no one came to remove the pole and take Corinna down. Michael’s stomach tightened into an unmanageable knot.
He couldn’t stand seeing her hang there one more minute, her designer dress fluttering gently in the night breeze, revealing her slender white thighs in the harsh glare of the streetlights. Someone needed to cover her up. Give her the dignity she deserved.
Denner seemed oblivious to the stagnant stench of death hanging between them. He stood slightly hunched over, his hooded eyes seeming to bore gaping holes into Michael’s. The man’s suspicion and hatred was blatant, unmistakable.
Finally, unable to take it any longer, Michael ran up the steps. Before Denner or anyone else could stop him, he grabbed the pole and yanked it out. The end had been sharpened to a lethal point, explaining how it had pierced Corinna’s slender frame with ease. He caught Corinna’s body as she fell.
Denner rushed forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Michael ignored him as he gently laid Corinna’s seemingly boneless body on the cold cement. He shrugged off his dinner jacket and laid it carefully over her face—a once classically beautiful face that had graced more than a few covers of high-end fashion magazines.
“It isn’t right to leave her hanging like that,” Michael said, squatting down to tuck the corner of his coat around Corinna’s slender shoulders. “She deserves better.”
“You should have thought about that before you nailed her to your front door. And quit messing with our crime scene or I’ll have one of my guys run you in just on principle.”
Michael sighed. There would be no convincing the police of his innocence. They had zeroed in on him like vultures on fresh meat. They’d work this angle until they found a way to pin the murders on him. Something told him their focus on him was so intense that there was a strong possibility they’d miss any clues to the killer’s true identity.
He blinked, momentarily blinded by a flash of light. He glanced up to see several reporters gathering behind the crime scene tape. Another group of vultures had caught the scent and arrived right on cue.
No doubt they’d gotten a good picture of him leaning over Corinna’s body. He knew that within a few hours photos of him would be splashed across the front page of all the local papers and on the early morning news.
He needed to think. To get away. Things were getting out of control. There had to be a reason for all these killings and he needed to figure out how he’d become the catalyst.
He straightened up and glanced at Denner. “Am I permitted inside?”
Denner paused and then nodded. “Sure. Just ignore the men dusting and tearing the place apart.”
No surprises there. They’d done the same thing after each murder, attempting to find something, anything, that would firmly implicate him in the murders.
As he reached for the doorknob, Denner followed close on his heels. Obviously the man wasn’t done with him yet.
His housekeeper, Hattie, met him at the door, her tiny hands clenched in front of her, an expression of concern cramping the lines of her bony face. “I’m sorry, sir. They have a warrant.”
Michael patted one of her thin shoulders. This was the fourth time they’d searched his house. He was almost getting used to the indignity of the police invasions, but from Hattie’s expression, he could tell she was more than a little unnerved.
“Everything is going to be fine,” he reassured her. “You did the right thing letting them in.”
“But they’ve torn everything apart again, sir.” Her frightened birdlike gaze darted nervously toward the body behind him and then back. “It took us days last time to get things back to normal.”
“Your boss should have thought of that before he went on his little murder spree,” Denner said.
Hattie’s face reddened, but before she spoke again, Michael guided her back into the front hall. “We’ll about it later, Hattie. Just let the police do their job. Things will be back to normal eventually.”
In spite of his reassurances, Michael wasn’t sure normal was something he’d ever experience again. His life was a mess.
Hattie glanced at Denner and sniffed her disapproval. “They could at least have put things back where they belonged when they were done pawing through them.”
“Not our job, ma’am,” Denner said. “But then, I’m sure your boss has the money to hire extra help if he needs it.”
Hattie gave another sniff of blatant disapproval and moved away, heading into the living room where a group of investigators were dusting every conceivable surface of her usually sparkling clean room.
Michael was sure she was watching the CSI staff’s every move, suspicious that someone might pocket one of the expensive treasures tastefully scattered about the room. Treasures he’d obtained on his world travels, something he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be doing again anytime soon. Not when he was the prime suspect in a series of four brutal murders.
“You have a loyal staff.”
“Hattie’s been with me a long time,” Michael said.
“Long enough and loyal enough to lie for you perhaps?”
Michael didn’t bother responding. He knew it was useless. Denner’s mind was made up and nothing Michael said would change it
He headed for the marble staircase leading to the second floor and his bedroom. Denner didn’t back off and followed him up.
“Quite a collection of artwork you have hanging on the walls around here, Emerson. Aren’t you worried about someone breaking in and ripping it off?”
“I have a good alarm system.”
“Yes, you do. And that brings up an interesting point.” Denner paused on the middle of the stairs, and Michael stopped, too, glancing back. Waiting.
“There’s no sign of a break-in. Whoever entered the house with Ms. Hamish, fetched a ski pole and then nailed her to the front door. The killer had to have a key or someone let him in.”
“How do you know they even entered the house? That is a common enough ski pole. Maybe the killer brought it with him.”
“Possible. But there’s one tiny detail that tells me that isn’t the case.” Denner looked down into the front hall, nodding at the Windsor chair standing in one corner of the front hall. “That’s Ms. Hamish’s coat lying across the back of that chair. Any thoughts on how it got there?”
Michael shook his head, his heart thudding hard in his chest. The coat put Corinna inside his house. The trap was closing tighter with each passing moment. “I have no idea. Did you question my staff?”
“Of course,” Denner said. “No one seems to remember anyone stopping by.”
Michael continued up the stairs, turning right at the top and entered the master bedroom. The technician dusting the window sill glanced up briefly and then returned to his work.
Michael surveyed the room,
