Death of a Bankster by David Bishop Page B

hair. Before leaving she poured a second cup of coffee into a big ceramic mug which would accompany her to work riding snugly in the dashboard holder of her getting-too-old Taurus. After this case, she was determined to get an SUV so she would have more room for a lot of things, including hauling Bradley and his friends.
    She backed out of the garage and headed for the Crawford residence to meet the forensics team that would hopefully prove once and for all that Sam Crawford had been shot dead in his doorway last Thursday night. Their assignments would include hunting for evidence that might help Maddie identify the imposters who represented themselves as FBI Agents Powell and Withers, and, maybe, or instead, the fake medical examiner. While accelerating down her street, Maddie waved at Lenny the plumber who as usual for this time of the morning stood at the back of his open truck laying it out for today’s jobs. Then to Annie Smiddle who had trudged out to pick up her morning paper from the driveway, the housecoat draped from her drooping shoulders hanging lower in front than in back.
    Maddie popped a few chewable papaya tablets with the hope they would help settle her stomach. Last night she and her mother had watched Out of the Past , a movie starring both of her mother’s hunks: Robert Mitchum, as the good guy, and Kirk Douglas as the bad guy. The female lead was Jane Greer. The movie was good, so was the popcorn and soda. She had consumed too much and it now knocked at her door wanting to be let out. Maddie hoped the papaya would allow it to be patient, buy her some time.
    Bill Molitor and his forensics crew arrived at Paige Crawford’s home in a van, pulling to the curb behind Maddie. Well, technically this was still the home of Sam and Paige Crawford, pending the determination of whether or not Sam was still among those who cared about owning a home.
    Maddie and Molitor’s crew put booties over their shoes and pulled on latex gloves before going inside. After giving them an overview of the claimed murder, Bill’s team got to work with Maddie spending most of that time on the phone.
    Five minutes later, Bill called over to Maddie. “We’ve definitely got blood traces on the floor inside the front door, right where you said, in the grout lines around the tiles. There was considerable blood which spread out toward the center of the room. How tall was Mr. Crawford?”
    “The printout from his driver’s license shows five-eleven. Does that check?”
    “Based on the description you passed on from the two witnesses, both saying his left foot dangled out the doorway over the porch, yeah, the blood’s in about the right place for a shot to the head.”
    “That’s how it was described,” Maddie said, “anything else?”
    “We’re not done yet, but so far, no. If the story’s accurate we likely won’t find any more blood farther in, but we’ll check. Do we know the direction from which the shot was fired?”
    “Mrs. Crawford and Carla Roth had no idea. The fake FBI agents told Mrs. Crawford they saw dust blow from up on a distant hill. That could be bull. Based on the time it took them to get to the door, unless they paused before coming to the house, they would have been no more than several houses away, maybe in a car at the end of the street. Of course, this assumes the shooter was one of the fake feebs.”
    “That seems likely, doesn’t it? One of those guys being the shooter.”
    “That’s the only thing about this case so far that does seem likely, so maybe it’s not. Why else would anyone misrepresent themselves as cops and get tangled up in a murder? I think they wanted to take the body and Sam Crawford’s computer and smart phone, as well as look through his desk and stuff.”
    “Professionals?”
    “Best guess, yeah. Good guess too. Amateurs don’t show up with fake FBI cards and someone standing by to play the medical examiner. The important point right now is these imposters were in here a