Violent Crimes by Phillip Margolin Page B

uncomplimentary statements about Dale’s corporate clients and Veronica. His tirade about corporate polluters and Dale’s “latest slut” had not ceased even after the security guards had hustled Brandon out the door and dumped him in his Prius.
    Moments after Brandon disappeared, Veronica lost interest in him and refocused on the only positive aspect of her shopping adventure. She had wheedled a Caribbean vacation at a very pricey resort out of Dale by withholding sex for several days. As soon as he’d agreed to Veronica’s demands, her headaches had miraculously disappeared. Veronica had purchased three very sexy bikinis and several beach and evening ensembles for the trip. She hauled her purchases out of the trunk. The servants had been given the day off so Veronica had to carry her swag up to her bedroom. This added to her annoyance.
    After putting away her purchases, Veronica changed into shorts. Then she went downstairs to make herself a drink. The den was at the front of the house, with a nice view of the front lawn. As she walked by it, an odd odor assailed her sensitive nostrils. The stink reminded her of rotting meat, and she wrinkled her nose. Curiosity about the smell led her to open the door to the den.
    Veronica Masterson had found her husband sprawled on his back on the carpet in the middle of his den. His tan slacks and bright green golf shirt were spattered with blood, but most of the blood was on Dale’s face, which had sustained a horrific beating. Something about the murder scene looked familiar. As soon as Alan Hotchkiss figured it out, he muttered a curse.
    â€œWhat?” asked Billie Brewster, Hotchkiss’s partner. Brewster was a slender African-American woman with close-croppedblack hair who had been teamed with Zeke Forbus until his retirement. Now that Hotchkiss was her partner, she usually played good cop to Hotchkiss’s really mean cop, because she was as easygoing as Hotchkiss was intense.
    â€œYou were on vacation when Christine Larson was murdered.”
    â€œThe case that Chang threw out?”
    Hotchkiss nodded. “She worked in Masterson’s firm and she was beaten to death, just like Masterson. Her face was a bloody pulp.”
    â€œAnd you think . . . ?”
    â€œOur suspect, Tom Beatty, was a paralegal at Masterson’s firm, and I’d love to know where he was today.”
    A policewoman walked over to the detectives. “Dr. Clay says Mrs. Masterson is calm enough to be interviewed.”
    Veronica Masterson had been standing outside her house on the front lawn, screaming hysterically, when the first officers arrived on the scene in response to her 911 call. They had brought her into the library, which was down the hall from the den. When she wouldn’t calm down, they had gotten the name of her doctor and he’d arrived shortly after the detectives and the forensic unit. The doctors Hotchkiss saw at Kaiser Permanente didn’t make house calls, and he decided that there were many positive benefits to being filthy rich.
    Roger Clay was a rugged-looking man in his mid-sixties with curly gray hair and a ruddy complexion. He met the detectives at the door to the library. Hotchkiss looked past him and saw Veronica slumped in an easy chair next to a stone fireplace.
    â€œMrs. Masterson can answer questions, but I’d like to give her a sedative and get her to bed so . . .”
    â€œWe’ll try and keep this short. We can talk to her again after she’s gotten a good night’s sleep,” Brewster assured Clay.
    â€œThank you,” the doctor said.
    Hotchkiss pulled a chair in front of Veronica. She looked up. Tears had ruined her makeup and her hair was in disarray.
    â€œMy name is Alan Hotchkiss and this is Billie Brewster. We’re the detectives who are going to find out who did this to your husband.”
    Veronica jerked up. She looked furious. “I know who killed him. It was that disgusting