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Milham regarded Natali, one of five lieutenants assigned to Homicide, as the one closest to Captain Quaire, and in effect, if not officially, his deputy. He liked him.
“I got the word the Captain wanted to see me,” Milham said as he pushed open the door.
“Where were you, Wally? We’ve been looking for you for an hour.”
“At the insurance bureau in the First Philadelphia Building,” Milham replied, then when he sensed Natali wanted more information, went on: “On the Grover job.”
A week before, Mrs. Katherine Grover had hysterically reported to Police Radio that there had been a terrible accident at her home in Mt. Airy. When a radio patrol car of the Fourteenth District had responded, Officer John Sarabello had found Mr. Arthur Grover, her husband, dead against the wall of their garage. Mrs. Grover told Officer Sarabello that her foot had slipped off the brake onto the accelerator, causing their Plymouth station wagon to jump forward.
Neither Officer Sarabello, his sergeant, or the Northwest Detective Division detective who further investigated the incident were completely satisfied with Mrs. Grover’s explanation o
f what had transpired, and the job was referred to the Homicide Unit. Detective Milham got the job, as he was next up on the wheel.
“I know she did it,” Detective Milham went on. “And she knows I know she did it. But she is one tough little cookie.”
“The insurance turn up anything?”
“Nothing here in the last eighteen months. They’re going to check Hartford for me.”
While it might be argued that the interest of the insurance industry in a homicide involving someone whose life they have insured may be more financial than moral—if it turned out, for example, that Mrs. Grover had feloniously taken the life of her husband, they would be relieved of paying her off as the beneficiary of his life insurance policy—the industry for whatever reasons cooperates wholeheartedly with police conducting a homicide investigation.
“You weren’t listening to the radio?”
Milham shook his head.
“You know a cop named Kellog?”
Milham nodded.
“They found him, this morning, in the kitchen of his house,” Natali said. “Somebody shot him, twice, in the back of his head.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“He’d probably been dead about six hours.”
“Who did it?”
“They had trouble finding his wife. She apparently didn’t live with him. So the neighbors say. They just found her a half an hour ago.”
“She works for the City,” Milham said. “The neighbors should have known that.”
“I think that’s where they finally got it, from the neighbors,” Natali said. “Where were you last night, Wally, from, say, midnight to six in the morning?”
“So that’s what this is all about.”
“Where were you, Wally?”
“He was an asshole, Lieutenant. I think he was also dirty. But I didn’t shoot the sonofabitch.”
“So tell me where you were last night from midnight on.”
“Jesus Christ, Lieutenant! I was home.”
“Were you alone?”
“No.”
“Was she with you?”
