Back to Part 1 SVS-14: Stoddard's Protege by Bluewolf, Part 2 Andrew Gemmell's death hit the Friday news, though not exactly big time. In his day, before the injury that ended his career, his had been a known name in football even though it wasn't yet a top name, so his murder was elevated to an importance that it might otherwise have lacked; even so, it didn't rate much more than a twenty-second mention on TV and a single short paragraph in the sports section of the paper. It was, of course, barely a one-day wonder. Even by Friday evening the media had its attention turned to other things. With Saturday off, Jim and Blair had no incentive to get out of bed early. They made their morning erections wait, however, indulging in long, lazy foreplay that filled them both with satisfaction before they sucked each other dry. Satisfied, they settled again to cuddle comfortably for a while before Jim's stomach rumbled. Blair chuckled. "I can take a hint. Breakfast in half an hour?" "I can wait. This --" his gentle kiss turned passionate very quickly -- "will satisfy me for quite a while." "It might satisfy you, but it doesn't do anything for your stomach," Blair muttered as the organ in question rumbled again. He pulled away reluctantly. "Give me ten minutes to shower, then I'll start getting breakfast ready." "Okay." Jim watched as Blair disappeared down the stairs, then rolled over to bury his nose for a few minutes in his partner's pillow. Over breakfast, Blair said, "You know, there's a crafts exhibition at Wilkenson Tower I wouldn't mind visiting." "I didn't think there was room there for any sort of exhibition," Jim said. "There wouldn't have been, but the lease ran out on one of the stores a few months ago, and the people didn't want to renew it; a couple of days after it closed, someone asked Wilkenson for a short-term lease -- just a couple of weeks -- to put on a display of some kind -- well, it was pretty successful, and word got around quickly that if it paid Wilkenson to keep it available for exhibitions and displays, it was a good site for them. He charges a percentage of whatever take the display gets as well as rent for the lease, apparently, unless it's for a charity. Then it's just a flat rent, and a little lower than he charges an organization that's making money out of it." "I wouldn't have pegged him for a philanthropist." "It's good publicity for Wilkenson, when you think about it. He's not losing on the deal, that's for sure -- he must be making at least as much as he'd get renting the place out to one business, and it's making him look good -- especially the charity angle." "How do you know about this, anyway?" Jim asked. "One of the guys at Rainier was speaking about it two or three weeks ago. Apparently he was involved with an exhibition there, and he said it was a great venue for things -- people already visiting the Tower went in who mightn't have bothered otherwise, so the exhibition got more exposure than it might have done anywhere else, and people who went in primarily for the exhibition mostly had a look round the shops in the Tower while they were there. So everyone benefited. And he said the total rent wasn't any higher than they'd have paid somewhere else that wasn't as good a site." Jim grunted, unconvinced. He hadn't exactly taken to Mel Wilkenson even although the man had eventually shown that he had a human side. "Okay," he said as he finished his coffee. "What time does this exhibition of yours open?" "Half past ten." "Then let's get the dishes washed. We can be there before eleven, have a look round and be finished in time for lunch. You won't need more than a couple of hours max, will you?" Blair grinned. "Probably not," he said, knowing that if anyone delayed them it might very likely be Jim. It was amazing what sometimes caught the big cop's attention. Signs advertising the craft exhibition were prominently displayed; there was no way that anyone entering Wilkenson Tower could avoid seeing them. They directed everyone interested -- or even everyone not interested - to the third floor; Blair, after casting one glance at the elevators, firmly led the way towards the stairs. Jim said nothing as he followed. Blair had suffered surprisingly little elevator-phobia after their encounter with Galileo, but Jim was not surprised that his friend preferred not to use the elevators here. The exhibition was a cacophony of bright colors. The entrance was hung with glittering, endlessly moving mobiles; Jim stared, utterly fascinated by the kaleidoscope of shifting light, until Blair touched his arm. "Careful, Jim," he muttered. "Don't watch the mobiles..." "I can't help it. They're drawing my eyes to them." In self-defense, Jim shut his eyes. Blair grunted. "Yeah... they're almost hypnotic." He grinned as he saw the stall just inside the door. The two women manning it were doing an extremely brisk trade in the mobiles. His hand lightly on Jim's arm, he guided his partner through the doorway and safely past the mobiles. "Okay," he said softly. Jim sighed, relieved, as he opened his eyes. "I suppose just one of those things would be all right," he muttered, "but there are so many... " "Right. I'm surprised none of the other vendors near them are complaining, asking them to take down a lot of them. Pretty sure I would if I had a stall