The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [107]
“It’s not that bad. But it’s the damndest thing. For starters, Posey’s just back from a law enforcement conference that stressed multiple lines of inquiry in a homicide investigation.” Henny looked bemused. “His new favorite expression is, ‘In the alternative…’”
“You mean he hasn’t glommed onto one theory to the exclusion of all others?” Annie asked. Actually, such open-mindedness would be a marked improvement for her least favorite circuit solicitor.
“By no means. Okay. Theory Number One: Lady Gwendolyn, a known Christie partisan, is so immersed in Christie lore that she has crossed over the edge of sanity and is committing murder using methods in Christie novels.”
“Lugging an ornamental bronze sugar cutter all the way from England, of course,” Annie said sarcastically. But, if that was Theory One, surely Posey was much closer to reality with Theory Two. “I suppose he’s checking out everybody to see if someone’s trying to hide behind the crazed-Christie image to get at Bledsoe?”
“No such luck. No such sanity. No such sensible alternative inquiry,” Henny sputtered in disgust. “No, Posey’s Theory Number Two: Stone was the victim of a drug war!”
“A drug war?”
“Yes. And guess who’s in on it?”
Annie scarcely knew where to start. With Posey, anything was possible. Laurel. The president of the local PTA The diocesan bishop.
“Bledsoe!” Henny whooped. “Oh, God, is he pissed! Posey’s been grilling Bledsoe all morning. Posey’s alternative theory is that the attempts on Bledsoe’s life and the murder of Stone are the action of a drug ring trying to discipline its members.”
Annie had the same sense of unreality she sometimes experienced in second-rate hard-boiled novels. The words were presented in utter seriousness, and they were absurd. (The slug caught him just below the shoulder. Threw him back against the wall. He shoved away from the wall, caught the first thug with a karate chop to the neck, kung fu’d the second guy, looked for a way out. In a haze of pain, sweat beading his face, he tumbled through the window onto the fire escape, and started up, two rungs at a time, blood spattering as he went. He ignored the shouts behind him. The second slug creased his leg. On the next floor, a scowl twisting his face, he kicked in the window. Rose was waiting. Almost like she’d known he’d come. She lifted her hand in a silent plea. He gave her a tired grin. “It’s too late, sister,” he said softly. He pulled the .45. He hated to do it. God, she was pretty. But the prettiness was all on the outside. The gun bucked in his hand as he shot. He watched her die. Just like she’d watched Al die.)
“A drug war,” Annie repeated. “What led our stalwart officer of the law to that creative conclusion?”
“The autopsy. Posey got the results this morning,” Henny explained. “Stone had traces of cocaine in his blood.”
“So?” Illegal, stupid, and dangerous, but not surprising in his age group and certainly not evidence of criminal conspiracy.
Henny grinned cynically. “They had a huge cocaine bust on Hilton Head a year or so ago. I imagine Posey’s hungering for the kind of publicity that engendered.”
Annie remembered the bust, of course. It was the largest haul ever in South Carolina, one hundred million dollars’ worth of pure cocaine. A story with some piquant angles. Such as the lawyers found digging in the backyard of one of the defendants. This unusual display of manual labor by members of the bar encouraged digging by the authorities. The result: buried lawn bags stuffed with cash. Beaucoup cash.
“I see,” Annie mused. “Are Stone and Bledsoe supposed to be smugglers who’ve fallen out with the Colombian cartel, or independent jobbers in a turf war?”
“Posey hasn’t let anybody in on the fine points of his investigation yet,” Henny said sardonically. “Of course, he’s hacked that Bledsoe’s the only person in the hotel officially alibied for Stone’s death. Saulter had Billy Cameron on duty Tuesday night, just down the hall from Bledsoe’s suite. Billy saw Bledsoe go in his room, even said good night to him.