Grace Among Thieves Part 7

"Not really," I answered. "He was part of the tour group that came through here yesterday when we had that altercation. I remember seeing him. The tour guide says his name is Mark Ellroy."

The man on the floor focused mad, dark eyes on me now. He tried to get up but the paramedics held him down. "Lenore," he asked, voice cracking. "No one will tell me anything. Is she all right?"

I turned to Rodriguez. "He doesn't know."

Whispering served only to stir the man's agitation.

"Oh no," he gasped, his gaze frantically bouncing between my face and Rodriguez's, "she's not okay, is she?"

The concern in his expression gripped me. I had no words of consolation, but I was moved with pity. "I'm so sorry," I began, realizing by the widening of his eyes that that was probably the worst way to begin. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Flynn, who up until now had been mostly silent, gave a grunt of displeasure. "Since when are you in charge of questioning witnesses?" he demanded under his breath.

Rodriguez had placed a restraining hand on my arm. His voice was gentle. "Let us handle this. You can help by gathering all the other potential witnesses. Is there somewhere they can wait until we're ready to question them?"

"I'll find a room." I thought about it. "Or two."

"Evidence technicians will be here soon," he added. "We'll need your help coordinating." He started to move away, then stopped and turned back. He heaved a sigh so deep his protruding gut lifted and dropped with a bounce. "What am I saying? You know the drill."

Unfortunately, I did.

"John's downstairs," I said, adding, "The tour guide," when Rodriguez looked confused. "I'll make sure he's okay. He saw the man who did this."

The rest of the tour group had been staged in a corridor down the hall; they were now being herded downstairs. I caught up with the guard who was bringing up the rear. "Where are you taking them?" I asked, sneaking a discreet look at his badge. I'd met him once before, but until I saw "Cornell," I couldn't come up with his name.

Tall, solid, and with military-cropped short hair, Cornell kept close watch on the trudging tourists as he answered, "Carr wants them held in the entrance hall until further notice. Not as much chance for them to get into trouble."

The group shuffled forward as directed, murmuring among themselves. A few shot backward glances toward where we'd left Mark Ellroy. They wore expressions of fear and disbelief. Couples held tight to one another. Others cast wary glances at their peers. I was happy there were no children in this bunch.

Cornell continued, "We've got everything under control. No one's getting out until we say so."

I knew his words were meant to rea.s.sure, but I also knew of secret pa.s.sages that had helped another murderer escape.

"You're joining us?" he asked when I continued to accompany the exodus.

I shook my head. "I'm heading back . . . down." I caught Cornell's glum look of understanding, so thankfully didn't have to explain that I would be returning to where Lenore had met her death. "I need to relieve Frances. As soon as I can, however, I'll be up to help in the entrance hall."

I inched past the group when they turned down the next corridor. I reached the yellow staff stairway and trotted down as quickly as I could, my entire body pinging with awareness. My hands balled into fists as my pace picked up. I was angry-so angry-that another murder had been committed on Marshfield grounds that I felt almost eager to spring into action if I happened to cross paths with the killer.

In a twisted way, I almost wished I would. Whoever had killed Lenore and attempted to kill Mark Ellroy was not a member of the Marshfield staff. I was sure of it. Whoever it was must have posed as a docent, probably as he plotted his next major theft.

I was furious. Frustrated. My head buzzed with the need to do something. Adrenaline pumped under my skin, flushing me with a sense of invincibility. "Come on," I wanted to scream. "Let me at him."

I hurried through a narrow bas.e.m.e.nt corridor toward the spot I'd left John and Frances, but all I could see were the backs of staff members from the laundry and maintenance departments. They cl.u.s.tered in the doorway, jostling one another for a better look as they all peered at the meticulous process of evidence collection.

Excusing myself as I made my way through the four-deep throng, I realized that despite their curiosity, they'd been effectively held back from trampling the scene by a slim band of crime scene tape. Bright yellow, flimsy plastic, it nonetheless worked like magic to keep everyone out of the stairwell. It kept me from entering the area as well.

I was grateful to see that our local law enforcement was on the scene much faster than they'd been in the past, but I hated the fact that we here at Marshfield had provided so much practice. I spotted Frances just out of the evidence technicians' way, a few steps up from the ground level. I called out to her. "Where's John?"

She'd glanced up at the sound of her name, her expression at once both annoyed and relieved. "There you are," she said. To the technician closest to her position, she pointed at me. "You can let her in. She's my boss."

