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“The lady who brought the beverages,” I interrupted. “She wasn’t here to help?”
“Vangy only works days. She has a child.”
Dowling repeated how his wife had gone upstairs before him, how he heard shots, how he found his wife on the floor, not breathing, and how he’d called the police.
I said, “Mr. Dowling, I noticed last night that your hair was wet. You took a shower before the police came?”
He grunted and gripped his glass. I was watching for a tell—a guilty look—and I thought I saw it. “I was devastated. I stood weeping in the shower because I didn’t know what else to do.”
“And your clothes, sir?” Conklin asked.
“My clothes?”
“Mr. Dowling, let me be honest with you,” Conklin said. “We know you’re a victim here, but there are certain protocols. We take your clothes to the lab, and it puts down any questions that might come up later.”
Dowling gave Conklin a furious look and called out, “Van-gy! Take Inspector Conklin upstairs and give him whatever he wants.”
When Conklin and the housekeeper left the room, I asked, “Mr. Dowling, when was the last time you had intimate relations with your wife?”
“My God. What are you getting at?”
“Someone had sex with your wife,” I said, pressing on. “If it was her killer, he left evidence that could help us—”
“Casey had sex with me!” Dowling shouted. “We made love before dinner. Now what exactly does that tell you?”
Fif
teen minutes later, Conklin and I left Dowling’s house with a printout of his phone contact list, a cheek swab, and all the unlaundered clothing he owned. Presumably that included what he was wearing when his wife was shot.
“I took everything in the clothes hamper and whatever was on the hook behind the bathroom door,” Conklin said as we walked out to the car. “If he shot her, we’ll have gunpowder. We’ll have blood spatter. We’ll have him.”
Chapter 22
IT WAS THE end of a very long day when Claire and I came in from the dark street into Susie’s, with its splashy sponge-painted walls, spicy aromas, and the plinking drumbeat of the steel band.
Cindy and Yuki were holding down our favorite table in the back room, Yuki in her best go-to-court suit while Cindy had swapped out her denims for something flirty in baby-blue chiffon under a short, cream-colored jacket. They were putting away plantain chips and beer and were in deep conversation about the Dowling case.
Claire and I slid into the booth as Cindy said, “Casey Dowling owned a twenty-karat canary diamond ring worth a million bucks. Known as the Sun of Ceylon. Maybe she fought to keep it. What do you think, Linds? Possible motive for Hello Kitty to go ballistic?”
“Casey didn’t have any defensive wounds,” said Claire.
“And she didn’t scream for her husband,” I added.
I poured beer from the pitcher for Claire and myself, then asked Cindy, “Where’d you get that info about the diamond?”
“I’ve got my sources. But I wouldn’t get too excited, Linds. That rock will have been chopped into pebbles by now.”
“Maybe,” I said to Cindy. “Listen, I have a thought. Since you know who’s who, maybe you could run your fingers through the social register, flag anyone young and athletic enough to do second-story jobs.”
Yuki asked, “You’re thinking Hello Kitty is high-society?”
“Rich does,” Cindy and I said in unison.
Yuki tucked her hair behind her ears. “If Kitty travels with that crowd, he’d know Casey had this huge yellow diamond, and if she recognized him—”
“Yeah, I admit, it makes sense,” I said. “There was a forced-window entry into the Dowling bedroom, identical to the other five break-ins. There’s a witness who saw someone making a getaway on foot. Clapper says there’s no gunpowder or blood spatter on Dowling’s clothing. So if Casey knew Kitty—”
And then Claire thumped the table with her fist. Chips jumped. Beer sloshed. She got everyone’s complete attention.
