The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [105]
Roelke flashed his badge. “Eagle Police,” he said. “Is Mr. Sabatola at home?”
“Mr. Sabatola is sleeping!” the woman said, stepping back as the two officers came inside. She clutched the bathrobe close beneath her chin.
“Wake him up,” Roelke said. “Tell him Officer Roelke McKenna is here. And that Waukesha County deputies have surrounded the house.” That was a lie, but it couldn’t hurt.
Sabatola must have heard the commotion, because he came downstairs just moments after the Latina woman disappeared. He wore dark blue pajamas and a matching robe—both silk, of course—and slippers made from glossy leather. “Officer Mc-Kenna?” he demanded. “It’s two AM! What is—”
“In here.” Roelke jerked his head toward the living room. He turned on a table lamp beside the beautiful photo of Bonnie Sabatola. “Sit down.”
Sabatola hesitated, then obeyed. Roelke saw a flash of unease in the man’s eyes. Skeet stayed on his feet, vigilant but out of the way.
Roelke began to pace in front of Sabatola. “I’m here to discuss your wife, Mr. Sabatola.”
“What about her?” The other man started to rise again.
“Sit down,” Roelke ordered. Because of his own impatience they were doing this in Sabatola’s home—in his own comfort zone. Roelke at least wanted the advantage of physical dominance.
“You know, Mr. Sabatola, I still have some lingering questions about your wife’s suicide,” he began. “Let me lay out some facts for you. First of all, Mrs. Sabatola told us where to look for her wallet and keys. But when Officer Deardorff and I arrived—” he nodded toward Skeet—“those items were elsewhere.”
“My wife was obviously in great emotional distress.”
“She was,” Roelke agreed. “She was also calm and rational. She told us we’d find her three hundred paces down the White Oak Trail, but we found her body well short of that. And the heel of one of her sandals was broken. That suggests that she ran down the trail, instead of walking.”
Sabatola started to rise again. Skeet stepped forward and shoved him back into the chair.
“According to our clerk,” Roelke told him, “your wife’s last words were ‘Oh Jesus.’”
Sabatola’s face was still composed, but his fingers gripped the arms of the chair tightly. “Bonnie was a devout woman.”
“I think she said ‘Oh Jesus’ because she saw your car pull into the parking lot.”
“I—I didn’t—that’s absurd! I was playing golf in Lake Geneva when Bonnie killed herself.”
“I don’t think so,” Roelke said. “When I tried to find you to notify you of the death, Mr. Guest said you were in the middle of a business-related golf outing in Lake Geneva. He also said he didn’t know which particular course you were enjoying that morning. It took the Lake Geneva police awhile to track you down. Because no one suspected that a crime had been committed, they didn’t pay much attention to the timeline of events.”
“This is preposterous!”
“But I checked with them, Mr. Sabatola. The Lake Geneva officer found you and your guest near the first hole at the Three Springs Country Club at ten-forty-five. According to your secretary’s desk calendar, though, the golf outing was scheduled for nine AM at Three Springs. Funny how Mr. Guest couldn’t produce that information, even though it was written in his own calendar.”
Sabatola was shaking his head. Tiny drops of sweat glistened on his forehead.
“I got the name of your golf partner from the club manager, and checked with that gentleman’s office. He told me that you were supposed to pick him up at nine, but that your secretary called shortly after nine to say you were running late. So the way I figure it, you had time to chase your wife down the trail, kill her, and drive away before we got to the scene. And you had time to call your secretary, and then drive to Lake Geneva and get out on the course before the police found you.” Roelke stared down at him. “Because you did kill your Bonnie.”
“My wife committed suicide! You gave me the autopsy results yourself. Bonnie even