Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ As they descended, the air got cooler. The cellar was climate controlled but obviously didn’t need much help. It was stone, deep in the ground near the harbor, and naturally protected from the heat of a mid-Atlantic summer.

      A tall, slim man who somewhat reminded Vickie of Lurch from The Addams Family was standing quietly in the center of the main room. Crime-scene techs—easily identifiable by their jackets—were moving about, collecting what evidence could be found.

      The body of Franklin Verne remained, giving Vickie a moment’s pause.

      She had known him in life. She had seen him when he had smiled, gestured, moved and laughed.

      And now, of course, the man she had known—if only casually—was gone. What remained, she felt, was a shell.

      She glanced at Griffin. They both felt it.

      Yes, Franklin Verne was definitely gone. Nothing of his soul lingered.

      At least, not here.

      The dead man was seated in a chair near a desk; it was a period piece, Victorian era, she thought. Fitting for the place, but it had a modern computer with a nice monitor, along with a printer/scanner, and baskets most probably from Office Depot that held papers and mail and more.

      The desk, however, was next to an old potbellied stove. In winter, it might have warmed up the place a bit, for those condemned to keep the wine company on a cold night.

      Franklin Verne had died slumped back in the chair. His eyes were eerily open. A man in scrubs and a mask worked over him—the ME, Vickie assumed.

      “Detective Morris?” Griffin asked, stepping forward to introduce himself. Vickie knew that Griffin would follow every courtesy, thanking the detective first and then speaking with the ME.

      The Lurch-like man turned toward him, nodding, studying him and then offering him a hand.

      “Special Agent Pryce?” Morris asked.

      “Yes, sir. Thank you for the courtesy. Our supervising director is friends with Mrs. Verne, as I suppose you’ve heard.”

      “Yes,” Morris said, looking at Vickie.

      “Ms. Victoria Preston,” Griffin said, introducing her. “Vickie is heading down to start at the academy in a few weeks.”

      “Excellent,” Morris said, nodding. He lifted his hands. “Sad thing. I’ve been standing here, looking around, hoping that something brilliant might come to me. I can’t say I knew Mr. Verne—he was local, but he and Mrs. Verne were only in residence part of the year these days. He’s a popular personage around here. There are wild tales of him back in the day, but he never stopped giving to the city police, and he was involved in a number of charitable enterprises.”

      “I’ve heard he was a very good man,” Griffin said. “Vickie knew him.”

      “I didn’t exactly know him,” she corrected. “We met several times at conferences. I write nonfiction books,” she explained.

      It was certainly not something that was at all impressive to Detective Morris. “Perhaps this is uncomfortable for you,” he said, “being in here. Since you know the victim. And you are a civilian.”

      “Accepted into the academy,” Griffin said.

      “I’m fine,” she assured Morris, glad that Griffin had so quickly—and indignantly—come to her defense.

      Morris turned to the man working with the corpse. “Dr. Myron Hatfield, Special Agent Pryce, Ms. Preston. Dr. Hatfield is, in my opinion, one of the finest medical examiners to ever grace the Eastern coast,” he said.

      Hatfield straightened. He was tall, too, probably about fifty, with steel-gray hair and a good-sized frame; he was built like a linebacker or a fighter. But he had a quick—if slightly grim—smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances. I’d met Mr. Verne, too, at a fund-raiser for a local children’s hospital. He seemed a good man. And...well, the night I met him, he looked great.” He looked as if he was about to say more. He shrugged. “I really won’t know much of anything until I get him into the morgue.”

      “Doctor,” Griffin said. “My field supervisor suggested that he died of a mix of alcohol and drugs.”

      Hatfield hesitated. “His mouth... Well, a layman could smell the alcohol. The condition of the body suggests a catastrophic shutdown of organs. But we need tests. I need to complete an autopsy. I hope that my words haven’t gone any further.”

      “No, sir,” Griffin assured him. He turned back to Morris. “No one saw him come down here—they’ve spoken to all the employees?” he asked.

      “It was a late night. The manager didn’t close up until almost three in the morning,” Morris said. “The place was, according to him, completely empty. We’re still trying to contact all the night staff, but the last thing the manager does is check the basement—the wine cellar here—and see that the shelves are locked for the night.” He pointed. “Master switch there. You can see that most of the shelves have cages. Some of these wines are worth thousands of dollars.”

      “And there’s no other way in than by the stairs? What about cameras?” Griffin asked.

      “None down here, but there are cameras at the front door and the back door, which is really more of a side door, by the gift shop.”

      “We were here last night,” Vickie said.

      “Oh?” Morris asked, a brow politely raised a half notch.

      “Yes, but we were early birds, comparatively. We were gone by eleven,” Griffin said. “Ironic—our waiter was wishing that Franklin Verne would pay a visit and endorse the restaurant.”

      “He’s endorsed it now, all right,” Hatfield said.

      “So tragically!” Vickie said.

      Morris grunted. “Yes, but people are ghouls. The place will be booked for years to come now—it’s where Franklin Verne mysteriously died!”

      None of them could argue that. “Detective, may I walk around?” Griffin asked.

      Detective Morris nodded. “I’ve been here almost two hours. Can’t figure it myself, but I don’t believe he vaporized or said, ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’ There’s something here. I’m mulling. You knock yourself out.”

      “We’re about to take the body,” Hatfield said quietly.

      “Thank you,” Griffin said. Vickie kept her distance. She was startled when she heard Griffin ask Hatfield, “I heard he was holding a raven?”

      “The kind they sell in the gift shop, right upstairs,” Hatfield said.

      “Bagged it as evidence,” Morris said. He pointed to the desk, where the raven lay in a clear plastic evidence bag.

      “Thanks,” Griffin said. He lifted the bag. He and Vickie both studied it.

      Vickie had noted other ravens just like it at the gift shop the night before; they were cheap plastic, cost no more than a cup of coffee—perfect СКАЧАТЬ