Middlebrook gave Billy the go-ahead for search and arrest warrants for Dr. Raj Sharma. The affidavits would spell out probable-cause evidence: Dr. Sharma’s harassment of the victim, two .32 caliber revolvers, and Sergeant Munford Hale’s statement. The search warrant would include all footwear, clothing, and weapons along with electronic devices and any other probable evidence or contraband. Billy asked Frankie to trace Sharma’s mobile to his home address. They had to move quickly.
A world-weary female patrol officer had nicknamed him “Detective Cool” because she said he never let the bad guys see him sweat. The name didn’t apply tonight. He was bouncing off the walls.
At 9:32 pm the magistrate issued the warrants. The charge against Dr. Sharma was first degree murder.
The night was cold and moonless. A vanload of tactical officers and three cruisers followed Billy’s and Frankie’s cars to Sharma’s two-story Georgian home at the end of a cul-de-sac. Lights burned in the back of the house. They were close now.
They posted a cruiser at the opening of the street then quickly rolled into the cove. Another cruiser angled into Sharma’s driveway to block the garage bays. Two tactical officers slipped to the back of the house in case the doctor tried to run.
He and Frankie assembled the rest of the team at the double front doors. Billy spoke quietly. “The suspect owns handguns. Assume he’s armed.” He glanced at Frankie. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
He rang the bell and rapped several times with the metal knocker. “Police, Dr. Sharma,” he shouted. “It’s Detective Able. Open the door.”
Frankie looked at her watch, timing one minute. She nodded.
He pounded the door with his fist. “Police. Open up or we’re coming in.” He bent forward, listening. No movement on the other side. He felt pressure building behind him, the men’s anticipation. They were ready to breach the doors. He counted down slowly from twenty-five still listening. Then he stepped aside.
A burly officer came forward with a thirty-pound metal battering ram. He took a side stance and swung it in an arc at the door. The wood cracked and splintered. A second swing and the doors crashed open. Three officers in tactical gear hustled in with their weapons drawn, their boots squeaking on marble tiles. He and Frankie followed with their SIGs drawn. She moved with the officers through the downstairs, clearing room by room, the burglar alarm beeping its countdown. The alarm converted to a whooping siren upping the tension. Billy directed one officer to the garage and another to the kitchen to answer the security company’s call on the landline.
Frankie came running back. “Not down here.”
“Upstairs,” he said. They pounded up the steps with officers close behind them. Billy took the master, the place Sharma would most likely be hiding. Frankie and an officer hurried down the hall to clear the other rooms.
Billy stopped short of the bedroom’s open door, all juiced up, his heart slamming in his chest. “Dr. Sharma,” he called. “It’s Detective Able. Step into the open with your hands up.”
He peered around the casing and scanned the room then eased inside, the barrel of his SIG pointed skyward. One bedside lamp burned dimly in the corner. The bed was made, pillows propped against a bolster and a tall gilded headboard. A closet door stood open on the wall to his left. On the far side of the room, the bathroom door stood partially open with its light on.
He waved to the officer to look under the bed and in the closet. He crossed to the bathroom. “Sharma,” he barked, and kicked open the door, moving into the spa-like bathroom with its shiny tile surfaces and gleaming fixtures. He checked the shower and water closet, and then turned to see one of the officers from downstairs standing in the doorway.
“Detective, the Escalade is gone. I found this on a charger in the kitchen.” The officer held up a mobile phone.
Damn it. Sharma didn’t forget his mobile. He left it so he couldn’t be tracked. An old trick. Cops think they have a crook pinpointed. They race to some remote location only to find a phone sitting on a stump.
He came out of the bathroom to find Frankie pacing the Tibetan carpet at the foot of the king-sized bed. The glance she threw him said she knew about the mobile and was just as disappointed. Too frustrated to speak, he passed her and went to the nightstand. Inside the drawer lay a revolver on top of a stack of pharmaceutical pamphlets. He reached for it then decided to leave it for CSU.
Frankie peered around his shoulder at the gun. “I’ll have Sharma paged at the MED, and I’ll drive by the Baptist Hospital and Shelby Farms parking lots. He may not carry his phone when he’s jogging.”
Billy gritted his teeth. “That doesn’t make sense. The son of a bitch skipped on us.”
“I’m going anyway,” she said.
