into near-total darkness.