“Sorry to disappoint, Richard. I’ve never seen this man before, and honestly, I don’t think I would even notice him if he walked by me on the street. He’s not my type.
“Here’s my theory,” she continued, looking up at Conklin. “Somehow, both he and I were drugged, kidnapped, put into that bed, and shot. Maybe he was already dead. I was as good as dead, and maybe they didn’t realize that I was still kicking. There’s no other explanation.”
Conklin stifled a laugh. He couldn’t believe that Joan had come up with the fantastic theory that somehow two people had been kidnapped and smuggled into the Warwick, where they were stripped, posed, and shot, in that order. For what purpose? To create a scandal?
Maybe to create a pulp fiction murder tableau for a book cover.
He arranged his features in a straight face. “But why would anyone do that to you?”
“How would I know? I don’t have a criminal mind. And now, I’m ready to go home. Didn’t you hear the doctor? I need to rest.”
Chapter 12
Conklin had promised to bring Joan home and he kept his word. He walked her back to his car and drove them to Seacliff. The sun was going down and house lights winked on along Lake Street. Conklin turned right on 28th and took it to El Camino Del Mar. When he pulled into her neighborhood, he noticed that it was an upmarket, oceanside area dotted with large estates. Many of them had water views and private access to the shoreline. Joan was looking straight ahead, saying to him, “How am I going to explain all of this to Robert?”
“That you were found in bed with another man?”
“What? No. He’ll believe me when I say that I was drugged and kidnapped. But I have to explain getting shot. Why would anyone shoot me? Maybe Robert got a call from the kidnapper. Maybe he had to pay ransom money or something. Did you think of that, Richard?”
Joan had some pretty crazy theories about her attempted murder, but this time, she had a point. Her husband hadn’t reported his wife as missing. Could he have forked over a ransom payment while he was waiting for his wife’s return?
Rich Conklin couldn’t wait to see Robert Murphy’s face when Joan came through the front door to her house—alive.
Maybe it would give him the final clue to crack this case.
Chapter 13
&n
bsp; The closer they came to Joan’s home on El Camino Del Mar, the more anxious Joan became. She tried to call her husband again, as Mallory had done when Joan had first woken up in the morgue, but the call went unanswered.
“I’m very frightened now,” Joan said to Conklin. “What if we find him shot and lying dead on the floor? What if my kidnapping was part of a larger plot?”
“Everything’s going to be okay, Joan. We’ll investigate every piece of evidence we find. If a clue surfaces in your memory, you know where to reach me.”
The brass house numbers were embedded in the gateposts that flanked the driveway leading to a handsome Mediterranean-style stucco house with a tiled roof. The gate was open, revealing manicured gardens inside the walls. Conklin pulled his car up the long driveway and parked it between a blue Mercedes XL sedan and a silver Bentley.
“Which one is Robert’s car?” he asked Joan.
“The Mercedes. The Bentley is mine.”
Conklin went around to the passenger side and helped Joan out of the car. He retrieved her handbag from the foot well and held it open for her while she searched inside it for her keys. When she found them, she handed the set to him.
They reached the front door, and Conklin unlocked it. He pushed the door open and said, “Stay here. I’ll go in first to make sure everything is safe.”
Conklin took three steps into the room, entering the foyer. Lights were on inside the house, but the security alarms weren’t set.
He called out, “Mr. Murphy? This is the SFPD.”
There was no answer. Conklin drew his gun and held it out, but he kept the muzzle pointing down. He walked through the foyer, which emptied into a spacious living area decorated with modern furnishings. The windows along the far wall looked out over lawns with topiary and a small pathway of stone steps. A large swimming pool was across the lawn and off to the right.
He called Mr. Murphy’s name again as he rounded a corner. He heard music coming from outside the sliding glass doors, where a set of teak outdoor furniture faced the ocean.
A man stood up and turned to Conklin, holding a sheaf of paper in his hand. He was big, not just tall, but well-built and handsome. He was wearing what looked to be a cashmere half-zip sweater and expensive jeans. He showed no sign of injury.
Conklin said, “Mr. Murphy?”
The man said, “Who the hell are you? And how did you get into my house?”