He walked her to her car. Neighbors stood in groups on the sidewalk wearing coats over their pajamas. Officers waved them back and encouraged them to go inside. The CSU van arrived. Billy went back in the house.
The living room had the sleek opulence of Italian contemporary furniture mixed with jewel-toned fabrics from India. Billy searched the downstairs for a gun safe then went to Sharma’s study.
A young detective seated at the desk stood when he entered. “I’ve found a weapon, sir.”
Billy went around the side of the desk to see the stainless steel barrel of a Beretta 92F in the bottom left hand drawer. “We’re missing a .45 Colt, a 9mm Glock, and a .32 revolver. Could be more guns around. Keep your eyes open,” he said to the detective.
He picked up an envelope on the desk addressed in an elaborate hand. The return address was New Delhi. Sharma’s sister had written to say their mother was suffering from depression because of the wedding cancellation and wouldn’t leave the house. The sister admonished him as a bad son and said he should’ve come home after heaping so much humiliation upon them. Family was paramount in Sharma’s culture. His feelings for Caroline must have suffered after receiving that letter.
Across the room stood a wall of bookcases filled with medical books and framed diplomas from Cambridge University, Oxford Medical School, and Johns Hopkins. There were also commendations from two international charities and appreciative letters from patients. A brass box on a top shelf contained the Glock. A detective had found the Colt in a kitchen drawer next to the back door. That left one missing .32 revolver.
“Detective Able,” a woman’s voice called from the entrance hall.
He stepped out to see a Rubenesque tech with wavy auburn hair on the second floor landing, leaning over the railing. “Could you come up, please?” He took the stairs and found her in the master bedroom.
“I’ve bagged the revolver for the ballistic comparison,” she said. “We’re almost through the walk-in closet. Two pairs of slacks have minuscule spots of blood on them, which isn’t unusual for a surgeon who does rounds. I’ve reviewed the shoe impressions taken at the scene. None of his shoes are even close, but we’ll bring everything in. There might be more in the garage.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the type to leave a pair of shoes in the garage,” he said.
“No. Everything in the closet is expensive and kept in perfect order.”
She held up a plastic evidence bag containing a prescription bottle. “I found this in the bathroom. It was caught between the trashcan and its liner.”
The bag contained an empty prescription bottle with no pharmacy or doctor’s name, only a string of chemical symbols on the label.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen just about everything,” the tech said. “These docs are geniuses at hiding their prescription drug habits.”
He went downstairs, mulling over Sharma’s possible drug abuse. Cold air poured through the broken doors as he monitored the evidence bags going out. The temperature had dropped to just above freezing. Frankie, wrapped in a trench coat, hurried up the front walk toward him.
“I’ve spoken to Security on duty at the MED and the Baptist,” she said. “They haven’t seen Sharma or his car. And I drove by Shelby Farms. That guy Munford Hale was sitting in the parking lot with his car’s engine running. We had an odd conversation.”
“Meaning?”
“He said he was on a stakeout, waiting for Sharma. He told me to leave.”
“The old war horse. Good for him,” he said.
“He thinks he’s on the job.”
“He’s just bored with sitting at home. Can’t blame him.”
She shrugged and watched a CSU tech come down the stairs with a bag of clothes. “How’s it going?”
“We’ve found every weapon except the second revolver.”
“Better let Middlebrook know what’s happening.”
“I want to talk to Vanderman first.” He dialed, waited five rings. It was late.
Vanderman answered. “Yes, Detective.”
He told the attorney about the arrest and search warrants and that Sharma had left his mobile on the charger.
Vanderman was silent. “Hold on.” Billy put the phone on speaker so Frankie could hear. Vanderman came back two minutes later. “I’ll have Dr. Sharma at your office tomorrow morning. Does nine o’clock work?”
“You’ve spoken with him?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s the doctor sleeping tonight?”
“I don’t ask my clients those questions.”
“Tomorrow then, Counselor.”
“Have a good night.” Vanderman hung up.
“Well that was civil,” she said.
“Vanderman isn’t burning any bridges. He may want me to cut his next client a break. You noticed he got in touch with Sharma immediately. The doctor must have bought a burner phone and given the number to Vanderman.”
“You think they’ll come in tomorrow?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but Vanderman is staking his reputation on it.”