I asked, “Where was the point of entry?”
Clapper shook his head and said, “The doors and windows were all secured, except the front door. The nanny opened that and shut off the alarm.”
“What, then? An inside job?”
Charlie Clapper is not only a former homicide investigator, but he’s a meticulous CSI. He said, “Here’s what I know so far.
“The basement level is the recording studio, accessed by the elevator over there,” he said, pointing to the door under the rising staircase, “and the stairs at the back of the kitchen.”
He continued, “The studio is like a big, soundproof safe with professional recording equipment. No windows. A fire door with a bar lock leads to the outside. Air comes through vents from up here. There’s no way to get into that room from the outside unless someone opens the door for you.”
“So you’re thinking someone let the killer in?”
“Patience, Boxer. Let’s go upstairs. Four bedrooms and baths, and the Barons had an office off the master. That’s where they were shot dead, one bullet each.”
“Murder-suicide?”
“Crossed my mind, but there’s no weapon in the room.”
“A locked-room murder mystery in real life?”
Clapper grinned. “Hello, Agatha Christie. But I don’t think so. You met Gretchen Linder?”
“Conklin’s taking her and the kids back to the Hall.”
Clapper said, “Here’s what she told me. That she came to work this morning, quarter to nine on the dot as always. Front door was locked. She used her key and disarmed the alarm. Called out, ‘Hellooooo.’ No answer. She didn’t see the kids, or anyone, so she went upstairs. Ramona was still breathing. Gretchen called 911. By the time we arrived, Ramona had expired. I kept the EMTs from destroying the scene. From the temperature of Paul’s body, I’d say he was shot at around eight thirty, give or take. Likely the shooter knew when the nanny was due to arrive.”
I said, “How about giving me the tour?”
Together Clapper and I climbed a winding staircase, walked down a long hallway, passing open doors to the kids’ rooms, bedrooms, and baths.
Clapper paused at the entrance to an open room at the end of the floor.
“Grab the walls and stay with me,” he said.
CHAPTER 16
CLAPPER AND I paused at the threshold to the Barons’ office.
At the center of the room was a sturdy, antique partners desk, made for two people to work facing each other. Behind the desk was a wall of casement windows. There was art on the opposite wall, a large TV screen, an exercise bike, and a water cooler, but my eyes turned quickly to the deceased.
Clapper said, “Paul Baron took a shot to the back of his head.” The dark-haired man in plaid and jeans had fallen across his desk, facing the doorway. He had bled copiously over the desk and everything on it. Coffee and blood mixed together and dripped onto the carpet.
Continuing, Clapper said, “Looks to me like Ramona saw her husband fall toward her. She stood up, and that gave the shooter a good clean shot to her chest.”
I followed his line of reasoning.
Ramona had dropped and toppled out of her chair, and was lying faceup on the carpet with her eyes open, blood spilling across her chest. I stooped down to get a closer look. She was wearing tights, a pink V-neck sweater, several diamond rings, diamond stud earrings, and a gold chain with a ruby cabochon pendant hanging just above the neat bullet hole through her sternum.
As with Ramona’s husband, it looked like one shot had taken her out. The shooter had to have been trusted and standing only feet away. Did he or she have a house key? Know the alarm code? Had Gretchen—had she done this?
It didn’t matter how many times I’d seen murder victims, it always hurt. What plans had this couple made? What would happen to their children? How had it come to be that this was their day to die?
I was staring at the small, bloody handprint on Ramona’s cheek—looked like it belonged to DeeDee, who was about my own daughter’s age—when I heard Clapper say, “Boxer. Boxer. Look at me.”
I looked up. He was holding up two fingers of his right hand. He moved his hand back and forth until I focused, then he pointed to the multipaned windows beyond the desk, kept pointing until I saw two bullet holes surrounded by crazed tempered glass. On the floor beneath was a spray of tiny shards.
“There. See that?”
This time I couldn’t miss it. The two shots must have come through the windows. But we were on the second floor. How the hell had the shooter managed two perfect kill shots from outside the house?
I “grabbed the wall,” meaning I walked carefully around the murder tableau and looked out through the windows. There was a pretty brick patio below but no ledge outside the window, no purchase for a shooter to stand and take his shots.
Could the shots have been fired from a neighboring house? Or, more likely, from the top of San Anselmo, two streets over?
I turned back to Clapper. “A sniper,” I said. “A damned good one.”
Clapper was on to the next. He said, “Look over here, Boxer. I’d like to get into that closet.”
CHAPTER 17
CLAPPER AND I didn’t need a search warrant to collect evidence in plain sight.
But incriminating evidence found inside a closed room, or drawer or anything with a lid, would be inadmissible in court if, say, a Baron friend or associate was suspected of having committed a crime. So a closed door was off-limits without a search warrant.
However, there was a loophole: “exigent circumstances.”
If we had reason to believe that another shooter, or possibly an injured person, was hiding in that closet, we had to check it out. It was reasonable, and I felt duty-bound to clear this room of an armed individual before the CSIs entered it.
I pulled my gun, said to Clapper, “On the count of three. One.”
Clapper pulled his gun.
“Two.”
I stood to one side of the door as he said, “Three,” then flipped on the light switch and jerked open the door, using it as a shield.
My heart was pounding hard and fast as, leading with my weapon, I took in all four walls of the closet. I saw nothing but shelves and cubbyholes stuffed with padded envelopes.
“Clear,” I said. “Thank God.” I put my gun away. We gloved up and went in.
A metal cabinet about five feet tall by three feet wide by two feet deep stood at the back of the closet with the doors open. Inside were more padded mailers, some loose glassine envelopes with white powder inside.
Clapper stood beside me. He said, “If they were running a mailbox fentanyl business, we’re talking about big money here.”
I felt sick with a letdown that was hard to understand, let alone explain. I had been feeling sympathy for the Barons. Now I saw what Clapper saw: an addictive drug, a mailbox business. And if the drug was fentanyl, it was addictive and deadly. If the Barons were dealing, I cared a lot less. Still. I’m a cop. Two people were dead on the floor behind me.
I said, “What the hell, Charlie? Possibly millions in drugs and nothing was stolen. These people were professionally assassinated—but why?”