I TRIED MY best to look composed as I returned to the morgue.
“You alright?” Darlene asked, concerned.
“Yeah, fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” She dusted my shoulder.
“You found anything?”
She pointed to Jennifer Granger’s corpse. “It’s very similar to all the others,” Darlene said gravely. “Face burned and cut, stabbed in the back repeatedly. The same money dump … fake money dump. No sign of sexual assault. No DNA.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“You’ve found something, haven’t you?”
She smiled. “You should be a detective! I’ve found a partial print on one of the photocopies.”
“Oh.”
“Which convinces me even more that Jennifer Granger was the first victim. The killer was less practiced. He made a mistake.”
Chapter 73
DR. CAMERON GRANGER was wearing an open-neck shirt, loafers and an expensive suit. I knew because I’d seen it up-close in Armani the week before.
He was tall, broad shouldered, strong jawed. He had a big house in the Eastern Suburbs, probably a million-dollar yacht moored somewhere exclusive and used maybe twice a year.
He indicated a plush suede sofa, sat one end, me the other. He looked suitably morose.
“I’ve been to the morgue. Been briefed. Given my report to the cops.”
“You seem very calm and collected.”
“What can you do? I’ve had some time to absorb it all. After Jennifer failed to show up with her friends, I assumed she’d either run off with her lover or she was dead.”
I appraised the man again. Was he using bravado to overcome his grief?
“You had no idea your wife was having an affair?”
“Oh, right … What more traditional motive for murder is there than being cuckolded?”
I held his eyes and he looked away.
“Strikes me as odd,” I said provocatively. “Why would a wife risk losing such a lavish lifestyle by messing around?”
Granger surprised me by simply shrugging. “You tell me, Mr. Gisto. Maybe she thought she’d never be caught.”
“When did you see your wife last?”
“I went through this with the police.” He sighed. “I kissed her goodbye in the hallway of our home. Waved as she got into her car. She was leaving for the airport – apparently – to see her girlfriends in Melbourne.”
“Then, later, you got a call from one of them.”
“Yes, Helene Fromes, over thirty-six hours later actually. She’d tried and failed to reach Jen by phone … got worried … Stupid bitch.”
“You sound pretty angry. Wasn’t this Helene Fromes doing you a favor?”