here." They wandered round the exhibition, pausing here and there as something caught the attention of one or other of them. Several stalls were selling pottery of different degrees of craftsmanship; none had anything they felt good enough to tempt them to buy. Blair paused at one stall that was selling jewelry; he picked up a silver pendant set with a moonstone and a freshwater pearl. Jim grinned. "I don't think it's quite you, Chief," he teased. "Oh, I don't know," Blair replied, straight-faced. "It would be unusual, to say the least... I can just see Simon's face any time I walked into the bullpen wearing this." "Chief, you wouldn't!" Jim was seriously startled, and Blair laughed. "No, I wouldn't. I was thinking though, it would be perfect for Grandma Anna. I have a lot of birthdays and things to make up there." He glanced at the vendor. "How much?" The little packet safely in his pocket, Blair moved on, Jim following -- not quite bored, but getting close to it; although he often found places like this interesting, nothing here was really catching his attention, but since Blair was enjoying himself he was happy enough to tag along. Near the back of the room was a stall displaying a mixture of paintings and pencil drawings; beside it, a man was sketching a girl of about seven or eight while an older woman, probably her mother, hovered proudly nearby. They could only see his back, but he had the muscular appearance of a man who worked out on a regular basis. As Jim and Blair approached, the man finished, beckoned the woman over, showed her the sketch then, at her nod of approval, gave it a quick spray with something, slipped it carefully into an envelope and gave it to her. They exchanged a few words, then the woman and child left. The artist looked round, and Blair gasped at his first sight of the man's face. He and Jim looked at each other, and moved forward as one, Jim's hand already going to his pocket. The man grinned at them. "Would you like your portraits sketched? Fifteen dollars for a pencil sketch, and it only takes about five minutes. I'd find it quite a challenge, since I mostly do children." Jim held out his badge. "Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. Are you Danny Gemmell?" The artist's eyes widened. "I haven't used that name for eight years," he said quietly. "I'm known now as Dan Ashford." "All right, Mr. Ashford," Jim said quietly. "And in case you're wondering how I know you -- you look very like your brother." Ashford nodded. "I know," he said. "Do you live in Cascade?" Jim asked. "I moved back to Cascade about two months ago -- I'm not sure yet whether I'll stay here. Probably not, but I'll be here for at least another year, maybe two. But why do you want to know?" "Have you visited your father since you moved back?" Ashford looked at him, clearly puzzled. "I went to see him on Thursday morning. I... Do you know why I changed my name?" "I can guess," Jim said quietly. "We know your father threw you out about eight years ago when you told him you didn't want to be a football player." Ashford nodded. "Yes. I left Cascade at that time. It took a couple of years before I got enough money saved to allow me to study art, but I got my degree three years ago, and I've been reasonably successful since. I'm not rich, but I'm making a steady income. At fifteen dollars for a five minute sketch -- I can make at least five hundred dollars on a quiet day at an exhibition like this one, double that on a busy day. "I'm living with a Rainier TA -- she's one of the reasons I moved back to Cascade. I was picking her up one night when I saw Bob -- there was no doubt who he was. He's exactly the same as I was five or six years ago, before I filled out and developed some muscle. I asked Holly to keep an eye on him for me; she saw him on Wednesday, and from what she said -- well, I wasn't happy about what she said." Jim and Blair glanced at each other. Ashford went on. "You're cops. I don't know if there's anything you can do, but... From what Holly said, I figured that our father was hitting Bob. So on Thursday morning I went to see him. He... wasn't exactly welcoming, but -- " he grinned -- "I'm too big now for him to manhandle. I admit I sort of used my weight to force myself into the house, then I told him that I'm now in a position to support Bob, and that if I saw any further indication that Bob was being abused in any way, I'd step in and give him a home. He blustered a bit, then told me to get out and stay out. I left and came straight here." "Did you see the news yesterday?" Ashford shook his head. "I was here all day, then I had some work to do when I got home. I spent the evening in my studio and Holly was grading tests from just after breakfast till nearly midnight; we didn't have the TV on at all." "Then I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you. Someone killed your father... on Thursday." Jim watched Ashford, every sense alert. "Wha..." Ashford stared at Jim, obviously shocked. "Sorry, man," Blair murmured. "What... what happened?" Ashford asked. "All we know is that when Bob arrived home from Rainier, he found your father lying in a pool of blood." Ashford swallowed. "God. Poor Bob." "Do you realize -- you've just admitted seeing your father on Thursday. That automatically makes you a suspect." Ashford