Page 50 of Lie for a Million

“I know what he claims,” Sam said. “But think about it, Lila. How many parents would lie to protect their children? And even if they weren’t lying, what they said was that Roper got up to chase a skunk off the porch. Maybe they were asleep when he went out and they woke up when he came home. They could easily have believed him when he said he’d gotten up because of the skunk. So, you see, his alibi has some holes in it.”

“That’s enough. Why are you telling me this?” Lila pushed to her feet. She stood over him, quivering.

“I’m telling you as a warning. If you trust Roper, you could be in danger, or he could take advantage of your situation. I can’t tell you what to do. I can only caution you to be on your guard.”

“Are you going to arrest him?” she demanded.

“Not until I have more evidence. I need something solid that will hold up in court. Sooner or later, I’ll find it. In fact I may have found some damning evidence already. But that remains to be seen.”

“In other words, you’ve got no proof at all,” she said. “It’s just as likely that I killed Frank myself. Have you thought of that?”

“I have,” Sam said. “Frank’s death has brought an avalanche of trouble down on your head—trouble you wouldn’t have knowingly brought on yourself. You might have divorced your straying husband and taken him for whatever you could get. But you didn’t kill him, Lila. You’re too smart for that.”

“Smart enough to know when I’m being played. I’ve heard enough. Let me know when you have some real news. Until that happens, I hope you’ll leave me in peace.” Lila turned away and stalked into the house.

Sam stood, watching her go. Yes, he had played her deliberately. It was part of a method he sometimes used on challenging cases—when you come to an impasse, throw a rock at the hornet’s nest and see what flies out.

Lila’s impassioned defense of Roper confirmed that she was in love with the man. She would almost certainly warn him. The question was, What would Roper do next?

Would he run? But that would be a sure admission of guilt. Roper was no fool. And with the Run for a Million coming up, he would risk anything to compete.

Sam’s mention of evidence had also been deliberate. If Roper had tossed the murder weapon into the creek, he might check to see whether it was still there. If he left fresh tracks at the bankside, that would be proof enough to justify an arrest. For Sam, that would be a matter of watching and checking.

He felt the familiar adrenaline rush as he walked back to the bungalow. He hadn’t wanted Frank’s killer to be Roper, and he could still be wrong. But his suspicions felt right, and he had a job to do.

The distant whine of power tools had paused. But as Sam mounted the porch, the racket started up again. Sam’s thoughts shifted to Charlie and his plans for that pitiful elephant. Time was growing short. If there was anything he could do to shut the vile man down, it would have to happen soon—perhaps now, while he waited for Roper to make a suspicious move.

What would Jasmine have done about Charlie? But Jasmine had already tried. She’d reported him and gotten nowhere. And then she’d joined the disastrous protest that had wrecked Charlie’s compound, freed a murderous animal, and almost gotten her arrested. Charlie was already back in business, driving her car and planning a brutal death for another innocent creature.

There had to be a way to stop him. He would find it, Sam resolved. He would do it because it was right. And he would do it for Jasmine.

With the distant construction noise ringing in his ears, Sam took a seat on the porch and forced himself to concentrate. Satisfying as it might be, he had yet to find a solid reason for Charlie to have murdered Frank. His business, tax, and bank records were all within regulation, and he had legal title to the property he owned. Sam had verified that when he’d checked the records in the County Clerk’s office. A copy of Charlie’s grandmother’s death certificate had been attached to the title, indicating that the transfer of the deed was due to inheritance, not to sale or default.

Sam had made a mental note of the woman’s name—Ethel Mae Hibbert Grishman—and the fact that she’d died at seventy-four of natural causes. Nothing to raise suspicion there.

But the recent conversation with Mariah had stayed with him—how dismayed Ethel had been that Charlie wanted to turn the property into a game ranch. While she lived, she’d refused to consider the idea. She’d even threatened to disinherit him if he tried to go ahead with his plans.

Sam recalled Mariah’s description of their last visit. “The poor woman had bruises up and down her arms,” Mariah had said. “I asked her if Charlie had been abusing her. She swore he hadn’t. The bruises had just appeared, and she said she had other bruises on her body. She insisted that she must’ve gotten up in the night and fallen or bumped into something and couldn’t remember it the next morning. A week after that, I heard that she’d passed away—a surprise, since she’d been healthy for as long as I’d known her.”

Sam remembered an incident back in Chicago involving bruises. A four-year-old boy had ingested rat poison. The poison had contained warfarin, a blood thinner used in humans to prevent blood clots. The much higher dosage in the rat poison was deadly to rodents and had almost killed the child. Sam and his partner had rushed the boy to the ER, where his life had been saved. But Sam remembered the mottled bruises on the boy’s arms and body, caused by bleeding under the skin.

He needed to look at Ethel’s medical records, or at least talk with her physician.

He remembered the signature on the death certificate and the name typed underneath—Leonard Warburton, MD. Probably local. Maybe he’d acted as coroner. A quick call confirmed that he’d worked at the Willow Bend Clinic nine years ago and had since retired. The receptionist, who remembered Sam from an earlier visit, gave him the doctor’s phone number.

Dr. Warburton answered Sam’s call on the first ring and readily agreed to a visit. Sam drove to Willow Bend and followed the doctor’s directions to a quiet street on the far side of town.

The single-story brick house was modest in size, the casually tended yard overhung by willow trees and bounded by a low picket fence. A vintage Pontiac Firebird with expired plates was parked at the side of the house. As Sam climbed out of the SUV, a black Labrador retriever, lounging on the shaded porch, lifted its graying head, stretched, and trotted down the path to meet him.

Soon after he rang the doorbell, a gravelly voice spoke from the other side. “Come in, Agent. It’s unlocked.”

Sam opened the door. An elderly man, dressed in jeans and a faded flannel shirt, sat in a brown leather recliner. A metal walker stood within reach. A side table held glasses, a book, a phone, and a TV remote.

“Forgive me if I don’t stand to welcome you,” he said. “Getting out of this blasted chair takes a lot of effort these days. I have a young man who comes in to help me, but he’s only part-time. Have a seat, Agent Rafferty. What can I do for you?”

Sam positioned a lightweight wooden chair for easy conversation. As he sat down, he took a few seconds to study the man facing him. Leonard Warburton appeared to be in his eighties. He was stoop-shouldered, his finger joints swollen with arthritis. His prominent nose and chin were softened by furrows of age. Below a thatch of iron gray hair, the pale blue eyes that returned Sam’s gaze were sharp and alert.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Warburton,” Sam said. “I have questions about a woman named Ethel Grishman, who died nine years ago. Your name is on the death certificate. Do you remember her?”

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