The Guilty (Will Robie 4)

partially obscured. About two hundred pounds.

It could have been Pete Clancy, who was around that size. He might have figured that Robie would be staying here after getting kicked out of Danby’s. It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone else’s business.

But had he come here on foot? Doubtful. It was a long walk from anywhere. But he’d heard no car start up. A bike? In the silence of the night he would have heard the wheels on the pebbled drive.

He hustled to the front of the house. His rental and the Volvo were parked there. He checked the Volvo. The doors were unlocked. He opened it and peered inside.

It had been searched. Things were strewn all over the place. He tidied up the mess and closed the door.

He looked at his car. It was still locked. It also had an alarm. He would have known if someone had tried to break in.

He turned to look back at the house. There was a light on in an upper window. He watched as she passed back and forth in front of it.

His stepmother was up early. Perhaps to check on Ty? Or was it something else? Did it have something to do with the guy in the bushes?

He reversed his path, clambered up the column to the second floor, and reentered his room. He checked his watch. Nearly five a.m. It would be an hour later in DC. He picked up his phone and made the call.

Blue Man said, “I was surprised you hadn’t communicated yet.”

Robie told him what he had learned thus far. “Is there any way you can get me more information on what the police know? Autopsy report on Clancy? Anything on Janet Chisum? Stuff they have on my father? Anything else at all?”

“That would of course breach all professional decorum. On top of that we do not operate domestically.”

“And I have two heads. Can you?”

“I’ll see what we can find out. In the meantime, keep your only head down and watch your back. The last thing I need is for you to get killed down there.”

“I recall you being the one who suggested that I come here.”

“Still, watch your six.”

“Jessica?” he asked.

“Still out.”

Robie put his phone down and listened as feet padded down the hall. He rose and opened his door in time to see Victoria open her bedroom door. Her room was next to his. She had on a bathrobe that ended mid-thigh. Her long legs were pale and her feet bare.

“Everything okay?” Robie asked.

“Ty was restless. Are you okay? It’s still pretty early.”

“Just adjusting to the time zone.” He thought of telling Victoria about the man in the bushes and that her car had been searched, but then decided against it. He needed to think that through a little more. And he didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily.

She said, “Okay, I’m going to catch a little more sleep. I’ll see you later.”

He went back to his room and sat on the bed.

Victoria was right about one thing. It was still early. And he had time before the arraignment. He dressed, left the house, got in his car, and drove off.

Chapter

19

THE DUST FROM the roads kicked up and swirled around the windows of Robie’s car as he drove along. The sun was starting to rise and burn off the fog that had lifted from the warmer ground. He passed the spot where Clancy and his slit neck had been found in his Bentley and continued on.

Using the general directions Taggert had given him earlier, he reached Clancy’s place about three minutes later. It was unmistakably the man’s residence because, as Taggert had said, it was big-ass and behind gates. He figured this was the only big-ass place behind gates in all of Cantrell.

Only the gates were open. Robie parked his car across the road and behind some bushes before slipping through the entrance and heading up the drive to the house.

The mansion was a jumble of stone and siding with slanted bricks thrown in apparently for good, architectural measure. He eyeballed it at about twelve thousand square feet, rising up three full stories to the sky.

The house looked dark from here. There was one car parked in front. A Porsche with plates that read: PETE.

Well, Sherman Clancy’s son certainly wasn’t subtle, which wasn’t surprising. Robie had seen this very same car parked in front of Danby’s when Pete and his boys had tried to jump him.

As he passed the Porsche he felt the rear hood where the engine was located.

It was cold to the touch. If Pete had been the one lurking in the bushes at the Willows, it was doubtful he had driven there and back here in his sports car.

He took a minute to walk the perimeter of the property and came away with the conclusion that the estate, while obviously initially costing a ton of money, was in seriously bad shape. The grass was high and struck liberally through with weeds. The pool and numerous fountains on the property were in poor shape and dirty. The wood siding was chipped and peeling, and the stone steps and pavers were uneven and in numerous places crumbling. The air of neglect was evident in the outbuildings as well, including the five-car garage. One of the rollup doors was off its tracks, and three of the five inside bays were filled with garbage and piles of junk resting next to the Bentley and a dark blue Range Rover.

Robie stepped inside the garage and walked over to the Bentley. The engine was cool to the touch. He checked the Range Rover with the same result.

He went back to the Bentley. It was unlocked. He opened the driver’s-side door and looked around the interior. There was nothing much there, although faded red splotches on the front seatback were probably blood. The jugular and carotid arteries were superhighways of blood circulation. The entire front interior of the Bentley had probably been doused until the heart stopped pumping after Clancy had rapidly bled out and died.

A sound from nearby made him crouch down and then scuttle over to the open garage bay door. He peered out, well aware that he was trespassing and that Pete Clancy would well be within his rights to shoot him. Robie did not intend to give the punk the opportunity.

Clancy stumbled out of the back door, a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. With a bit of satisfaction, Robie could see that the man’s nose was bandaged, and that he moved with a limp from the kidney punch. Clancy looked around, took a deep breath, turned to the side, and threw up on the back steps.

He plopped down, finished his beer, flicked away his cigarette, and then lay back. A minute later Robie could hear the man snoring.

Robie retraced his steps and was soon back at his car. He drove off as the dawn broke cleanly. He doubted Pete was the man in the bushes. He’d obviously been drunk and here all this time.

He had one more place to visit.

A few minutes later he had wended his way down the dirt road and pulled to a stop. He first eyed the place where the Bentley had been parked near the Pearl River. Then, when he continued to gaze around, he saw it, leaning against a tree.

An old bike. He got out of his car, walked over to it, and looked around. And listened.

He thought he could hear footsteps moving through the trees.

He followed the sounds into the woods. A few minutes later he cleared the trees and reached another open space. A moment later, and for the second time this morning, he glimpsed movement. But this time he didn’t lose track of it.

It was a young woman, very young. She could barely be eighteen.

When she looked over and saw him, she gave a little cry of panic.

He held up his hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry.” He made no move toward her.

“Who are you?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“My name is Will Robie. And I might be here for the same reason you are. To see where Sherman Clancy was killed.”

She was petite with strawberry blonde hair and an upturned nose sprinkled with freckles. She had on loose-fitting jeans, sneakers, and a tight pink T-shirt that emphasized her large breasts. There was a leather bag slung over her shoulder.

“I’m not here

because of that jerk!” she exclaimed.

“Why then?”

“Wait a minute. Robie? Are you related to—”

“He’s my father.”

“Well, he did us all a good service by killin’ that bastard.”

“If he killed him. But why do you say that?”