D.C. Dead (Stone Barrington 22)

“Oh, shut up.”

Stone leafed through his copy of the Times, folded the Arts section back to the crossword, uncapped his pen, and started in.

“He does that every day,” Dino said.

“Don’t I know it?” Holly replied.

“In ink,” Dino said, “just to annoy me.”

“I wish you two had brought your own crosswords,” Stone said. “Now, be quiet so I can think.”

“You need quiet to think?” Holly asked. “You wouldn’t make it as a CIA officer.”

“And you never finish a crossword,” Stone said.

They sat quietly in the car for another ten minutes, then two Arlington police cars drove into the street from opposite ends, their lights flashing, no sirens. The cars stopped, and four officers emerged and engaged the crowd on the lawn in conversations. Voices were raised, arms were waved, and insults were shouted, but the crowd eventually was swallowed up by their respective vans and cars and drove out of the block, whereupon the two police cars took up station at each end of the street.

“I think we can go in now,” Holly said.

“That was very n?eatly done,” Dino said admiringly as he drove to the house and pulled into the driveway. “If I tried to do that in New York, I’d end up in stocks.”

“We can do it in New York, too,” Holly said, getting out of the car.

The three of them walked to the front door of the house and Stone rang the bell. Nothing happened. Stone stepped back and regarded the house. A lamp was on in a window, but there was no other sign of life.

“She’s not going to answer,” Dino said.

Holly started to walk to the rear of the house. “Wait here,” she said.

Stone and Dino leaned against the wrought-iron railing of the porch and waited. “She’s going to break in,” Dino said, “isn’t she?”

“They teach them that at the Agency,” Stone replied.

The front door opened and Holly waved them inside. “Mrs. Kirby invites you in,” she said. “She’s in her bedroom, if you’d like to follow me.” Holly led them to a bedroom door, opened it, but stopped them before they could enter. “Let’s preserve the scene for the local cop shop.”

Charlotte Kirby was sitting up in bed, but her head had rolled to one side. The wall behind the bed and a picture hanging on it were spattered with blood and brain matter, and there was a hole in the picture.

“From what I can see,” Dino said, “self-administered gunshot wound to the head, via the mouth. Fairly small caliber.”

“I concur,” Stone said.

“So do I,” Holly replied.

“Why is it that everybody we need information from in this case either offs himself or somebody does it for him?” Stone asked plaintively.

“I’ve noticed that,” Holly said drily, taking out her cell phone and pressing a speed-dial number. “Okay,” she said, “time to get the locals in here. They’ll need a wagon and a crime-scene team. Looks like a suicide.” She hung up.

“I don’t see a weapon,” Stone said. “Can’t I just tiptoe in there and look around for it?”

“Absolutely not,” Holly replied. “They’ve been nice enough to clear the street for us, so we’re not going to fuck up their crime scene by way of thanks.”

“Oh, all right,” Stone said.

“If somebody fired the shot for her, they’ll still find a gun,” Dino said. “The March Hare is not stupid, that much we know.”

“Oh,” Holly said, “I think poor Charlotte had plenty of reason not to want to ever leave her bed again.”

“I’ll bet there’s a diary in the bedside drawer,” Stone said.