shook his head. "He was alive when I left. Alive, and muttering insults..." There was no change in his heartbeat; either he was telling the truth or he had better control over his physical responses than anyone Jim had ever met. "Can you tell me what time that was?" "I got there not long after nine, and I was there ten, maybe fifteen minutes -- no more. Say half past nine." Jim grunted. "And you arrived here...?" "Around ten -- maybe five past. Most of us get in early -- it gives us a chance to sort out our stock, especially if we've brought in anything new -- I had a couple of paintings of the bay I finished framing on Wednesday night, and I wanted to display them." He pointed to a picture. "That's one of them -- the other sold yesterday." As Jim went over, ostensibly to look at it, Ashford glanced at Blair. "How's Bob doing? Is he all right?" he asked quietly. Blair nodded. "One of the Rainier professors is looking after him." Standing beside the picture, Jim took a deep breath, then swung round and crossed back to Ashford. "I don't know much about art, but you've caught the mood of the bay quite nicely." Abruptly, he changed the subject back to the original questioning one. "Can you tell me -- do you normally wear aftershave?" "Aftershave?" Ashford shook his head, a blank look on his face. "Not for months. Holly doesn't like it, so I stopped using it." Jim nodded. "The sacrifices we make for the women in our lives." Ashford grinned. "You, too?" Jim grinned back. "Well, no. I was in the army -- we weren't exactly encouraged to use the stuff there unless we wanted to get a reputation for being... well, you know. So I never got into the habit of using it." "So you were here from ten until the place closed?" Blair asked. "Yes. We were pretty busy on Thursday -- I didn't even get a break for lunch. I think the schools were maybe off for some reason -- during the week most of the kids we see are younger than five, but on Thursday it was more like a Saturday; there were a lot of kids old enough to go to school, but still young enough to be hauled around the shops by Mom, mostly bored out of their minds. That's one of my best earners -- five minute sketches of kids. You can't depend on them staying still longer than that. I'm good at those, though I do say it myself. The mothers love 'em." His lips twisted in a mockery of a grin. "It's not exactly world-shattering art, but it keeps food on the table and a roof over my head. While stuff that takes far longer to do and is far more technically demanding... let's just say that if I depended on that, I'd starve." "You do get the likenesses, though," Blair said. He hadn't actually seen one of Ashford's five-minute sketches -- they had been standing too far away when Ashford finished the one he had been working on for Blair to see it properly -- but it seemed a fair comment; at fifteen dollars a sketch, the artist wouldn't get much trade unless the likenesses were accurate. "Oh, yes, and occasionally I even get a commission to do a proper painting of one of them. I usually do most of that from a photo." "I didn't think artists liked working from photos," Blair said. "It depends. I enjoy painting landscapes from life, but with the weather as uncertain as it is here, I find it's safest to take a few photos of a scene before I start work on it. Then if necessary I can finish off the details from the photos in the comfort of my studio. And with children and animals -- well, they find it difficult to sit still long enough." He glanced behind Jim. "I'll just be a moment, Ma'am." He returned his attention to Jim. "Business," he murmured. "Thanks for letting me know about my father, and I'm sorry I can't help you at all. If Bob needs any help, let me know. If he wants to see me..." He took a card from his work table and gave it to Jim. "I'll be here for the next three weeks, and after that, if I'm not at home you can always contact Holly -- Holly Armand -- at Rainier." "Right, Mr. Ashford," Jim said. "Thanks for your help." As they moved away, Blair said softly, "What do you think?" "He's telling the truth, Chief. The smell of the picture matched the smell of paint at Gemmell's house, and if he was here all day, that's easily checked." Blair nodded. "You got it." He paused at a stall selling carved wood -- one where the vendor was in a perfect position to see Dan Ashford's stall. He picked up a small wolf and stroked the smooth wooden head gently. "Look, Jim -- isn't it beautiful?" The wood had been perfectly selected, the grain helping to simulate the fur. The pose was relaxed, yet alert -- this was the master of its pack, an animal secure in its strength but not carried away by that security; it knew that danger was never far away but it was not afraid to face whatever chanced -- a winter blizzard, a marauding bear, a hunting biped. "Now that is you, Chief," Jim murmured. He glanced at the vendor as Blair replaced the wolf with a last lingering touch to its head. "How much?" "No, Jim!" Blair protested. "You want it, don't you, Chief?" "Yes, but it's not as if I need it, man." "There was a long time when I only got things I needed... and you know how bare the loft was in those days," Jim said, very quietly. "You taught me the difference between living in a house and living in a home. This is the kind of thing that