Family Jewels

7

Bob trotted toward the twelve-foot-high hedge that separated Carrie’s house from the next property, and hardly slowed as he squirmed through a hole at the bottom of the greenery. Stone took a right and walked to where the hedge parted to accommodate a padlocked gate. Stone grabbed the top of the gate and vaulted over.

Bob was sitting on the grass at the end of the house, looking at a pair of open windows on the second floor. He tilted his head back, aimed at the sky and gave forth with a single, long howl, then he came to Stone and sat down. “Thank you, Bob,” Stone said. “Message received. Let’s go have a look.”

Stone climbed the curving front steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chime from somewhere deep inside. He hammered on the front door, then tried opening it. To his surprise, unlike the front gate, it was unlocked. The odor got stronger. “Hello!” he shouted. “Anyone home?” He started to look around the ground floor, but Bob trotted up the stairs. Stone followed and came to a long hallway. Bob was sitting at the end in front of a closed door, looking back at him and whimpering. Stone walked down the hall and rapped on the door. “Hello! Anybody there?” He opened the door; the stench was overpowering. Bob entered, ran across the room and sat down next to the king-sized bed. There were women’s clothes in the closet and shoes scattered around the room. Stone tried breathing through a handkerchief. The bed was covered by a large duvet, and there was a large lump beneath it.

He took a deep breath and pulled back the duvet, just for a second. He didn’t need more than that to know that he didn’t want to see any more of what was there. He returned the duvet to its original position and left the room. “Come on, Bob,” he said, and the dog followed him. He closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway. He could hear voices from downstairs now.

His five luncheon companions were standing in the living room, chatting quietly and looking around.

“Did you find anything?” Carrie asked.

Stone didn’t reply; he didn’t want to explain more than once. He got out his iPhone and dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a woman said.

“Please connect me with the watch commander.”

“What is your emergency?”

“I’m going to explain it only once, and to him. Give me your watch commander now, or I’ll come over there.”

“Please hold.”

The extension rang half a dozen times, and finally a man answered. “This is Sergeant D’Orio. What can I do for you?”

Stone gave him the address. “My name is Stone Barrington. I’m a retired NYPD detective. I’m a guest at the house next door, and I detected a powerful odor coming from this house, so I investigated. No one answered the door, but it was unlocked, so I went inside. I found the remains of a woman — at least I think it’s a woman — in an upstairs bedroom, in an advanced state of decay. I’ll wait for your team to arrive. You’re going to need a crime-scene specialist and the medical examiner, also some bolt cutters. The front gate is padlocked.”

“All right. Don’t touch anything in the house. We’re on our way.”

“I don’t think the neighbors would appreciate lights and sirens,” Stone said. “The person upstairs isn’t going anywhere, so take your time.”

“Right. Sit tight.” He hung up, and so did Stone. He addressed the little group in the living room. “Unless you want to spend a long afternoon answering the same questions over and over, you should all go back to the house now, before the police arrive, and Carrie, please take Bob with you. Did anybody touch anything?”

They all shook their heads.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“All right, everybody, let’s go home. Come on, Bob.”

“By the way, Carrie, who owns this house?”

“A friend of my ex-husband,” she replied. “His name is James Carlton.”

“Film director?”

“That’s the one. The place is for sale.”

“I didn’t see a real estate agent’s sign.”

“The people around here don’t like signs in their yards. Join us for cocktails, if you can. Dinner is at seven-thirty, and we’re dressing.”

Stone nodded, and she left. He took a seat on the living room sofa. A moment later Stone heard a snap from outside and the creak of the opening gate. Car doors slammed, and there were footsteps on the outside stairs.

A chunky police sergeant walked into the house and stopped. “Are you Barrington?”

“I am,” Stone said, rising to greet him.

“I’m Dante D’Orio,” he said, offering his hand.

Stone shook it. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you up to date.”

D’Orio took the chair opposite and prepared to listen.

When Stone had finished, he asked, “Do you know who owns this house?”

“I’m told James Carlton.”

“The movie guy?”

“Yes. Apparently the house is on the market.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since anybody was here?”

“No, but you’d think that some real estate people might have been in here. The place isn’t exactly in a condition to show.”

Other people began to arrive, some of them carrying cases and equipment.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” D’Orio said.

“Do you need me further?”

“I’d like to know how to get in touch with you.”

Stone wrote his cell number on a card and handed it to him. “I’ll be next door at the home of Carrie Fiske if you need me.”

Stone returned to the house next door.