Tucker Peak by Archer Mayor Page A

to give us all a warm place to confer. The landlord had still not been located, so no one had found a way to turn up the heat in the building, which was now crawling with state crime lab technicians in any case, clad in puffy white overalls and booties, like scientists escaped from a movie lot.
    Inside the van were Ron Klesczewski, Sammie Martens, a couple of Brattleboro cops taking advantage of the portable coffee urn, and a woman I’d never met but knew to be the head of the forensics team. We’d all been here for five hours by now, following the standard protocol for the discovery of a homicide, and were processing the apartment, interviewing the other residents, and canvassing the neighborhood.
    I found a spot on the bench running the length of the van’s side and slipped off my coat, greeting the others as I did so. I’d just returned from the office, where I’d been making more inquiries into Marty Gagnon and his known contacts.
    The lab tech was a tall, striking woman named Robin Leonard, who introduced herself with a firm handshake and a no-nonsense manner.
    “Okay,” I asked them all, after that introduction was over, “where do we stand?”
    Sammie had been in charge during my absence, and while not prone to sitting back in most cases, she knew better than to speak first right now. In exchange for its elite status, or because of it, VBI had drummed into its ranks an instinct for diplomacy, Willy notwithstanding. We didn’t need the FBI’s reputation for stepping on toes. Sammie kept her peace, looking directly at Ron instead.
    It was a familiar scenario. When the three of us had worked together in the old days, both the pecking order and the interaction had been similar. I’d been the lieutenant, Sammie the eager up-and-comer, and Ron the thoughtful introvert, hard-working but self-conscious, always doubtful of his true worth. Now, by simple attrition, he was head of that same detective squad, and I knew he’d been struggling with the trappings of the job. I’d always believed he had the makings of what he’d finally become. I’d even made him my second-in-command in preparation once, prematurely, as it turned out. But he was also his own worst obstacle and could be frustrating to watch in action.
    Not now, though. The pressure, while real, was still predictable this time, so after a moment’s hesitation, and the stimulus supplied by Sammie’s telling look, Ron cleared his throat.
    “Right now, from our perspective, things aren’t looking too good,” he admitted. “We still have to chase down a few residents who aren’t in right now, who might’ve seen something at the time, and we need to find out if anything like the mailman or any service trucks were in the area when we think the victim was killed, but so far, we have nothing—no unusual activities or sounds, no interruptions to the neighborhood’s normal patterns. And no one has anything to say about Jorja Duval, Marty Gagnon, or anyone else who might’ve been in that apartment.”
    “Meaning they never even saw them?” I asked.
    “The woman across the landing and the guy who lives downstairs admit they knew Duval. Saw her coming and going. But they never talked to her, and they deny she ever had guests or caused any disturbances. To hear them, she might have been a ghost.”
    “Meaning they’re lying,” Sammie softly echoed my thoughts.
    “Maybe,” Ron agreed, “but we can’t prove it. Not yet.”
    “What
was
the time of death?” I asked.
    Robin Leonard spoke up. “I asked the assistant medical examiner that when he was packing her up for transport. After the usual disclaimers, he guessed sometime last night.”
    “And the neighbors were in?”
    Ron nodded. “Supposedly.”
    One of the cops spoke up unexpectedly, no doubt hoping to impress Leonard. “You’ll probably find some dandruff or something that’ll nail the guy. I read somewhere you folks can even pick out individual cat hairs. Maybe the tabby’ll help you