makes it a home. Call it a late... solstice present." Blair laughed. "Jim!... Well, when you put it that way... thank you." As the vendor wrapped the wolf, Blair said, "You wouldn't have a black panther by any chance?" The glance he threw at Jim silenced the bigger man before he had the chance to say anything. "No, but I could do one for you, sir." "Great!" "Any particular pose you'd like for it?" "Just something that shows its nature -- the way you did with the wolf. Size -- about the same in relation to real life as the wolf." "Right -- it'll take a day or two. If you come back next Saturday I should have it by then. It'll be bigger than the wolf, so it'll be more expensive, but I can't say till it's done just what the price will be." "That's all right, and thanks, man." He glanced round. The crowd had thinned somewhat -- this close to lunchtime, that was hardly surprising. "Been busy?" "Yeah -- this is a great place for an exhibition. Mark you, not everyone does as well as Dan, there --" he nodded over to Ashford's stall. "But he's found a hole in the market." "Yes, we were speaking to him. He said mothers love to get their kids' pictures drawn." "And he's good at it. Me, I'm good at what I do, but it doesn't have the 'aahhh!' appeal of kiddie pictures." Blair chuckled. "There are times I wish it was illegal for mothers to get pictures done of their children, at least when the kids are younger than about ten. The potential for embarrassment when they grow up..." He threw a mischievous glance at Jim. "Though I suppose a straightforward drawing isn't as bad as a candid camera photo." Casually, he added, "We were speaking to him. He said he'd had the equivalent of two Saturdays this week -- you find that too?" "Yes, Thursday was crowded. There must have been something going on, but I don't know what. I did quite well, but I wasn't nearly as busy as he was -- every time I looked over there seemed to be a line of two or three kids waiting for him to draw them. I don't think he had a break all day." "I don't know how these places work. Can you leave your stall during the day?" "Oh, yes. You just put a cover over it, or ask a neighbor to keep an eye on it if you nip off to the john. And if you want, you can bring in a sandwich and just stay at your stall while you eat it. I usually do that. So does Dan -- however, I don't think he got a chance to eat anything on Thursday. But Chris there --" he nodded towards a nearby stall displaying tinted glass -- "gets his daughter to come in for a couple of hours and he goes home." "Better you than me, man," Blair said, unblushingly ignoring the many hours he had spent forgetting to eat when he had been busy. "Anyway, thanks -- I'll come in next Saturday. The name's Sandburg, by the way." "I'm Rudi, if I'm not here when you call. Someone will know where I am. But I'll remember you. I have a good memory for faces." "Doesn't surprise me, man -- anyone who can get that sort of pose on a carved wolf this size has to have a good eye for detail. See you!" As Blair turned away, Jim nodded to Rudi then followed. He didn't think Dan Ashford had been aware of their lengthy conversation with the woodcarver, but if he had noticed it, their purchase should have been enough to explain it -- though in Ashford's position, he would have expected the police to double-check his alibi. They went around the rest of the exhibition fairly quickly, neither man seeing anything else that tempted him, and returned to the loft after a late lunch in one of the Tower's restaurants. Jim watched almost indulgently as Blair literally purred over the small carved wolf before placing it carefully on the table in front of the couch. "It would have been criminal not to buy it, Chief," he murmured. "It's small and it's feisty -- just like you." He ducked the slap Blair aimed at him and changed the subject. "So -- what did you make of Bob's brother?" Blair grunted. "I didn't -- I just didn't get a good impression." "Yeah, I thought you were pretty quiet. Any reason?" "Nothing I can really put a finger on. I know Gemmell tried to force the guy into a career he didn't want and threw him out when he said so, and I'd guess he didn't have it easy that first couple of years he mentioned -- but even with that, he seemed... He seemed to recover from hearing about the murder, like, really fast, and he didn't ask for any details -- as if he just wasn't interested. The only real emotion he showed was when you told him Bob found the body, and then it was Bob he was thinking about, not that his father was dead. And then he turned away and carried on sketching kids as if... as if you'd just told him it was raining." "Good point." "I mean -- man, you hadn't spoken to your father for eighteen years, not just eight, but when Aaron Foster attacked him, you forgot all the bad stuff in your upbringing and just remembered that he was your dad." Jim nodded, not entirely agreeing with Blair's comment but not about to say so. He had been surprised how well he understood Ashford. William Ellison and Andrew Gemmell had been alike in so many ways... Blair carried on, unaware of his partner's disquiet. "And I can't help but think it's a helluva big coincidence that he turned up like this the same day that his father's murdered." "Yeah, I know, but coincidences do happen. All I can say is that I couldn't detect any sense of nervousness about him. I'd swear the news of the killing came as a surprise to him. "We know he's doing well in a job he enjoys -- what did he say again? 