Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

already gone.
    Kelli jumped into the car and got it started, then raced out of the parking lot, spraying gravel. She made the turn at the intersection and put her foot to the floor. Up ahead, she saw the last of the three vehicles disappear into the Barrington driveway. She slammed on the brakes and turned sideways on the gravel road, but slid past the driveway, and a rear wheel ended up in a ditch. She got out and looked: no way to drive it out. She started running up the driveway.
     
     
    By the time anyone arrived, Stone had got Peter into the living room and onto a sofa with Hattie, then had gone back to the hall and asked a woman in the kitchen for a tablecloth. He went back to the hall and gently spread the cloth over Arrington’s body, then he went to the front door to wait. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was determined to be calm. How many homicides had he attended during the ten years when that had been his career?
    He saw the sheriff’s cars pull up in front of the house and two young men got out. The ambulance was right behind them. He opened the door and let the deputies in.
    “You called nine-one-one about a shooting?” a young deputy asked.
    “Yes. The body is at the other end of the hall. Do you have a crime-scene unit at your disposal?”
    “Yessir, the county has one.”
    “Please call them immediately.”
    The deputy ignored the request, walked to the shotgun, and picked it up.
    “Put that down!” Stone commanded. “Don’t you know this is a crime scene?”
    The young man flushed and put the shotgun back where he had found it. “Jake, call the sheriff,” he said to his companion, then started down the hall.
    The second deputy pressed a speed dial button on his phone and put it to his ear. “Hello, Sheriff? This is Jake. I—”
    Stone took the phone from his hand. “Sheriff, this is Stone Barrington speaking. My wife has been murdered in her home.” He gave the man the address. “We need a crime-scene unit here at once. One of your men has already picked up a shotgun lying on the floor, so he’ll have to be fingerprinted. You’d better come, too.”
    “Is there a suspect?” the sheriff asked.
    “Yes, a man named Tim Rutledge.”
    “The Dr. Rutledge who’s a professor at UVA?”
    “The same. You should question him at the earliest opportunity. Oh, and find out if he drives a station wagon.” He handed the phone back to the deputy.
    “Yes, sir, that’s pretty much the situation. No, I’m just going to look at the body now.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone. “Milt, the sheriff says to stay away from the body and don’t contaminate the crime scene.”
    Milt, who had already pulled back the tablecloth, put it back and walked back to the front door. “Okay,” he said. “What happened here?”
    Stone sat down in a hall chair. “Let’s wait for the sheriff,” he said. “I don’t want to have to go through this twice.”
    Dino appeared on the upstairs landing, still buttoning his shirt. “What’s happened?” he called to Stone. Mike Freeman and the Eggerses were right behind him, in various stages of dress.
    “Dino, you come down here,” he said. “Will the rest of you please wait upstairs until somebody comes to get you? Thanks.”
    Dino walked down the stairs, looking at the covered body, and came over to Stone. “Who is it?”
    “Arrington. Shotgun.” He nodded toward the weapon, then shook his head.
    Dino put a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”
    “Had to be Rutledge, the architect.”
    “Who are you?” the deputy Milt asked.
    “This is Detective Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the New York City police department,” Stone said. “Dino, deputies Milt and Jake.”
    Dino shook hands with the two young men, then pulled up a chair and sat next to Stone. “I’m so sorry, pal,” he said. “I wish I could tell you how sorry.”
    Stone nodded, then took some deep breaths.
     
     
     
    Kelli reached the front steps, then ran up them and peered through a window next to the door. She could see a shotgun on the floor, and she thought she knew what that meant, and she could see, farther down the hall, a pair of feet protruding from under a white cloth. The toenails had been painted.
    She dug into her bag and found her New York City press pass and hung the cord around her neck, then she got out her iPhone and took a photograph of the corpse’s feet through the window, using the zoom to its fullest.
     
     
     
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