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“Gotcha,” Betty said, and she went upstairs for a robe.
THIRTY-EIGHT
As Joan sat on the sofa, she set her .45 on the cushion beside her and waited for the police. Shortly, a car turned up and flashing lights played across the ceiling. She got up and was at the front door by the time the bell rang. “Please come in,” she said to the uniformed man and woman on the front porch. She switched on the master controls for the house and the exterior.
The officers both had their hands on their weapons. “Good evening, ma’am,” the young man said. “Are you armed?”
“No,” Joan replied, holding open the door. “My pistol is on the sofa there,” she said, pointing.
The two officers entered. “Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked.
“There are two other people here: my houseguest, Betty, who is upstairs getting decent, and the man lying at the bottom of the stairs, around the corner. I’ll show you.” She led thetwo officers into the foyer and pointed at the large man wearing a large hole in his chest. “I’m sorry I can’t introduce you, but I don’t know his name.”
Both officers approached him with their weapons drawn. The woman felt for a pulse at his neck and looked at his eyes to inspect the pupil. “He’s dead,” she said, holstering her weapon. “I’ve got a snub-nosed .38 on the other side of the body.”
Another woman appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a silk dressing gown. “Good evening,” she said.
“Betty,” Joan said, “would you bring my handbag down here, please? Yours, too.” Betty went back for the two bags.
“Let’s all go into the living room and have a chat,” the officer said when Betty returned with Joan’s bag and her own. “I’m Sergeant Dave Powell, and this is my partner, Sergeant Florence Stern. She likes to be called Flo.”
“How do you do?” Joan and Betty said in unison. They followed the officers into the living room.
Powell took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, stuck it into the barrel of the .45, and dropped the gun into a zippered plastic bag.
“The only fingerprints you’ll find on it,” Joan said, “are mine. I cleaned it thoroughly when I was packing.”
“Does it belong to you?” Powell asked.
“Yes, it’s registered in my name: Joan Robertson.”
“And do you have a permit for it?”
“Yes, full carry. May I get my ID from my bag?”
“Of course.”
Joan produced her documents relating to the gun and her driver’s license. “You, too, Betty,” she said, and Betty produced her license.
“Now,” Powell said, “I’d like you to answer some questions.”
“If you’ll forgive me, I’d rather wait for the arrival of my attorney. He will be here shortly.”
“Local attorney?”
“From the city. He’s coming by helicopter.”
“As you wish, Ms. Robertson.” They all sat quietly and waited. Another twenty minutes passed, then they could hear the helicopter’s rotors beating against the air. The machine set down on the front lawn, and the pilot killed the engine.
“Excuse me,” Joan said, and went to open the front door. Stone Barrington entered and looked around.
“Stone, these are Sergeants Dave Powell and Flo Stern. Sergeants, this is my attorney, Stone Barrington, of the firm of Woodman & Weld.”
Stone looked at his watch. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you mind if I have a moment alone with my client?”
“Of course not,” Powell replied.
“Where’s the body?” Stone asked Joan.