'Not rich, but a steady income' -- if he's making around five hundred dollars a day on a quiet day just doing five minute sketches, and that exhibition is running for -- what, a month? That's... um... around twelve thousand dollars minimum in a month. Three or four exhibitions like that in a year, say at least forty thousand dollars just on pencil sketches, add on commissions and sales from pictures... he's not doing badly. He isn't going to risk that just to get back at a man who kicked him out eight years ago. "And even though he admitted he went to see his father about Bob, all he did was say he could give Bob a home if he saw any more signs that Bob was being abused. I didn't get any sense that he was hiding anything when he told us that." "I know, I know." Blair sighed. "He sounded genuine enough. Oh, don't pay any attention to me. I'm just thinking that when it came to it, you couldn't reject your dad. I couldn't reject Mom even after she... I just wonder at the mentality of a man who could apparently ignore the fact that someone who's just been murdered is his dad." Jim Ellison sat at his desk on Monday morning reading through the final forensic report on Andrew Gemmell. The man had been stabbed three times; one of the wounds was in his arm, as if when it was inflicted he had been trying reasonably successfully to defend himself; much of the blood spattered around had probably come from it; but the other two were deep body wounds. Death had been caused by blood loss; the wounds would not in themselves have been fatal if help had arrived quickly, but they had bled profusely, giving him only a short while before the blood loss killed him. There was some minor bruising that was consistent with a fight. There was also one severe bruise on the left temple -- "This probably caused either unconsciousness or severe disorientation, otherwise the victim could have phoned for help once his killer left." There was one final comment that Jim read three times before he passed the report to Blair, who began to read it. Part way through, he looked up. "This is going to be hard on Bob. He's bound to feel guilty that he didn't get home any earlier." Jim shook his head. "Even if he'd left Rainier for home as soon as his meeting with the Chancellor was finished, he'd still have been at least an hour too late. And he'd have been alone, since Stoddard was tied up till four. If he'd actually left at lunchtime and gone home then, he might have walked in on the killer and been killed too. It was better for his sake that he waited. But there's more. Finish it." Blair looked at him, read on, and stiffened. "The two-faced bastard! 'Traces of heroin in the dead man's pockets'..." "Yeah. I want another look at the house." Blair nodded absently, his attention still on the report, then looked up. "So. You've matched the smell of paint to Danny. There's still the cigarette smoke and the aftershave." "Which could be off the same person." Jim leaned back, scowling. "We were lucky to find Ashford. But there's nothing, absolutely nothing, to help us track down whoever else was at the house, unless the neighbors saw someone. I don't want to tread on Wilmot's toes, but I really would like to stay involved with this. Especially with that coming into it." He nodded at the report. The phone rang; Blair, sitting slightly nearer it, picked it up. "Detective Ellison's desk." "Blair, it's Eli. Andrew Gemmell's lawyer has been in touch with Bob -- he wants to see Bob at two this afternoon. I'm going with him, but he said he'd like you, and Ellison if possible, to be there too. I think he's feeling a bit intimidated and wants as much backup as possible." "Hold on." Blair put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Did you hear that?" he asked softly. Jim nodded. "Yeah. I can go." "Okay, Eli, we'll be there. What's the address?" He scribbled it down. "Right, we'll see you there just before two. How's Bob holding up?" "Pretty well, all things considered, and Lesley's been a great help; of course, she can identify in a way the rest of us can't. He got all guilty last night for a while, blaming himself for being so reluctant to do what his father wanted, and she put him right before he had a chance to wallow too deep." "That's good." Stoddard chuckled. "I don't say she's mothering Bob, but she's certainly aunting him." "That's good too -- I think it's something he's needed," Blair said. "Oh, and Eli -- you might want to tell him. We've found his brother." Just then Blair heard Simon shouting for Jim. "Gotta go, Simon wants us," said Blair, hanging up before Stoddard had a chance to reply. They had to park some distance away from the address they had been given, and had almost reached the waiting pair before Bob saw them. He pounced on Blair immediately, with an animation that made him a completely different young man from the sullen one Blair had first met. "Is it true? You found Danny? Where is he? What --" "Whoa, whoa!" Blair grinned. "He's calling himself Dan Ashford now." "Oh. That was his middle name -- it was our mother's name." "Currently, he's living in Cascade -- and he's been