Chapter 2

Thursday 12:17pm

Steve pulled up into the driveway of the Gilman residence. He was mildly surprised to find that it wasn't as imposing an edifice as the Beverly Hills address and wealth of the owner would have led him to believe. It was a large house, but it lacked the trappings of conspicuous consumption so common in the area. The only visible security was a plain metal gate blocking the entrance and a wall surrounding the property, both of which could be easily circumvented by a determined intruder.

"Have you been here before?" he asked his father, who was also eying the surroundings curiously.

Mark shook his head thoughtfully. "It reflects his personality, though -unostentatious and very private."

Indeed, trees and bushes blocked all signs of neighbours, but Steve made a mental note to interview those nearest for possible witnesses to the disturbances the night before. He checked his watch; they were scheduled to meet with Lisa Gilman in about fifteen minutes. While the forensic team scoured her house, she had stayed with a friend in the neighbourhood, but had consented to meet with them to answer some questions. Mark and Steve had arrived early since they wanted to get a feel for the murder scene before the interview.

The CSU had finished their preliminary explorations, and the house had been left empty. Inside, the unnatural presence of police tape and forensic accoutrements seemed to accentuate the echoing hollowness. The front door opened into a large living area, on the far side of which was a large spiral staircase leading up to the next floor. The infamous chalk outline was at the top of the staircase, spectral hands outflung imploringly. Steve regarded the shape grimly, accustomed to the lingering ambience of death, but never inured to its silent pleas for justice.

The autopsy had revealed little, despite Amanda's customary, painstaking efforts. Gilman had been stabbed to death, four deep blows with a stiletto-type knife to the torso, any of which could have been fatal. The direction of the wounds indicated that either the assailant was much shorter than Gilman or had been below him. There were also some defensive wounds on his arms, showing that he had made an attempt to protect himself. The only anomalous finding in the autopsy had been the presence of Zolpiden, the narcotic ingredient of a prescription sleep aid. Together with a low blood alcohol level, it would have been enough to dull Gilman's reflexes and render him less than usually capable of defending himself.

Steve watched in fascinated anticipation as his father paced round the chalk outline, noting the position of the rooms upstairs, then walked a little way down the stairs and up again, looking over his shoulder at the front door. His intent expression indicated that he was mentally recreating the crime, and Steve wondered, not for the first time, how many of his father's conclusions were inductive rather than deductive. Not that Mark wasn't very capable of ratiocination, but sometimes he seemed to start with a hunch and follow it back to its logical roots. Steve temporarily forgot his own investigations in the enjoyment of watching his father analyze the crime scene. Mark had dedicated himself to preserving life and tended to take its cavalier termination personally. Steve knew how much his father loved the challenge of pitting his wits against the criminal element, but he also knew better than anyone that it wasn't the excitement of the chase that drove Mark but a passion for justice, an innate sense of fairplay. Steve had been the beneficiary of his even-handed dispensation of justice growing up, and had learnt to greatly appreciate its fairness, leavened as it often was by a glimmer of humour.

Finally Mark looked up, and the familiar gleam in his eye brought a smile to Steve's face.

"OK, Dad," he prompted, with mock resignation. "What have you got?"

"This wasn't a straightforward burglary. He knew the murderer." Mark quirked an eyebrow at his son invitingly, but Steve, aware of his father's love of the dramatic, refused the offer of speculation and gestured for him to continue. "We know the intruder broke the window and entered through the kitchen. Whether it was the noise that alerted Gilman or something else, he came out of his bedroom and spotted him downstairs. He was no threat to a burglar, he was unarmed, and if theft were the sole motive, any burglar worth his salt would have escaped either back through the kitchen or out the front door while the going was good. Burglary isn't worth the death penalty if there's an alternative. No, the intruder deliberately mounted the stairs to attack Jack. He was probably on the last step when he stabbed him, which would account for the angle of the wounds. I'd say it was premeditated murder and the burglary was just a cover."

Steve stared down at the hallway, envisaging the scene as his father had depicted it. Although he could poke some holes in the scenario, he trusted his father's instincts. Mark's attention to detail and uncannily accurate reading of human nature had provided the basis of suppositions that had proved to be right countless times.

"Sounds like a good working theory to me," Steve agreed. "I don't suppose you could supply the name of the miscreant? Oh, and a current address would be nice."

