Thirteen

Sam waited in the foyer until the police arrived, two uniformed officers followed closely by another couple of homicide detectives. They argued among themselves for a few minutes about which team would take the call.

“Why don’t you flip a coin?” she suggested.

She’d recognized one of the uniforms from her recent visit to Charlie at headquarters. Now he picked her out, too.

“That’s not exactly SOP, Ms. Adams. You grab the squeal on the radio?”

“No, actually I was here to see Mr. Percy about a little business.”

He glanced down at the notebook he was holding.

“This same Percy?”

She nodded.

“Isn’t that a neat coincidence? Hope it wasn’t important.”

“Not anymore it isn’t.”

“You coming up with us?”

“Why, thank you.”

What a nice surprise, to be invited to a crime scene. Usually she had to coax, cajole, and muscle her way in.

All five of them, six including Rumson, began to troop up the stairs.

“Your friend Charlie said we should be nice to you; you’d write sweet things about us. Help with our image.”

“Why, I always do. I’m one of the department’s biggest fans.” Actually that was true.

But it didn’t play well to this audience, conditioned to mistrust the press. One of the other cops made a rude sound as they all followed Rumson up the stairs.

At the top, Rumson turned to the right. “This way.” He pointed. They followed single file along a worn Persian runner, then stood crowded at the doorway of room fourteen while Rumson unlocked it.

The room was much too small to accommodate all of them—not that they all rushed in at once to meet the sickly sweet smell that greeted them. Sam reached in her bag for a tissue to press over her nose as she peeked in at the simple furnishings: a single bed with an oak headboard, a matching dresser, a night table with a brass lamp, a chair upholstered in green tweed. It looked like a dorm room. And Randolph Percy looked like he’d stretched out for the night.

His last outfit was a pair of pale blue pajamas, monogrammed in navy on the breast pocket. His hands lay at his sides over the bedspread, the nails neatly manicured and lightly polished, a gold crested ring on one finger. His silver hair winged back from a high forehead. His nose was aquiline, his features strong and fine. Even dead, he was a good-looking man. Sam was sorry she hadn’t had a chance to meet him.

“He didn’t answer when I knocked,” Rumson said. “But the door was unlocked.”

“Is that unusual?” one of the homicide dicks asked.

“No, sir. This is a gentlemen’s club. There’s no need to be concerned about security.”

The detective’s face registered his skepticism. “So you opened the door and walked in?”

“Yes, sir. And then I saw Mr. Percy sleeping. At least, I thought he was sleeping.”

“And?”

“Well, it seemed a little irregular. I mean, Mr. Percy was never one to lie about in the daytime, if you know what I mean, sir. Unless he was ill, perhaps.”

“So you tried to wake him.”

“I did, sir. I called his name several times, each time more loudly.”

“And when he didn’t stir?”

“That’s when I touched him.” Rumson shuddered involuntarily.

“And you realized he was cold.”

“Yes, sir. Quite cold. Of course, I noticed the—” He was embarrassed to mention it.

“The smell? I’d say he’s been here a while. Did you touch anything else?”

“Nothing except the door. I locked it, seemed the right thing to do, and went straight downstairs and told Ms. Adams, who’d come to see him—and Judges Deaver and O’Connor who were talking with her. And then we called you.”

“What did you say your business was with Percy?” the heftier of the two detectives asked Sam.

“I didn’t.” She smiled. “But I will—”

However, not just then, for at that moment, Beau Talbot and Lee Boggs, one of his investigators, made their way into the official crush.

“Samantha.” Beau nodded.

“Dr. Talbot. Mr. Boggs.” She nodded back.

“Good to see you, Sam,” said Boggs, a sweet-faced man of whom Sam was quite fond. A terrier at a crime scene, he looked like a Sunday school teacher.

“I believe the rest of us know each other,” Beau continued, then turned his attention inside the room. “I was having lunch, didn’t get any particulars with the call from the Fulton County M.E. This must be a hot one if they’re passing it to us.”

“Probably the club,” Sam offered.

When a case might be political, and at the Claridge everything was potentially political, strings would be pulled and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, of which Beau’s office was a part, would be given the high sign.

He jerked a thumb at the corpse. “Do we know the identity of the gentleman?”

“Name’s Randolph Percy,” said one of the cops.

“Percy?” Beau whistled, then turned and gave Sam a look. “A little drastic, don’t you think, Sammy?”

“What?” The beefy detective looked from one to the other. “What do you mean?”

“Sam’ll explain it all to you later,” said Beau. “Won’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes at Beau in warning. He was so obnoxious when he got to play super doc. But he also could be awfully useful.

“So what do you think?” she asked him.

“You mean from just standing here six feet away? You’re asking for my professional opinion?”

“I thought you’d gotten so good at this you could just sniff the scene. Like a bird dog.”

There was a little sound behind her. The cops were enjoying this.

“What do you think, Boggs?” Beau asked.

The senior technician who’d stepped past everyone else had been gently probing the body, carefully inspecting the bed, the floor, touring the private bathroom, doing a routine preliminary scan of a potential crime scene.

“Nothing,” he answered.

“Nothing,” Beau said. “No sign of a struggle, nothing out of order. No forced entry. I’d say the old man died in his sleep. From the aroma, a couple of days ago.”

“Well, you’ll find out in the autopsy,” Sam said. Four beats. “Probably.”

“We might. And we’ll be sure and give you a call. We want you to be among the first to know the cause of death.”

“Why, thank you.” She smiled.

One of the cops sniggered.

“I’ll be through here in a few minutes,” said Boggs, who’d been busy with his camera.

“Good,” said Beau. “Then we’ll take the body in.”

“This is perfectly dreadful,” Rumson murmured beside Sam.

“Did you know Randolph Percy well?” She was hauling out her notebook, pen poised, ready to record his story.

“No. Not really.” He looked surprised. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant perfectly dreadful for the club. Couldn’t we keep this out of the paper?”