The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [13]
Chief Naborski let the front of his chair bang to the floor, his end-of-conversation signal. “Any questions?”
“No sir,” Roelke said. But there was one more question. It clanged like a bell in his brain as he left the chief’s office, checked his duty belt, told Marie where he was going, and headed out.
If Skeet wins this job, Roelke thought, what the hell am I going to do?
_____
Simon Sabatola lived outside the village. The short drive gave Roelke time to consider strategy. Putting Sabatola on the defensive would probably accomplish nothing. Good cop, then. I am your friend.
Roelke felt his eyebrows rise as he turned into a long, winding drive. The place looked like an estate, better suited for suburban Chicago than rural Wisconsin. The grass was the uniform lush green that signaled the regular arrival of a lawn service team with power trimmers and tanks of herbicide. Flower beds lined the drive, filled with a few plants he recognized—roses, day lilies, hydrangeas—and a lot he didn’t. No dandelions or dead blooms in sight.
The house itself was a modern chalet. Roelke parked beside a gleaming black Lincoln Town Car. When he knocked on the front door he half-expected a maid or uniformed butler to answer. Instead, a small man in an expertly cut navy-blue suit appeared.
“Mr. Sabatola?” Roelke asked.
“No, I’m Edwin Guest. I work for Mr. Sabatola.” Guest paused, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Roelke introduced himself. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Sabatola.”
Guest hesitated. He was balding, and had a thin face and pale eyes, with no particularly memorable features. Roelke wondered if rich people looked for that when they hired people.
Finally Guest ushered him inside. “I’ll see if Mr. Sabatola is available.”
“I’ll wait until he is.” Roelke smiled pleasantly.
Guest disappeared. Roelke used the pause to take impressions of the house. The décor favored leather and steel, with splashes of color provided by large abstract paintings on the walls. Roelke stared at one particularly vivid piece, trying to make sense of the primary colors slapped on the canvas. What did people see in this stuff ? It probably cost a fortune, and Libby’s young son could have—
“Officer McKenna?” A man entered the hall from a side room. “I’m Simon Sabatola.”
Roelke shook the widower’s hand. Simon Sabatola stood over six feet, with broad shoulders and a firm grip. At first glimpse, he had a commanding presence. His eyes, though—they were red and swollen, full of shadows, full of pain.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Roelke said. “And I’m sorry to intrude at such a difficult moment. I hope you can understand that I need to ask a few questions.”
Sabatola ushered him into the living room. “Would you like anything? Coffee?”
Roelke declined the coffee, and perched on the edge of a black leather sofa. Sabatola sank into a matching chair. A framed wedding portrait of Simon and Bonnie Sabatola sat on a glass end table beside him. She’d posed snuggled against her husband, chestnut hair arranged in curls, face glowing with joy beneath her bridal veil. Roelke felt a tightening in his chest. She was—had been—stunning.
“Have you learned anything about my wife’s death?” Sabatola asked.
“I have no new information,” Roelke said carefully. “As I’m sure you were told, your wife died by a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” He paused. Some people in this situation wanted all the details. Some wanted none.
“It still seems so … unreal.” The other man’s eyes filled with tears. “I keep thinking it’s all a mistake.”
Roelke never knew what to do with men who cried. He avoided Sabatola’s gaze for a moment, giving the other man time to compose himself. “I can only imagine the shock, sir. But … had Bonnie seemed distressed lately?”
“No, nothing like that.” Sabatola spread his hands, palms-up, in a gesture of bafflement. “I mean … obviously she must have been upset about something, or she wouldn’t have done such a thing. But whatever it was, she managed to hide it from me.”
“Was she being treated for depression?”
“No.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I need to ask.