turn.
Well, now he had something on tomorrow’s to-do list as well.
He opened the other one. A letter from Detective Michael Wade, saying he had repeatedly tried to contact Mark without success,
and apparently the phone number he had for Mark was no longer in service. Would Mark please give him a call at his earliest
convenience? Detective Wade had finally received the lab reports he had been waiting for and had a few questions for Mark.
He apologized for taking so long to contact him again, but as he had explained before, the county crime lab had an overwhelming
backlog of cases. He wanted to assure Mark that despite these unavoidable delays, the investigation was continuing.
Eric looked at this more closely. Beneath the date was a reference to a case number.
Eric moved to his office safe and, entering the combination on its electronic keypad, unlocked it, and removed the envelope
he had placed there earlier in the day. He removed the file folders. The number in the letter was the number on the folder
he had so hastily put away this afternoon.
There was an ongoing investigation into Carlotta’s death? It wasn’t clearly ruled a single-vehicle accident?
He forced himself to open the folder, quickly flipping the photos over and concentrating on what had been written and diagrammed
within. That he was looking at photocopies was evident. Did Detective Wade give him a copy of the whole file? No, clearly
some pages were missing. He wondered if Mark had sweet-talked someone else into getting the information to him. Entirely possible,
knowing his charming brother. How old was this report?
He looked at the last notation in the file. It mentioned that the detective had followed up with the lab about samples of
white and red paint, thought to have transferred from the vehicle that struck the SUV, being sent to the lab, along with several
pieces of a broken headlamp. Something about the date of the notation nagged at him. He went back to his safe and took out
his copy of the will. The codicil about Zuppa Inglese had been added that week.
He went back to the folder and read more carefully.
An hour later, Eric was convinced that at the very least, another vehicle had been involved in the fatal accident, and that
in all likelihood someone had intentionally forced Carlotta off the road. Debris found at the apparent point of impact, skid
marks, tire impressions. Footwear impressions—of someone who had walked partway down the slope and back, but never called
an ambulance or police.
Eric set the folder aside, staring off into the night for a time, wondering if his rage would cool before dawn.
The second folder contained an assortment of loose notes and pieces of paper. One was a map, upon which someone, presumably
Mark, had marked three locations: the restaurant from which Carlotta began that last drive; Shackel Horse Farm, where Mark
and Jimmy waited; the place where she was killed.
Another was a photocopy of a credit card bill. He had seen a second-generation copy of it in the other folder—presumably,
Mark had given the original to the detective. After studying it, Eric saw that it included a charge for gasoline on the date
she died.
A bill for Carlotta’s cell phone. The others were slips of paper with brief notes made in Mark’s handwriting. The time she
left the restaurant. The time she bought gas at the gas station. Michael Wade’s business card.
But who on earth would want to kill Carlotta? Mark would probably be a suspect, but anyone who looked closely into their lives
would learn that he was devoted to her, and would see that her expertise and skill were a key part of the restaurants’ success.
The more Eric thought about it, the more likely it seemed that this was a case of hit and run, or road rage. A stranger, not
anyone who knew her.
He studied the map again and realized that not only was Mark’s home much closer to the Shackel Horse Farm than the restaurant,
Well, now he had something on tomorrow’s to-do list as well.
He opened the other one. A letter from Detective Michael Wade, saying he had repeatedly tried to contact Mark without success,
and apparently the phone number he had for Mark was no longer in service. Would Mark please give him a call at his earliest
convenience? Detective Wade had finally received the lab reports he had been waiting for and had a few questions for Mark.
He apologized for taking so long to contact him again, but as he had explained before, the county crime lab had an overwhelming
backlog of cases. He wanted to assure Mark that despite these unavoidable delays, the investigation was continuing.
Eric looked at this more closely. Beneath the date was a reference to a case number.
Eric moved to his office safe and, entering the combination on its electronic keypad, unlocked it, and removed the envelope
he had placed there earlier in the day. He removed the file folders. The number in the letter was the number on the folder
he had so hastily put away this afternoon.
There was an ongoing investigation into Carlotta’s death? It wasn’t clearly ruled a single-vehicle accident?
He forced himself to open the folder, quickly flipping the photos over and concentrating on what had been written and diagrammed
within. That he was looking at photocopies was evident. Did Detective Wade give him a copy of the whole file? No, clearly
some pages were missing. He wondered if Mark had sweet-talked someone else into getting the information to him. Entirely possible,
knowing his charming brother. How old was this report?
He looked at the last notation in the file. It mentioned that the detective had followed up with the lab about samples of
white and red paint, thought to have transferred from the vehicle that struck the SUV, being sent to the lab, along with several
pieces of a broken headlamp. Something about the date of the notation nagged at him. He went back to his safe and took out
his copy of the will. The codicil about Zuppa Inglese had been added that week.
He went back to the folder and read more carefully.
An hour later, Eric was convinced that at the very least, another vehicle had been involved in the fatal accident, and that
in all likelihood someone had intentionally forced Carlotta off the road. Debris found at the apparent point of impact, skid
marks, tire impressions. Footwear impressions—of someone who had walked partway down the slope and back, but never called
an ambulance or police.
Eric set the folder aside, staring off into the night for a time, wondering if his rage would cool before dawn.
The second folder contained an assortment of loose notes and pieces of paper. One was a map, upon which someone, presumably
Mark, had marked three locations: the restaurant from which Carlotta began that last drive; Shackel Horse Farm, where Mark
and Jimmy waited; the place where she was killed.
Another was a photocopy of a credit card bill. He had seen a second-generation copy of it in the other folder—presumably,
Mark had given the original to the detective. After studying it, Eric saw that it included a charge for gasoline on the date
she died.
A bill for Carlotta’s cell phone. The others were slips of paper with brief notes made in Mark’s handwriting. The time she
left the restaurant. The time she bought gas at the gas station. Michael Wade’s business card.
But who on earth would want to kill Carlotta? Mark would probably be a suspect, but anyone who looked closely into their lives
would learn that he was devoted to her, and would see that her expertise and skill were a key part of the restaurants’ success.
The more Eric thought about it, the more likely it seemed that this was a case of hit and run, or road rage. A stranger, not
anyone who knew her.
He studied the map again and realized that not only was Mark’s home much closer to the Shackel Horse Farm than the restaurant,
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