keeping an eye on you." "He has? But why didn't he speak to me?" "I'd guess he didn't want to risk you mentioning him to your father and maybe getting into trouble for it," Blair said. "Anyway, after he left here he studied art and he's been working for the last couple of years going round craft exhibitions, selling some paintings, doing on-the-spot sketches, and he seems to be doing quite well." At Stoddard's urging, they turned to enter the building. Blair went on. "He knows what happened on Tuesday; and on Thursday morning he went to see your father about it." "He did?" "Told him that he could give you a home, and would if he saw any further signs that your dad had been hitting you." "Wow." Bob was silent for a moment. "How did you find him?" "We bumped into him by sheer chance on Saturday. He looks very like you." "Yes -- we both took after Mom. Can we go and see him after this?" He glanced at Stoddard. "I don't see why not," Stoddard replied. "Cool!" Blair looked at Jim, and grinned. "Amazing what a little kindness will do," he breathed. They announced themselves to the receptionist, who buzzed through to the lawyer; moments later he appeared -- an elderly, paternal-looking man. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is McFarlane -- I was Andrew Gemmell's lawyer. And you're Bob?" "Yes." Bob shook the outstretched hand. McFarlane glanced at the three men, and Bob added hastily, "This is Professor Stoddard, Mr. Sandburg, and Detective Ellison." "Detective?" McFarlane asked, his eyes widening. "I'm just here as Bob's friend," Jim said. McFarlane nodded. "Of course. This way." He led them into his office, and indicated seats. Then he walked round the desk and took his own seat. "There are actually two wills involved here," he said. "The first one, your father's, is relatively simple; everything is left to you, with the stipulation that your brother, should he reappear, gets nothing. However, he could try to claim his share, and you would be wise to remember that." "Oh." Bob glanced at Blair. "Actually, Danny is in Cascade and knows about his father's death," Blair said. "Ah. It would be advisable for me to meet him." "We'll tell him," Blair said. "Now -- your father left relatively little; the house, of course, and some ten thousand dollars in the bank -- an amount that has remained fairly static over the last ten years. From time to time he added a little to the balance, which of course has also been accruing interest. He appears to have lived off a relatively small pension which lapsed with his death; this is money he appears to have been leaving untouched for you." Bob frowned. "He always seemed to have plenty of money." "He may simply have been good at managing his money," McFarlane suggested. Bob nodded, but Blair could guess that he was thinking, and wondering, about four thousand dollars hidden in the house. He was thinking about that, too -- and about a forensic report he had read just a few hours earlier. "The other will --" McFarlane shuffled papers and selected one -- "is your mother's." He glanced down the page. "You may remember that she owned a number of small ornaments and several porcelain vases?" "Yes. Some of them were really ugly. Dad got rid of them after she died." "Well, no. He left them with me. Your mother's will left these in the care of your father, to be divided at his death between you and your brother in such a way that you each received objects that, in total, carried the same value." He smiled at the puzzled look on Bob's face. "Your maternal grandfather collected antiques -- he spent a small fortune on them. Your mother told me, when she made her will, that when he died his collection of antiques was split evenly between your mother and her sister. She chose to do the same with her share, dividing them between you and your brother. "Your father was my client as well, but I have to admit that her opinion of him was also mine -- he would have sold them on her death if she had not specified that the actual objects were to be kept for you and your brother. After she died, I suggested that he leave them in my care." "Oh." "The current value is around four hundred thousand dollars." Bob's jaw dropped. "Four hundred thousand... " "Of course, your share would only amount to approximately two hundred thousand." "For those ugly things?" McFarlane nodded. "For those ugly things." "I think this would be a good time to have another look at the Gemmell house," Jim said. They had taken Bob to Wilkenson Tower and left him, and Stoddard with him, talking to Dan Ashford, who had closed his stall early to speak to his brother. Although he was unlikely to lose much income this late on a relatively quiet Monday, that he did close down had done a lot to improve his image in Blair's eyes. Now Jim and Blair were on their way down the stairs again on their way back to the truck. Blair glanced at his partner, his eyes questioning. "Traces of drugs -- specifically heroin -- in Gemmell's clothes. I obviously missed something there," Jim said. "You were probably misled by his reaction to the suspicion that Bob might have been on 'em." "That's possible," Jim agreed. "Drugs were certainly the last thing on my mind." "Four days... " Blair said slowly. "It's a long time, Jim. Any faint scents could have dissipated completely by now." "Yeah, I