dramatic exit was stopped in mid-step by the ringing of the phone.
“You don’t need to stay,” he assured her.
“I’m not staying to talk to you, but I’m not leaving until I hear what that call’s all about.”
Chapter 3
3
Wednesday, December 18, 1946
10:22 p.m.
Getting up from the chair, Lane walked quickly to the end table and picked up the receiver. He felt Tiffany’s sharp eyes on his every move.
“Walker here.” As he spoke, he noted his guest retrace her steps and once more take a seat on the couch she’d just occupied. Why hadn’t she left just two minutes earlier? Why did she seem to live to complicate his life? Why had he ever noticed her in the first place? Life would have been so much simpler without Tiffany Clayton.
“Happy holidays, Lane, this is Morelli.”
“And how’s our county’s best medical examiner?” the homicide detective asked as he continued to study his uninvited guest.
“Impatient. It’s a week before Christmas and I haven’t even begun to shop for my five kids and let’s not even talk about my wife. Her list runs longer than most pieces of congressional legislation. She wants a new Hudson among other things, as if I could find one. Just be glad you’re a bachelor.”
After taking a deep breath and offering a prayer of thankfulness for being single, Lane smiled at the woman, glad she couldn’t hear both ends of the conversation. “I’m certainly happy my shopping list is short,” the cop quipped, “and I’m not planning on changing that anytime soon.” He grinned at his guest. “In fact, I can’t think of anyone I need to buy a present for. The only people on my list have been very bad this year and don’t deserve a gift.” As he watched Tiffany frown and turn her head away, he smiled and added, “Now it’s late, so enough about holiday plans. Let’s just cut to the chase. Is there anything you can give me about the knife that killed Elrod or do I hand this thing over to my team and let them start questioning the usual suspects?”
“You must have a date,” Morelli quickly observed, “Well, if you do, you can cancel it. First of all, Elrod wasn’t killed by that knife in his back.”
“What?”
“Yeah, whoever stabbed him did so at least a half an hour after he died.”
“Why would anyone plunge a knife into a dead man’s back?”
“That,” Morelli quipped, “is your problem. I just figure out how someone died, not who did it or why.”
“Then tell me,” Lane demanded, “what did kill him?”
“He was drugged,” came the reply, “and he was likely out cold when someone tapped him with a blow to the back of his head causing enough cranial bleeding to not just short-circuit his brain, but feed a vampire for a week.”
“But the coroner and his team,” Walker argued.
“Ah yes, well, with the knife sticking out of his back I’m not surprised old Doc Miller missed a few things during his quick exam. Until I cut into Elrod, I would have assumed he died in what appeared to be the obvious way, too.”
Looking back to the reporter, Walker noted she was leafing through the Life Magazine he’d read earlier in the evening, so thankfully she appeared completely unaware of what he’d just heard. At least it was a bit of good news to grasp onto. Moving to where his back was to Tiffany, he quietly asked, “What should I look for?”
“If you’re asking about a weapon, nothing conventional. The damage to his head was done by something with a curved edge. It was likely red as I found a few flecks of paint in Elrod’s hair. Beyond that I have no idea. Never seen anything like this before. It might help if I knew where he was when he cashed it in.”
Picking up the phone and walking closer to the French doors, Walker quietly elaborated. “He was at his desk when the maid found him. He had the phone in his hand.”
“Then that rules out an accident,” the ME explained. “I thought he might have taken some drugs to help him sleep, then, as he was getting into bed, passed out and fallen against something, but not now.”
“Why not?” Walker whispered, “He could have gotten up after the fall, realized he was hurt and was trying to make a call for help when he passed out.”
“No,” the doctor explained, “a blow of this type would have caused him to immediately lose consciousness. So, he couldn’t have fallen, gotten up, and found his way back into his desk chair. If he was in the chair, he either had to have been struck while seated or been placed in the chair after he was struck. Either way it spells murder to me, and the knife played no part in his death.”
“Got it,” a confused Walker quietly replied as he rubbed his brow. This case had just become the criminal equivalent of buying a toy that required “some assembly.” What had once seemed so simple was proving to be very complex. “Could you call the boys and tell them to get back down here? We’ll now have to go over this house from top to bottom.”
“No problem, Lane. I’ve got two more rush jobs, so I’m going to be here the rest of the night. Let me know what you discover, and I’ll see if it matches the damage I found.”
“Thanks,” the homicide detective replied. “I will.”
Turning, he walked across the room to the end table. After returning the phone to its place, his eyes involuntarily went to the large oak door leading to the Elrods’ study. As they did, the reporter looked up from the magazine and smiled.
“So, the knife was not the murder weapon. And don’t try to deny it, my ears are much better than you could ever imagine. I heard everything Mitch Morelli said. Elrod was drugged and then knocked over the head by an unknown object.”
“Then you know as much as I do,” Lane complained. “So why don’t you run back to your newspaper and beat everyone else to the story. You might even earn a Christmas bonus for this scoop. You could use the extra cash to take a week off and explore the job markets in New York or Cleveland or anywhere but Chicago.”
“Very funny,” she laughed. “You always crack me up with your wit. I’m not leaving this house until I have a look at the murder room and don’t even try to keep me out.”
The city normally gave the press access to crime scenes and, if the story broke, five dailies would likely soon be here and each of their reporters would be shooting questions at him, so there was no reason to keep Tiffany from seeing the study. Besides, as she was working on the story about the bogus Santas and had written about the Delono operation, she might actually have a lead on who was behind this murder. Maybe this time the beautiful little pest could actually help him. That would be a first.
“Come on,” he grudgingly announced, walking slowly toward the door, “but don’t touch anything.”
“My hands will stay in my pockets,” she assured him as she rose from the couch.
Moving across the room, Lane pulled a handkerchief from his pants and twisted the brass knob. He used that same handkerchief
