Reaching the door, Blake knocked.
No response.
“Philip?” he called.
Again, no reply.
That was odd.
Frowning, Blake tested the handle. Unlocked.
He pushed open the door. The hum of the computer told him it was on. Rhodes’s coat was hanging on the brass coatrack, and his briefcase was placed neatly beside it.
“Philip?” Blake stepped inside, looked around, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Behind the curved mahogany desk, Philip Rhodes was crumpled in his chair. The side of his forehead was bloody. Some of the blood had oozed down, leaving an ugly red stain on his shirt and a small puddle on the rug beneath him. His arms hung limply at his sides.
Below his right hand lay a pistol.
“JESUS CHRIST.”
Edward Pierson sank into his chair, sheet white, as Monty faced him in his office a short while later.
“Drink,” Monty urged, indicating the glass of water Blake had poured him.
“Water’s not going to help,” Edward snapped. “It won’t bring Philip back. Or make any sense of this lunacy.”
“Grandfather, you’ve got to relax,” Blake instructed. “Dr. Richards is on his way.”
“I don’t need a goddamned cardiologist. I need an explanation.” Edward loosened his tie, wiping perspiration off his brow. “What made Rhodes do this? Why was he so over the edge?” Despite his protests, Edward lifted the glass to his lips and drank.
“The police are reviewing the evidence now,” Monty replied. “There’ll be an autopsy performed. But given what we know—the gun, the call to you, and the presence of a typed note—the medical examiner is preliminarily ruling this a suicide.”
“That much I comprehend. Rhodes blew his brains out. But why?”
“Good question.” Monty eyed Edward intently. “You knew Rhodes had a gun?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“So did I,” Blake added. “It wasn’t a secret. He bought it a couple of years ago for protection.”
“It didn’t do much of a job, did it?” Monty noted drily. His gaze returned to Edward. “You said Rhodes called you around eleven o’clock last night?”
“A little past. I was watching the news.”
“He didn’t sound desperate?”
“Desperate? No.” Edward set down his glass with a thud. “He sounded upset. Maybe a little out of it. I asked if he’d been drinking. He said no. He said the pressure had gotten to be too much, and he had to leave. I thought he meant the company. I asked if this pressure was connected to what happened to Frederick. He said I’d have a full explanation in the morning. I assumed he wanted a private meeting. I said I’d be in at eight sharp. He said good night. I tossed and turned all night. Then I came in to find this.”
“There was no finality to his tone or his words?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Edward planted his palms on the desk, clearly trying to calm himself down. “At the time it didn’t seem that way. Now when I think back, his choice of words was strange. But, Jesus, who’d expect the guy to kill himself?”
“Yeah. Who would?” Monty muttered. He glanced at Blake, who was watching his grandfather with a brooding expression. “You saw the suicide note on the computer screen. Do you remember what it said?”
“Not verbatim,” Blake replied. “Then again, I was reeling from finding Philip like that. My focus was on calling 911, not scrutinizing Philip’s last words. I remember something about him not being able to forgive himself, something about Frederick’s death, and something about a slush fund he’d been siphoning money out of.”
“Did he say he killed Frederick?”