Black Dog

Thirty-Eight

As Joan sat on the sofa, she set her .45 on the cushion beside her and waited for the police. Shortly, a car turned up and flashing lights played across the ceiling. She got up and was at the front door by the time the bell rang. “Please come in,” she said to the uniformed man and woman on the front porch. She switched on the master controls for the house and the exterior.

The officers both had their hands on their weapons. “Good evening, ma’am,” the young man said. “Are you armed?”

“No,” Joan replied, holding open the door. “My pistol is on the sofa there,” she said, pointing.

The two officers entered. “Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked.

“There are two other people here: my houseguest, Betty, who is upstairs getting decent, and the man lying at the bottom of the stairs, around the corner. I’ll show you.” She led the two officers into the foyer and pointed at the large man wearing a large hole in his chest. “I’m sorry I can’t introduce you, but I don’t know his name.”

Both officers approached him with their weapons drawn. The woman felt for a pulse at his neck and looked at his eyes to inspect the pupil. “He’s dead,” she said, holstering her weapon. “I’ve got a snub-nosed .38 on the other side of the body.”

Another woman appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a silk dressing gown. “Good evening,” she said.

“Betty,” Joan said, “would you bring my handbag down here, please? Yours, too.” Betty went back for the two bags.

“Let’s all go into the living room and have a chat,” the officer said when Betty returned with Joan’s bag and her own. “I’m Sergeant Dave Powell, and this is my partner, Sergeant Florence Stern. She likes to be called Flo.”

“How do you do?” Joan and Betty said in unison. They followed the officers into the living room.

Powell took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, stuck it into the barrel of the .45, and dropped the gun into a zippered plastic bag.

“The only fingerprints you’ll find on it,” Joan said, “are mine. I cleaned it thoroughly when I was packing.”

“Does it belong to you?” Powell asked.

“Yes, it’s registered in my name: Joan Robertson.”

“And do you have a permit for it?”

“Yes, full carry. May I get my ID from my bag?”

“Of course.”

Joan produced her documents relating to the gun and her driver’s license. “You, too, Betty,” she said, and Betty produced her license.

“Now,” Powell said, “I’d like you to answer some questions.”

“If you’ll forgive me, I’d rather wait for the arrival of my attorney. He will be here shortly.”

“Local attorney?”

“From the city. He’s coming by helicopter.”

“As you wish, Ms. Robertson.” They all sat quietly and waited. Another twenty minutes passed, then they could hear the helicopter’s rotors beating against the air. The machine set down on the front lawn, and the pilot killed the engine.

“Excuse me,” Joan said, and went to open the front door. Stone Barrington entered and looked around.

“Stone, these are Sergeants Dave Powell and Flo Stern. Sergeants, this is my attorney, Stone Barrington, of the firm of Woodman & Weld.”

Stone looked at his watch. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you mind if I have a moment alone with my client?”

“Of course not,” Powell replied.

“Where’s the body?” Stone asked Joan.

“Right this way,” she replied. Stone walked around the body and satisfied himself that it wasn’t going to walk away. Joan gave him a calm, clear account of the events of the evening and pointed out the pistol on the floor, then they returned to the living room.

“Sergeants, my client will be happy to answer your questions,” Stone said. “I should point out that I do not represent Ms. Brower.”

“I’d like you to,” Betty said, “if that’s all right.”

“Yes, it is. Now you may both answer the officers’ questions. Tell the truth, and don’t leave anything out,” Stone said to the women. He took a seat and listened quietly to the questions and answers.

There were noises of other vehicles at the front of the house. “That will be the ambulance, the medical examiner, and the crime scene team,” Powell said. “Mr. Barrington, do you have any questions?”

“Just to repeat,” Stone said. “Joan, Betty, do either of you know the intruder, or have you ever seen him before tonight?”

“No,” they both said simultaneously.

“One more question. Does the pistol next to the body belong to either of you, or have either of you ever seen it before?”

They shook their heads. “No,” Joan said. “He seems to have brought it with him.”

“Sergeant Powell,” Stone said, “will you please give Ms. Robertson a receipt for her weapon?”

“Of course,” Powell said, and wrote one out on a page from his notebook.

“Sergeants, may we agree that what we have here is a routine B and E, and that Ms. Robertson fired her weapon in self-defense?”

“That appears to be the case,” Powell said, “but that could change with further investigation.”

“I don’t think so,” Stone said, standing up. “Joan, do you or Betty need transportation to the city?”

They both declined. “I have my car,” Joan said.

“Sergeant Powell,” Stone said, handing him a card. “Will you please forward a photograph of the weapon and any reports relating to ballistics tests to me? I’d like to have my own people take a look at those.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone kissed both women good night, told them to go back to bed, then returned to the waiting helicopter.

He was back at the East Side Heliport before the intruder was on a slab.