Grace Under Fire (Buchanan-Renard 14)

“Yes,” Michael answered. “It’s empty. No built-in cabinets. No safe.”

“What about the desk? Any false drawers or hiding places?”

“I checked,” Sinclair said.

Feeling defeated she said, “I don’t know where else to look.”

Michael could see that Isabel was wilting. Disappointment showed on her face.

“I think we’re done here,” Sinclair conceded with a resigned look around the room. “Are you hungry? I’d like to take you to dinner.”

The mere mention of food made her stomach grumble. She and Michael hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Michael was apprehensive. “Whoever wrote the kill order is still out there. We’ve been pushing our luck, Isabel. It isn’t safe for you to go into a pub.” He rushed to add when she started to interrupt, “By now everyone knows you’re here.”

“I couldn’t be safer,” she argued. “I’ve got you and Inspector Sinclair protecting me.”

Sinclair agreed with her. “I have a couple of officers at the pub now, so that’s four watching out for her, and when you leave, I’ll make sure no one follows you. You’ll be as safe there as anyplace.” He turned to Michael. “I think you’ll want to be there when Archie Fletcher shows up.”

“Who’s Archie Fletcher?” Isabel asked.

Sinclair explained. “Fletcher is the man who called Donal Gladstone to tell him you were in danger. He used his cell phone. We tracked the call and have been trying to talk to him, but thus far he’s been avoiding us. He hasn’t answered any of our calls and he hasn’t been at his house when we’ve gone there, but we know his habit is to go to Jolly Jack’s on Wednesdays. It’s their Cullen skink night.”

“Cullen skink?” Michael questioned.

“That’s a fine fish chowder. And Jolly Jack’s is known to make the best in all of Scotland. Fletcher’s friends say he never misses, and we are likely to find him there tonight.”

Michael gave in, but once again went over the rules.

Isabel knew them by heart now. “I’ll stay by your side. I won’t go anywhere without you, not even the washroom, et cetera.”

“Et cetera?”

Smiling, she said, “I’m saving time.”

“Fletcher usually comes in around eight and stays for a couple of hours, according to two different sources,” Sinclair said.

“That gives us a little more time to search,” Isabel said.

“Search where?” Sinclair asked. “Where haven’t we searched?”

Isabel circled the room, inspecting every surface, every crevice, searching high and low. When she stopped at MacCarthy’s desk, she turned to Sinclair. “Did you move the desk and look under the rug?”

“The desk weighs a ton,” Sinclair said. “It’s going to take the movers a full team to get it out of this office. I’m not sure where it will go. MacCarthy didn’t have any relatives or a will.”

“Nessie told me MacCarthy wouldn’t let anyone vacuum the rug. I think he may have put something under there. It’s worth a look, don’t you suppose?”

Sinclair moved MacCarthy’s chair back and squatted down to look at the rug. “I don’t think he could slide anything under it. The desk covers most of the rug.” He looked up at Michael. “Want to give it a try?”

Sinclair removed the drawers to lighten the weight. The two men each took a side. Gripping the edges of the desk, they bent down and, throwing all their strength into it, hoisted the desk just high enough to inch it off the rug. Dust flew up as they rolled the rug back, and there it was, a large yellowed envelope. For a few silent seconds they just stood there amazed. None of them could figure out how MacCarthy got the envelope under the massive desk.

Sinclair opened the envelope and emptied the contents on top of the desk. Several folded pieces of paper fell out. The first paper he opened was the kill order. Instructions and Isabel’s itinerary were printed in black ink on plain white paper. Sinclair carefully placed the paper into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it to take to the lab.

“Too bad it wasn’t signed,” Isabel said.

Sinclair’s indrawn breath sounded more like a gasp. He had unfolded another piece of paper and whatever he was reading shocked him.

“What is it?” Michael asked.