know, any scents will be pretty faint now, but I won't have to tone down my sense of smell quite so much to filter out the blood," Jim replied. "So you want to go now, before we go back to the PD?" Blair asked as they reached the truck. "Might as well. And tomorrow I think I'll see if I can get a look at Wilmot's report -- I imagine he'll have checked by now if the neighbors saw or heard anything." There was still crime scene tape around the doorway and a uniform on duty at the Gemmell house. This time, however, it was a man they knew. "Hello, Donohue." "Detective Ellison. Blair. I thought Homicide was dealing with this case?" "Yes, but we know the dead man's son, he called us as well as homicide when he discovered the body. Things were pretty busy for a while on Thursday, though, and we had to leave while Wilmot was still checking through the house. We thought we'd have a look around now. See if we could spot anything Wilmot missed, but you know what it's like -- the more eyes there are, the better the chance of finding something." There were times when Jim could obfuscate as readily as his partner. "Yeah. I heard the son found the body. Must have been quite a shock for the kid." Donohue was already unlocking the door for them. "Thanks." Jim went straight in; Blair hesitated for a moment. "How's your daughter doing, Tim?" Irene Donohue's fiance had broken off their engagement a couple of weeks earlier, for no obvious reason, and left Cascade. Donohue shook his head. "She'd find it easier if she knew why -- even if he'd fallen in love with someone else. Not knowing why is what's making it so hard for her. We're tried telling her she's better off without someone who would do that to her, but she says she already knows that." "It's early yet," Blair offered. "I know. She's pretty bitter about it, though. It's going to make it hard for her ever to trust anyone that much again. She really loved the bastard." Blair nodded. "All you can do is be there for her. Listen to her if she feels like talking about it. I'm sure she'll work through it." "Well, I sure hope so. It's pretty miserable at home right now." Blair gave the man's arm a friendly pat, then followed Jim into the house. He found his partner in the living room. Nothing had been moved; the overturned chairs were still overturned, the bloodstains -- dry now -- still spattered the carpet. Jim was standing in the middle of the room, looking carefully around. He crossed to the bookcase and crouched to look at the books. Blair joined him. "Interesting reading -- if you're obsessed with football," he murmured. Jim nodded. He pulled on a pair of gloves and took the books out one by one, replacing them carefully after checking that each was, in fact, a book. They were all genuine. He prowled around the room again, pausing for a moment to examine the football picture above the fire, then rejoined Blair, shaking his head. "Nothing else in here," he said. Upstairs, the bedrooms were even more starkly functional than either man had remembered, and Blair shivered. Jim glanced at his partner as they entered the first one. "This was me four years ago," he said quietly. "Not really," Blair said. "The loft was pretty bare, yes, but that was just your instinctive attempt to keep stimulus to a minimum. This house isn't just bare; it's soulless. There's..." He hesitated, looking round, clearly searching for words. "There are houses you can go into, and feel that they're just waiting for their occupants to come back. This one - it doesn't care. No wonder Bob was so sullen, if this is what he's lived in and with for the past ten years or so." Jim nodded, only half of his attention on what Blair was saying. "And the change in him today, after just a couple of days with Eli and Lesley, in a totally different kind of environment..." Blair looked round. "That's the bag he uses for his university stuff. He didn't have it with him on Wednesday or Thursday -- he must have forgotten to pick it up." He moved to collect the bag. "I'll take it in to Rainier tomorrow." "Hold it, Blair... I can smell something... " Blair swung round, Bob's bag forgotten. "Something you didn't smell on Thursday?" "Yes. The blood was a bit overwhelming, so I was filtering things a bit, and when it was obvious nothing had been disturbed upstairs I kept my sense of smell turned down. I was lucky I smelled as much as I did." Blair nodded absently. "So what's this smell, Jim?" "It's really faint... Not in this room. The other one." In 'the other one' there was on the wall a photograph of a different football team, another photo that included Andrew Gemmell. Apart from that, the room was as bleakly impersonal as the first. The only item of furniture in this room that Bob's lacked was another, fairly small, bookcase. Jim strode straight to it. The first 'book' he picked out was another fake. Blair joined him as he opened it. It was full of largish packets of a green substance. "Drugs," Jim confirmed, and sniffed again. "I think this lot is just marijuana, though." He put it down and kept on checking. All the 'books' were fake. He opened one after the other. The first three all held large packets, and Jim's nose wrinkled; "This lot is all heroin." Then came one that held several small plastic bags containing the same substance. "These are the packets