Will straightened the pen on his desk. “What did they find?”
“He had Demerol in his bloodstream. Not a lot.”
He gave her a careful look. “Pills?”
“Medical grade, injectable.”
He asked, “How much is not a lot?”
“He was a big guy, so it’s hard to be sure. I’d guess enough to make him relax but not knock him out completely.” She said, “They found the vial in the refrigerator under the bar. There was a syringe in the disposal box with residue. His fingerprints were on both.”
Will rubbed the side of his face with his fingers. “He never used drugs before. That was his thing. He was against them.”
“You know how bad prisons are. A lot of people change their minds about drugs when they get inside.”
“Where would he get liquid Demerol?”
Sara cast about for an explanation. “The prostitute who visited him the night before could’ve brought it. Did the police ever find her?”
“No,” Will answered. “They never found the nail polish, either.”
Sara knew Will hated loose ends. “Maybe she stole it. Most of those girls are addicts. They’re not having sex with twenty to thirty men a day because it’s fun.”
“What was the cause of death?” He seemed wary of saying the word. “Overdose?”
“His heart wasn’t in great shape. You know these things aren’t always conclusive. The medical examiner listed natural causes, but he could’ve had other drugs on board—inhaled something, swallowed something, had a bad reaction. It’s impossible to test for everything.”
“Did Pete handle the case?”
“No, he’s taken medical leave. It was one of his assistants. He’s a smart guy. I trust him.”
Will kept working his jaw. “Did he suffer?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wish I could tell you.”
Betty barked. She pranced around Will’s feet. “I’d better feed them.”
He headed toward the kitchen. Sara followed him. Instead of picking up the bowls and getting out the cans from the cabinet, Will stood in the middle of the room.
There was a padded envelope on his kitchen table. A bright red lipstick print kissed the center. Sara instantly recognized Angie Trent’s handiwork. She’d found a note with the same lipstick kiss on her car every morning this week. She doubted very seriously that Angie had written “Whore” inside, but she asked Will anyway, “What does she want?”
“I have no idea.” Will sounded angry, then defensive, as if he could control his wife. “I changed the locks. I don’t know how she got in.”
Sara didn’t bother to respond. Angie was an ex-cop. She knew how to pick a lock. Working vice, she’d learned how to skate back and forth across the lines with impunity.
Will said, “I’ll throw it away.”
Sara tried to quell her irritation. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.” Will picked up the envelope. It wasn’t sealed. The flap opened.
Sara jumped back, though what clattered onto the table was hardly dangerous. At least not anymore.
The prostitute at the Four Seasons had been the last person to see Will’s father alive. She knew the regular girls. She knew how they dressed, where they picked up their johns. More important, she knew that adjusting her hat in full view of the elevator security camera would draw attention to her recently manicured fingernails.
And that still wasn’t enough.
Like a cat leaving a dead animal on its owner’s doorstep, Angie Trent had taken a souvenir from the crime scene so that Will would know exactly what she’d done for him.
Glass bottle. Pointy white cap.
Bombshell red.
It was the missing bottle of Max Factor nail polish.