14 - J. T. Ellison [78]
“Start with the time of death. Figure out when he was killed, and you’ll be able to nail his movements after he left this office.”
“Actually, I checked. The M.E. on the scene said he’d been dead at least ten hours. So he would have to have been killed sometime between five last night, when he came to the office, and three in the morning. The call came in at two-thirty today, so it’s entirely possible that he’s been dead this whole time. We need to see if he ever made it home last night, go trace his phone calls. God, I am sick about this one.”
“Okay then. Pass along everything you have to Lincoln. This is his case, let him run the show.”
“But—”
“Taylor, there’s no but about it. You’re getting married tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten. You need to go do the things you need to do to be ready for that. Because trust me, I won’t let you screw that up. Get out of here. Go home. Get ready for the rehearsal dinner. Let us handle this.”
Taylor allowed herself to be shooed out of his office. She talked to Lincoln, asked him to track Frank Richardson’s timeline, told him what she was doing. She wasn’t going home, not just yet. She needed to make a stop first.
The Tennessean offices were still ablaze. Taylor knew they didn’t usually put the paper to bed until well after midnight. There would be people around for her to ask for help.
She showed her badge at the front desk and asked for the managing editor. The receptionist pointed to her left, the open stairwell. Taylor climbed up one floor. Greenleaf met her at the door to the newsroom.
“I have bad news,” she opened with as they shook hands. Greenleaf had been around the block before, didn’t need it sugarcoated.
“Let’s go in here.” He ushered her into a small conference room off the newsroom, where they could have a little privacy.
“Did you find Jane?”
“No. Not yet. Frank Richardson is dead. He was murdered sometime late last night or early this morning in an empty apartment in Bellevue. I’m sorry to have to drop it on you like this, Steve, but I need to know. Did Frank tell you anything about what he was working on yesterday?”
Greenleaf was dumbstruck. He stood at the door to the conference room, mouth agape. His administrative assistant came with a paper for him to sign. He told her the news and Taylor only cringed a little when his assistant burst into tears. Taylor felt the knot take hold in her neck. She didn’t have time to assuage grief right now. She needed to find out what, why and who had killed Frank Richardson.
“Steve,” she tried again gently. “I’m sorry. I know you were friends. And I hate to be callous, but I need your help. I need to get on the computer Frank was using yesterday. Please, Steve. This is important. Did Frank tell you what he’d found?”
Greenleaf finally found his voice. He held tightly to his assistant’s arm. “No, Lieutenant, he didn’t. Oh, my. Oh, poor Frank. He didn’t deserve to go like that, in violence. He always wanted to die in his sleep when he was one hundred and eight. That was the age he’d picked. Felt like he’d have lived a full life if he could make it. Oh, no. His wife?”
“The chaplain is over there, I’m sure. Steve, I’m sorry. I need to get on that computer.”
She could tell they were terribly upset by her insensitivity, but they rolled with her, getting her into the room Frank had been using. Greenleaf finally excused himself, face still white with shock. He said he needed to go prepare an obituary worthy of Frank’s contribution to the paper, and society in general.
She sat down at the computer, wishing she had Lincoln with her. He was the brilliant computer mind; she’d always relied on him. But she wasn’t a slouch herself.
She’d been working for an hour and coming up dry when a small noise made her look up. Daphne Beauchamp stood in the doorway.
“I heard what happened. You look frustrated.”
Taylor glanced at her watch. Rehearsal was in less than two hours. Still, it was awfully late for the young archivist to be at work. She