The Last Word (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

Haviland walked around to the front of the house. In the lee of a nearby sand dune, they waited for the police to arrive.
    Rawlings was in the lead car. He jumped out, readjusted his utility belt, unclipped his holster with the practiced flick of a finger, and strode up to Olivia. Echoing her words to Haviland, he issued a firm command. “Stay here.” He then signaled to one of his men. “Please wait with Ms. Limoges.”
    The officer in question tried to conceal his disappointment over having to babysit a civilian, but Olivia rendered his assignment void the moment she rushed after the chief. “The front door’s locked. I had to break a window around back to get in.”
    Rawlings stopped and turned, blood rushing to his face. “And you did that because?”
    “I had to see if I could help him,” Olivia stated with a calm she didn’t feel. “I couldn’t just sit on the patio and wonder if the man inside could be saved by CPR.”
    Mumbling under his breath, the chief gestured at the officers following in his wake and jogged around the side of the house. Olivia glanced at the uniformed watchdog standing beside her and said, “I’d better show the chief what I touched in there.”
    The young man was too eager to argue. He led the way with Haviland shadowing after him. Like most of Oyster Bay’s police force, the policeman had seen the poodle inside the station several times and knew he posed no threat. “How did you end up finding the body?” he asked Olivia.
    “I walked over from my place to show Mr. Plumley a painting,” she explained.
    The officer nodded. “And did your dog sense anything when you got here? Did he bark or seem nervous?”
    Olivia reached out and touched Haviland’s head. “That’s an astute question, Officer . . . ?”
    “Gregson, ma’am.”
    They rounded the corner of the building, and Olivia stopped at the edge of the patio. “Haviland didn’t act like there was a malevolent presence nearby. If he had sensed any violence within the house—shouting or a physical altercation—he would have barked out a warning to me. But he didn’t and that makes me think the killer was well away before we arrived.”
    Gregson’s brows rose. “The killer, ma’am?”
    Olivia pointed to the shattered door. “You’ll see.” She sank into a lounge chair and invited Haviland to sit in the shade of the patio’s umbrella. “Don’t worry, I won’t move from this spot.”
    During the course of the next hour, officers filtered in and out of the house. Olivia listened to the sounds of their work: the rapid-fire clicking of a camera, the crackle of radios, and the slap of measuring tape laid against the bare floor.
    The men and women of the Oyster Bay Police kept their voices hushed, following the chief’s example. Olivia had witnessed Rawlings’ demeanor at crime scenes before and knew that he demanded respect be shown to the victim at all times.
    Even now, she could picture him reservedly turning out the pockets of Nick Plumley’s robe or touching the stretched skin of his cheeks with his surprisingly gentle, bearlike hands.
    Eventually, the coroner arrived and the body was removed. A pair of officers left to interview the neighbors. With half an acre separating the homes, Olivia doubted the men would glean any useful information, but Rawlings was methodical. Everyone living on the Point would be interviewed right away and then, when no clues were discovered, the chief would begin to widen his circle.
    Impatient to provide him with her own statement, Olivia peered inside the house and saw that Rawlings was alone. He stood in the middle of the room, arms folded across his chest, head bent. He appeared to be staring at the damaged copy of The Barbed Wire Flower .
    Car engines started in the driveway, and Olivia knew that a lone officer waited inside the remaining sedan. He would be sitting in the car for a long time, as Rawlings always lingered at a crime scene long after everyone else had left. He doled out assignments and his team leapt to work, but he chose not to focus on the raw data in the beginning of a case. His interest was in the story behind the crime.
    He’d stand without speaking for a full thirty minutes in the place where violence had occurred. Whether a dank alley or a million-dollar home, he would become as still as a stone, close his eyes, and feel his way through the events leading to the crime.
    Olivia watched him in silence and then eventually picked up the canvas bag