The Art of Detection by Laurie R. King Page B

when she said the name Philip Gilbert, Rutland went silent.
    “Mr. Rutland? Is Philip Gilbert your client?”
    “God. Philip? What happened?”
    “All I can tell you is the death is under investigation. At the moment, I’m in his home trying to find the name and location of his next of kin.”
    “He doesn’t really have family. I can’t believe it. Are you sure it’s him?”
    “He had a medical necklace and his doctor confirmed his general appearance. We’ll need someone to identify him, when we can find the family.”
    “He doesn’t…You say you’re in his house? How did you get in?”
    “A neighbor gave us the name of his security company. Mr. Rutland—”
    “I think I better come over there. I’m his executor, I’ll bring you what information I have. I’m at home in Berkeley, I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
    “That won’t be necessary, Mr.—”
    But Rutland’s mind was made up, and if he really wanted to spend his Saturday afternoon driving across the Bay, Kate wasn’t going to bar the door against him. She asked him if he had the code to the safe, and he said he’d bring it with him.
    She closed the phone, looking distractedly at a framed photograph of Philip Gilbert with a television actor who had played Sherlock Holmes: Gilbert was a head taller, thinner of nose and sparser of hair, and looked more the character than the professional did.
    She was looking at the photograph, but she was thinking about lawyers. Helpful lawyers were a rare breed, in her experience, and she’d never come across one willing to drop everything for a dead client—foot-dragging was an entire section in the bar exam. Too, Tom Rutland’s reaction to the news had been more personal than professional, with his voice going tight, his thoughts distracted.
    She called to Williams that they were going to have a visitor, and returned to her search.
    The desk itself contained a minimum of paper, mostly paid bills and catalogues from auction houses all over the world. The answering machine held eleven messages, most of which sounded like business, since the callers left their full name and numbers and had invariably phoned during weekday work hours. The only exceptions were the second and seventh calls, both left by the same English voice, identifying himself merely as “Ian.” Ian’s first message had come at 8:21 the previous Monday morning:
    “Philip, this is Ian. God, man, this is really something, but honestly, you can’t be serious. Can you? Anyway, give me a ring on my mobile.”
    Then at 7:49 Thursday evening he had called again:
    “Philip, I don’t know if you got the message I left the other day, but do ring me when you get a chance. I’ll be back the first of the week, but call me any time. I need to talk to you about this before it goes any further.”
    Williams made note of the names, numbers, and times they had been left. The earliest one was the previous Sunday, January the twenty-fifth, the latest yesterday, Friday the thirtieth.
    They also found Gilbert’s keys, to the house and to the Lexus parked up the block. They were in a small bowl on the back of the desk, a bowl that, going by the scratches and nicks in its surface, was where they usually lived. Kate picked them up curiously. “Don’t you think it’s odd to keep your house keys up on the third floor?”
    “Maybe he has another set downstairs.”
    But if he did, they couldn’t find them. Maybe he had left in a hurry, and couldn’t be bothered climbing upstairs to get the keys; hence the unturned dead bolt on the door.
    Kate happened to be looking out of the window when a brand-new, glossy black BMW purred past the house, searching for a parking space. It found one up the block, and a vigorous, thickset man in his forties got out, dressed in expensive designer jeans, leather loafers worn without socks, and a gleaming black leather bomber jacket over a shirt printed with a sort of Balinese design, carrying a slightly less pristine