The tech gave the briefest of nods then turned to me. He wore gloves and booties and carried a clear plastic bin full of items I couldn't begin to recognize. "You can walk in up to here." The tech drew an imaginary line on the ground about a foot from the doorway, where I ducked under the tape. "You can join your friend on the stairs," he said, "but don't come any closer than this."

"Got it."

He turned to the gaping group of staffers who had resumed staring. "Okay, enough. Everybody scatter. We've got work to do here and we don't need an audience."

"Where's John?" I asked Frances when I reached her.

"One of our security guards said he was needed for questioning and took him out." Pointing, Frances indicated upward. "He's waiting on the first floor."

"Who?"

"John," she said, with a look and a tone meant to deride me for asking.

"No. Who took him? Which of our guards?"

"Oh," she said, face flushing. "I missed looking at his name badge. One of the new guys."

"Was he dressed like a guard or a docent?" I asked.

Frances hesitated long enough to send me into a panic.

"But it was someone you've seen before?" I asked, desperate for answers.

"Sure, of course," she said. "I'd recognize him instantly."

I turned to the tech who had let me in. "I'm going up," I said.

He looked at me sharply. "Stay away from the second floor. That's a crime scene, too."

"First floor only." I was pointing even as I ran. What if the guard who had taken John was actually the killer, trying to keep from being identified?

Frances was right on my heels, apparently reading my mind. "You're not going to rush in there without help, are you?"

I didn't answer.

She tried again, a little more breathless now, as I reached the first-floor landing. "I'm sure he's one of ours. I'm sure of it."

I bolted through the door to find John alone in a soft chair, his face in his hands. He jumped to his feet as we burst in. "What else? What's wrong?"

There was no one with him. This room-another one that was off-limits to guests, in a section of the house they probably didn't even realize they were missing-had become one of our many storage rooms. With one door that we'd used to come in from the staircase and another across the room leading into the hallway, it offered excellent accessibility. Shelves lined two walls, wooden chairs stacked on them, neatly flip-flopped one atop another in sets of two.

"Where's the guard who brought you here?" I asked.

John twisted to face the door behind him, indicating as he did so. "He told me to wait right here. He needed to get someone."

"Did he say anything?" I asked. "Did you catch his name?"

The concern in my voice must have been apparent because John's already troubled expression grew even more alarmed. "I didn't know I needed to." He peered around me to look at Frances. "You know him, don't you?"

"I can't recall his name," she said stiffly. "But he works here. I'm sure of it."

I crossed the room and opened the oak door, peeking out into the quiet corridor. No one.

Angry antic.i.p.ation danced in Frances's eyes when I turned back to them. "Say it," she said. "I know what you're thinking: that I should have accompanied John. But then who would have waited for the technicians, hmm? I can't be in two places at once, you know."

Frances was always able to turn any disagreeable situation into my fault. But there was no point in arguing right now. Clearly she'd realized her mistake. I pulled up my walkie-talkie and contacted Terrence.

"What's up, Grace?" he asked the moment he came through. There was no mistaking the impatience in his voice.

"I'm in the storage room just off the red staircase, first floor. John, the tour director, is here with me. According to him and to Frances, one of our guards brought John here claiming he needed to be questioned. Do you know anything about this?"

"Negative," he said. "But Rodriguez may have ordered that. I've a.s.signed a few of our guys to him."

"But why would he bring John here and leave him?"

"Can't answer that. Gotta run." He started to sign off then asked, "Everyone there is okay, right? n.o.body hurt?"

"We're fine."

"Check with Rodriguez, then. That's the best I can offer right now."

"See," Frances said the moment I signed off, "he's not worried. You're getting all worked up over nothing."

I was about to retort when the corridor door opened and one of our guards stepped in, looking sheepish. "Ms. Wheaton," he began.

"Aha!" Frances cut him off. "You see, there he is now. Where have you been, young man?"

He was about twenty-five years old, with a blond crew cut and high cheeks that flared red as it became apparent he'd been the topic of discussion. I'd seen this guy around, too. One of our newer employees. Worry that had been making my heart skip beats, now muted to a dull thump. "Is . . . is . . ." he stammered in a low drawl," . . . uh . . . everything all right here?"

"It is now," Frances said with a patronizing glare at me. "John says you brought him up here then left him alone. Why?"

"I . . . he . . ." The kid blinked several times, then closed his eyes briefly, as though to steady himself before answering, "One of the detectives instructed me to isolate this witness from everybody else. I did exactly that, but then wasn't sure about what to do next. I couldn't raise anybody on the radio"-he held up his walkie-talkie-"so I went looking for Carr."

"Did you find him?" I asked, moving forward to take the proffered radio out of his hands.

