I've
told you mine." Then my voice lowered, just to let him know I meant
business. "What's yours?"
At that point, the guy in the foyer spoke up. "Get
rid of him, Colby."
The door started to close in my face again. Again,
I wouldn't let it. I shoved it back at him hard, so that it flew open, out of
his grip, banging against the doorstop down by the baseboard.
"Now, Colby, we're not off to a very good
start here," I said. "Either you be nice to me and let me in, or
things are going to get ugly in a hurry."
With that, the guy in the foyer moved quickly to
Colby's side.
"Listen, pal, there are two of us and one of
you. It's going to get a lot uglier for you —"
My fist shot straight into his solar plexus,
doubling him forward, leaving him sucking for breath. I nudged him aside, and
elbowed my way around Colby into the house. He followed me in.
"You can't do that!" cried Colby. "That's
assault!"
"Actually, it's battery. But if you want to
call the cops, go ahead." As I shut the door, he swallowed, always a sign
of weakness. "Now, let's start all over again. I'm Jack Barnett, private
investigator, looking into Sandra Blake's murder. And you are … ?"
"Colby Farrow." His eyes tumbled
downward, staring at the patterned marble floor.
"And who's Superman over there." He was
still gasping, but now leaning against the wide spiral staircase, one arm on
the bannister, one arm across his gut.
Colby said, "That's my brother, Ryan."
"How did you get into the house?"
"Ryan has a key."
"Oh, he does? Very interesting. And what
brings you boys here on this fine day?"
"We came to … to pick up some of Ryan's
things."
"His things? What kind of things?"
Colby said, "This is really none of your
business, Barnett. We're —"
I slapped him. Hard. His hand flew up to his
cheek.
"When I'm hired to investigate a murder, and
there's two guys at the scene who don't belong there, believe me, buddy, it's
my business. Now, what kind of things are you taking out of here? Or should I
call the cops myself? Maybe they'd like to know why you're here early in the
morning, one day after Sandra Blake was found with a bullet in her head. Maybe
they'd like to know why you're removing items from this house, which house, I
might add, does not belong to you."
He rubbed his reddening face. "Ryan had a few
clothes over here, as well as some Château Mouton."
"Sha-toe what?"
Disdain crept onto his face. He looked at me like
I was a hunk of shit on a white carpet. "It's wine. Very expensive wine. I
doubt you would know of it."
I shrugged off the insult. "Tell me, why did
your brother have his stuff over here? Was he seeing Sandra Blake?"
Colby nodded. "He'd been seeing her for about
a year."
"And that's why he happens to have a key?"
"Yes."
I walked over to Superman, just now getting his
breath back.
"So, were you living here with the late Mrs
Blake?"
He finally stood up, still clutching his
midsection. "No."
"Just staying here on occasion, right? Kind
of cozy-like."
"I stayed here sometimes. Listen, you'll
regret this, Barnett." His voice was returning, but still on the raspy
side.
"Yeah," I said, "I'm sure I will.
Let's go get your clothes."
I herded the both of them up the staircase. Ryan
led the way, moving us swiftly into the master bedroom and into the walk-in
closet, which was by itself nearly as big as my apartment. Mostly women's clothing
lined the racks and shelves, and about as many shoes as there are in the state
of Rhode Island. I watched while he gathered his stuff, after which we all
moved back downstairs.
I turned to Colby. "Show me the living room."
He escorted me into the living room, and what a
room it was! One of those you see featured in oversized, glossy,
wouldn't-you-love-to-live-here magazines.
At least twenty feet high, it was dominated by
dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows all along the front, covered by thick, deep blue
drapes that blocked out every last snippet of sunlight. Top-drawer designer
furniture and plush
told you mine." Then my voice lowered, just to let him know I meant
business. "What's yours?"
At that point, the guy in the foyer spoke up. "Get
rid of him, Colby."
The door started to close in my face again. Again,
I wouldn't let it. I shoved it back at him hard, so that it flew open, out of
his grip, banging against the doorstop down by the baseboard.
"Now, Colby, we're not off to a very good
start here," I said. "Either you be nice to me and let me in, or
things are going to get ugly in a hurry."
With that, the guy in the foyer moved quickly to
Colby's side.
"Listen, pal, there are two of us and one of
you. It's going to get a lot uglier for you —"
My fist shot straight into his solar plexus,
doubling him forward, leaving him sucking for breath. I nudged him aside, and
elbowed my way around Colby into the house. He followed me in.
"You can't do that!" cried Colby. "That's
assault!"
"Actually, it's battery. But if you want to
call the cops, go ahead." As I shut the door, he swallowed, always a sign
of weakness. "Now, let's start all over again. I'm Jack Barnett, private
investigator, looking into Sandra Blake's murder. And you are … ?"
"Colby Farrow." His eyes tumbled
downward, staring at the patterned marble floor.
"And who's Superman over there." He was
still gasping, but now leaning against the wide spiral staircase, one arm on
the bannister, one arm across his gut.
Colby said, "That's my brother, Ryan."
"How did you get into the house?"
"Ryan has a key."
"Oh, he does? Very interesting. And what
brings you boys here on this fine day?"
"We came to … to pick up some of Ryan's
things."
"His things? What kind of things?"
Colby said, "This is really none of your
business, Barnett. We're —"
I slapped him. Hard. His hand flew up to his
cheek.
"When I'm hired to investigate a murder, and
there's two guys at the scene who don't belong there, believe me, buddy, it's
my business. Now, what kind of things are you taking out of here? Or should I
call the cops myself? Maybe they'd like to know why you're here early in the
morning, one day after Sandra Blake was found with a bullet in her head. Maybe
they'd like to know why you're removing items from this house, which house, I
might add, does not belong to you."
He rubbed his reddening face. "Ryan had a few
clothes over here, as well as some Château Mouton."
"Sha-toe what?"
Disdain crept onto his face. He looked at me like
I was a hunk of shit on a white carpet. "It's wine. Very expensive wine. I
doubt you would know of it."
I shrugged off the insult. "Tell me, why did
your brother have his stuff over here? Was he seeing Sandra Blake?"
Colby nodded. "He'd been seeing her for about
a year."
"And that's why he happens to have a key?"
"Yes."
I walked over to Superman, just now getting his
breath back.
"So, were you living here with the late Mrs
Blake?"
He finally stood up, still clutching his
midsection. "No."
"Just staying here on occasion, right? Kind
of cozy-like."
"I stayed here sometimes. Listen, you'll
regret this, Barnett." His voice was returning, but still on the raspy
side.
"Yeah," I said, "I'm sure I will.
Let's go get your clothes."
I herded the both of them up the staircase. Ryan
led the way, moving us swiftly into the master bedroom and into the walk-in
closet, which was by itself nearly as big as my apartment. Mostly women's clothing
lined the racks and shelves, and about as many shoes as there are in the state
of Rhode Island. I watched while he gathered his stuff, after which we all
moved back downstairs.
I turned to Colby. "Show me the living room."
He escorted me into the living room, and what a
room it was! One of those you see featured in oversized, glossy,
wouldn't-you-love-to-live-here magazines.
At least twenty feet high, it was dominated by
dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows all along the front, covered by thick, deep blue
drapes that blocked out every last snippet of sunlight. Top-drawer designer
furniture and plush
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