he's selling." Jim said again, his voice grim. The next 'book' held several packets of pills. "And that's why he thought the packet in Bob's pocket was Ecstasy," he muttered. "He knew how they're packaged." Blair grunted. "I wonder if he actually flushed away the tablets he found in Bob's pocket, or if he only pretended to, and kept them to sell?" Jim glanced at him. "That's pretty cynical, Chief. What happened to the 'think the best of everyone' guy I used to know?" Blair shrugged. "Oh, he's still here. But I think Gemmell gave up his right to be considered anything other than a bastard, don't you?" Jim nodded as he turned his attention to the next 'book'. It was full of small, empty plastic bags. Then came two full of money. The last one held a notebook as well as more cash. Jim took the notebook out, and opened it. Blair peered over his shoulder. It was clearly an account book. "I wonder... " Jim said. "This all looks as if he restocked fairly recently -- like Thursday morning. Dan said he was here just after nine, and he was chased away very quickly. Either his father was totally unforgiving, even though he must have seen that Dan was doing all right financially, or he was expecting someone else, someone he didn't want Dan to meet. Dan doesn't use aftershave and there was no smell of smoke off his clothes, so we know there had to be at least one other visitor after him. That visitor could have been Gemmell's supplier." "And I don't suppose there's any way of finding out who that was." Jim gathered up the fake books. "Let's call this in," he said. Once Forensics arrived, they left the team to it and went back to the PD. They went straight to Simon and reported to him. Simon listened to what they had to say, and frowned, "Who did you say is dealing with this murder?" he asked. "Dick Wilmot." "Wilmot, Wilmot... Oh, yes. He's reasonably competent, good solve rate -- so how the devil did he miss these? He already knew there was one of those fake books in the house." "That could be why," Blair muttered. "He didn't expect there would be more than one, not when the one we found -- the one Bob knew about -- was the one with the business papers and enough money to be his savings stashed away." Jim nodded agreement. "We only discovered through the Forensics report that the dead man had some contact with drugs. It could have been as a user, but between the size of his income and Bob saying he always seemed to have plenty of money, that didn't seem likely. Although we went in basically to look for signs of drugs, I only checked the 'books' in the bedroom because I could smell the drugs there -- though it's easily explained that knowing about the false book downstairs led me to check the upstairs 'books' for Gemmell's stash. There didn't seem to be any reason to check out the upstairs rooms, after all; they were clearly untouched by whoever killed Gemmell. What I don't know is why Wilmot hasn't apparently followed up the report from Forensics." Simon grunted. "The combination of murder and drugs makes this a matter for Major Crime now, anyway. You've already done a lot of work in the case --" "I'll go over to Homicide and have a word with Wilmot," Jim agreed. "Wait a minute!" Simon growled. "We don't want to tread on Homicide's toes here. Why did you go back to the house without checking with Wilmot first?" "We were in the area," Blair offered, "and because we'd read the Forensics report, we thought we might as well give the place a look." "It might serve," Simon muttered. "Now, this money -- most of it obviously came from the sale of drugs, so it'll be forfeit." "Yeah," Jim said. "There's an account book in one of the 'books', so it might be possible to estimate what percentage came from the drugs. He did have an income from a pension as well; he could have saved all that money and only spent what he got from the drug sales." "That's a specious argument and you know that as well as I do," Simon growled. "I know, but I'd hate to see Bob lose all of it," Jim told him. "Yeah," Simon muttered. "It's going to be hard enough on the kid..." "Simon," Blair said, "you don't know the half of it." Simon looked from Blair to Jim and back again, seeing identical scowls on both faces. "Do I want to know?" "The actual details don't matter now, but in any case Bob wasn't willing to press changes," Blair said quietly, "because the man was his father, after all... but Tuesday of last week, Gemmell battered Bob because he thought Bob might be on drugs." "What?" "His face is still black and blue," Jim said. "And green and yellow," Blair added, with precise detail. "Eli Stoddard took him home, let his father know that Rainier was looking into the 'mugging'. It was all anyone could do under the circumstances, though I tried to let him know how much the law was on his side." "But the man was his father, so he was prepared to put up with it," Simon finished. "Poor kid." "Well, he's free of abuse now," Jim said. "It's just a question of who tells him what his father's been doing. He'll have to be told." "I think," Blair said, "Lesley Stoddard is maybe the best person to tell him. We can have a word with her now, before Bob and Eli get back. As for Dan -- you and I had better go and tell him tomorrow." "Dan?" Simon asked. "Dan," Jim said. "Danny Gemmell. We found Bob's older brother."