he was married was twenty-five years ago. There are two kids from the first wife, whom he divorced thirty-five years ago. The first wifedied ten years ago. From what I read, he’s also estranged from his kids because of papa’s odd behavior.”
“Odd is an understatement. What kind of person keeps a tiger as a pet?” When no one offered any psychological insight, Decker said, “How old are his children?”
Marge checked her notes. “The son—Darius—is around fifty-five, wealthy in his own right. He’s a lawyer and some kind of capital venture person. The daughter—Graciela—is fifty-eight. She’s a New York society woman married to a count or a baron.”
“What about the second wife?” Oliver asked. “What happened to her?”
“She”—a flipping of the pages of her notepad—“is still alive . . . Sabrina Talbot, fifty-eight. The marriage lasted five years.”
“So she was twenty-eight when they married?” Oliver asked.
“Yeah . . . he was fifty-nine. He gave her a generous settlement, and I read something about his adult children not being happy about it.” Marge looked up. “But this all happened twenty-five years ago. Who holds a grudge for that long?”
“Someone was pissed enough to bash in his head and shoot him,” Oliver said.
Decker said, “I’ll research the family history from the station house. I have access to a computer and it smells a lot better.” He took in Oliver’s sartorial splendor. “You might want to leave your jacket in the car and roll up your pants. Marge has shoe covers for you.”
“Ugh,” Oliver said. “It’s going to be one of those nights.”
“Scotty, it’s already been one of those nights,” Decker answered. “You just arrived fashionably late.”
CHAPTER FOUR
M ARGE COULD
ALMOST remember a time when one in the morning meant being asleep. For the last twenty years as a homicide cop, one in the morning meant a phone call directing her to a crime scene, some of them more grisly than others but all of them horrendous. At present, she and Oliver were gathering forensic evidence. Amid the mess and the outrage, there were a few directional arrows that pointed to what went down. When she spotted something shiny winking from a pile of feces, she had a good idea what it was. But that didn’t make the task any more pleasant.
“I don’t really have to do this, do I?” Marge’s question to Oliver was not rhetorical. “I outrank you.”
“But you also love me,” Oliver said.
“Not that much.”
Silence. “Flip a coin?” Oliver suggested.
Marge pulled a quarter from her purse, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “Call.”
“Heads.”
She slapped the coin on the underside of her arm and took awayher hand. George Washington was staring up at her. “I’m going to cry now.”
Oliver pretended not to hear, making busy by trying to find a weapon that matched the depression in the victim’s head. Since the coroner’s office had removed the body, he was left with only photographs of the wound. It seemed to be more round than ovoid, about an inch to an inch and a half in diameter. Oliver’s first choice was a hammer. He was attempting to locate a toolbox or a tool drawer.
Cursing her luck, Marge bent down. The smell was atrocious. She wrinkled her nose, and then stuck two gloved fingers into a squishy mound of tiger poop. Extracting the metal, she regarded the slime-coated hunk of steel. “A twenty-two. At least I found something valuable to offset the gross factor. Can you give me a bag, please?”
“Just because you said please.” He handed her an evidence bag. “I guess the logical question was how did a bullet get inside the mound of shit? It doesn’t seem like something an animal would normally eat.”
“Yeah, Decker and I were wondering about why the victim was shot but not the tiger. At least, I don’t think the tiger was shot. We were also thinking about how someone got around the tiger to get to the
“Odd is an understatement. What kind of person keeps a tiger as a pet?” When no one offered any psychological insight, Decker said, “How old are his children?”
Marge checked her notes. “The son—Darius—is around fifty-five, wealthy in his own right. He’s a lawyer and some kind of capital venture person. The daughter—Graciela—is fifty-eight. She’s a New York society woman married to a count or a baron.”
“What about the second wife?” Oliver asked. “What happened to her?”
“She”—a flipping of the pages of her notepad—“is still alive . . . Sabrina Talbot, fifty-eight. The marriage lasted five years.”
“So she was twenty-eight when they married?” Oliver asked.
“Yeah . . . he was fifty-nine. He gave her a generous settlement, and I read something about his adult children not being happy about it.” Marge looked up. “But this all happened twenty-five years ago. Who holds a grudge for that long?”
“Someone was pissed enough to bash in his head and shoot him,” Oliver said.
Decker said, “I’ll research the family history from the station house. I have access to a computer and it smells a lot better.” He took in Oliver’s sartorial splendor. “You might want to leave your jacket in the car and roll up your pants. Marge has shoe covers for you.”
“Ugh,” Oliver said. “It’s going to be one of those nights.”
“Scotty, it’s already been one of those nights,” Decker answered. “You just arrived fashionably late.”
CHAPTER FOUR
M ARGE COULD
ALMOST remember a time when one in the morning meant being asleep. For the last twenty years as a homicide cop, one in the morning meant a phone call directing her to a crime scene, some of them more grisly than others but all of them horrendous. At present, she and Oliver were gathering forensic evidence. Amid the mess and the outrage, there were a few directional arrows that pointed to what went down. When she spotted something shiny winking from a pile of feces, she had a good idea what it was. But that didn’t make the task any more pleasant.
“I don’t really have to do this, do I?” Marge’s question to Oliver was not rhetorical. “I outrank you.”
“But you also love me,” Oliver said.
“Not that much.”
Silence. “Flip a coin?” Oliver suggested.
Marge pulled a quarter from her purse, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “Call.”
“Heads.”
She slapped the coin on the underside of her arm and took awayher hand. George Washington was staring up at her. “I’m going to cry now.”
Oliver pretended not to hear, making busy by trying to find a weapon that matched the depression in the victim’s head. Since the coroner’s office had removed the body, he was left with only photographs of the wound. It seemed to be more round than ovoid, about an inch to an inch and a half in diameter. Oliver’s first choice was a hammer. He was attempting to locate a toolbox or a tool drawer.
Cursing her luck, Marge bent down. The smell was atrocious. She wrinkled her nose, and then stuck two gloved fingers into a squishy mound of tiger poop. Extracting the metal, she regarded the slime-coated hunk of steel. “A twenty-two. At least I found something valuable to offset the gross factor. Can you give me a bag, please?”
“Just because you said please.” He handed her an evidence bag. “I guess the logical question was how did a bullet get inside the mound of shit? It doesn’t seem like something an animal would normally eat.”
“Yeah, Decker and I were wondering about why the victim was shot but not the tiger. At least, I don’t think the tiger was shot. We were also thinking about how someone got around the tiger to get to the
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