"No, ma'am," he said. "I ran up to the top floor where the other guest got himself shot and the Emberstowne fellow told me to come down here and wait for them. Not to leave the witness alone. Again." He swallowed, making his Adam's apple bob up and down like a yo-yo.

I examined the walkie-talkie, made an adjustment, then handed it back, while taking note of his name. "You had it on the wrong channel." I couldn't help the slim air of suspicion that had crept into my voice. "That's a heck of a mistake, Mr. Thrush."

"Won't happen again." He took up a position near the door. "I'm here until I'm relieved," he said. "Those Emberstowne detectives said it might be a spell before they got down here." He tried to smile. "At least they know where I have this man sequestered, so I guess something good came out of my leaving him here."

That remained to be seen. The kid's newness could easily account for his blunder, but I wasn't trusting anyone I didn't know. If what John had told me was correct, the killer had been wandering freely around the manor disguised as an employee.

John had gotten to his feet briefly when Thrush walked in, but he didn't seem to be able to remain standing. He made his way back to the soft chair and lowered himself into it with effort. "I need to get back to my group," he said to no one in particular.

"They're in good hands," I a.s.sured him. "Our security staff has them in the entrance hall. They'll all be questioned before anyone can leave." Attempting to lighten his burden, I said, "I saw the other victim, Mark Ellroy. He seems like he's going to be okay. I couldn't tell for sure, of course, but it looked like he'd taken a bullet in the arm. The paramedics and the doctor from your group were all very calm as they worked on him."

"That's something, at least."

"What did he look like?" I asked. "The guy who was dressed like one of our docents? The one you saw Lenore talking to?"

The door to the room banged open. We all jumped as our visitor strode in. I'd been hoping for Rodriguez, but it was Flynn who entered, eyes blazing. He pointed to John, almost as though he'd been listening at the door, and demanded, "What did the guy look like?"

John turned a terrified face toward me.

"I'm asking the questions," Flynn said, "not her." He snapped his fingers in front of John's nose. "Come on, guy, we're running out of time here. What did he look like?"

To me, John had always epitomized restraint, eloquence, and strength. Reduced to near tears, his hands shook as he brought them up in supplication. "I don't remember."

"What's wrong with you?" Flynn shouted. The aggressive detective was clearly out of control. I'd rarely encountered him without his partner, Rodriguez, and I suddenly realized I hadn't ever appreciated what a loose cannon Flynn could be.

I moved forward. "Listen," I began.

"You." The word dripped with disdain and I was struck again by the change that had come over him. Freed from Rodriguez's tether, his true personality was unleashed. He pointed over my head, toward the opposite door. "Get out of my sight."

Frances gasped.

Tendrils of heat curled behind my eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Both of you," he snarled. "You get involved where n.o.body wants you. You screw things up and then everybody says how great you are. How much smarter you are than the Podunk police. Well, I've got news for you." He shook his still-pointing finger between us. "Neither of you are getting your noses in this one. This is police business and you're not going to make fools of us this time. You understand?"

Frances huffed. "Well, of all the-"

He advanced on her. "Get out of my sight or I'll have you arrested for obstruction. That goes for both of you."

This was stupid and I didn't have time for stupid. "You can't arrest us," I said.

"Watch me."

John cleared his throat. "He wasn't very tall. Average height."

We stopped arguing to listen.

Straightening in his seat, John leaned forward. "I'd put him in his mid- to late forties, graying hair, average build. No, wait." He closed his eyes a moment, concentrating. "Slim. Yes. I remember thinking his clothes looked baggy. He was wearing the regular staff uniform-the blue blazer and tan pants. Light blue shirt. Striped tie."

I knew what our standard uniform looked like, but I also knew John picturing the guy piece by piece might help him recall even more. Flynn looked ready to interrupt to ask for specifics other than clothing. I hoped he would keep his mouth shut and not disrupt John's train of thought.

Fortunately John started talking again before Flynn could blow it. "No facial hair. Light complexion but he had a summer tan." He pointed to his own eyes. "Pale here underneath, like he wears sungla.s.ses. I never got very close to him, though. It could have been shadows playing tricks."

Again John closed his eyes. "Wait." We waited. A moment later, eyes still clenched, John said, "He had something sticking out of his collar. On his right side. Something pointed and dark."

Flynn rolled his eyes. "Lot of good that will do. He's probably changed clothes by now."

John opened his eyes and fixed a glare at Flynn. "It wasn't a piece of clothing. I couldn't get close enough to be sure, but I think it was either a birthmark or maybe a tattoo."

"You can't be sure, but now you got close enough to recognize a birthmark?"