"Haven't a clue," Mark admitted cheerfully. "But it's early days yet."

They continued their examination of the house until Steve's sharp ears picked up the sound of a car arriving. Realising how traumatic it would be for the widow to return to the scene of her husband's murder, they went outside to help ease her entrance. As they stood on the steps, Mark's attention was caught by a flock of birds wheeling haphazardly in the sky. Their movements were unusually frantic, and he frowned, a random memory simmering just below the surface of his mind, but, before it had time to bubble to a conscious level, he was distracted by Lisa opening the car door. She seemed genuinely relieved to see Mark standing there. He introduced Steve and then walked her inside, talking gently of inconsequentials until he had her ensconced in a chair, her back to the staircase and the devastation it represented. With a glance, he signaled Steve that he was transferring control of the situation to him.

After a brief but sincere expression of condolence, Steve started his interrogation. "I know this is very difficult for you, Mirs. Gilman, but could you tell me what happened yesterday evening?"

Lisa waved her hand in distress. "I told the officer last night..."

"I understand that, ma'am, but I need to hear it in your words," Steve persisted firmly, but pleasantly.

Lisa started her story reluctantly, with many distraught pauses while she twisted a handkerchief around in her hands. Steve listened intently, more to the intonations and manner of delivery for possible prevarication than to the narrative itself. He already knew she had an iron-clad alibi for the time of the murder, which Amanda had placed at around 9:30 pm. She had been a prominent figure at a charity function that had been attended by many dignitaries who could vouch for her presence all evening. Gilman had also been expected to attend, but had apparently felt unwell at the last minute and decided to stay home. It was no secret in their social circle that the Gilman's were both supposed to be out of the house that night, and their presumed absence bolstered the assumption of an intended burglary. Lisa had been driven home by a friend after midnight and found her husband dead.

It was obvious that Lisa Gilman had not killed her husband, but the suspicion of complicity remained, and Steve had to ask the questions that would eliminate that possibility.

"Mrs. Gilman, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your husband?"

Her shock at the question was unfeigned. "But...it was a burglary...you don't think that someone meant...?"

Steve reassured her that the inquiry was merely routine, but he had even more pointed questions to ask. "Can you tell me who will inherit your husband's money?"

To his relief, Lisa didn't take the question personally, merely stating that the money was to be divided equally between her and her step-daughter. Further interrogation elicited the information that the sleeping pills, Ambien, were hers, but that Jack occasionally resorted to taking them if he felt the need. She claimed that she was unaware that he had done so the night before.

As he continued the interview, Steve found himself increasingly distracted by his father's movements. Although he was undoubtedly listening to Lisa's answers, Mark had taken the opportunity to continue to explore the living room. Now, he was perched precariously on the arm of a chair, attempting to reach something in a plant pot hanging from the wall under the top of the stairway. Even as Steve watched, the chair tipped slightly, throwing Mark off-balance. Steve's reaction was instantaneous, honed reflexes kicking into overdrive. He lunged past the startled Mrs. Gilman, whose position had prevented her from following the action, and caught his father's frantically windmilling arm, assisting him to an ungraceful but safe landing on the floor.

Steve had lost count of the number of times he had helped avert a fall from roller skates, motor scooter or assorted other unconventional methods of transportation that his father favoured. It should have been a routine occurrence, but Steve harboured a secret and, he admitted to himself, irrational fear that his father was going to escape the multitudes of serial killers and vengeful murderers who seemed to float effortlessly through his life, to break his neck falling in just such an accident. The adrenaline jolting through his system provoked an uncharacteristic glare at his father who attempted unsuccessfully to look sheepish in response. It was at times like this that Steve felt like a parent with an errant child, but he also knew that he wouldn't change a thing about his father even if he could, and as usual Mark's unabashed grin deflected any remaining ire.

Mark was holding something wrapped in a handkerchief, and he waved it in triumph before turning to Lisa who was staring at him with her mouth hanging slightly open as if she didn't see elderly doctors performing acrobatics in her living room everyday. Of course, she probably didn't, Steve decided. It was only in his life that this was commonplace.

Steve released the grip he hadn't realised he was still holding on Mark's arm, as his father showed Lisa his find. It was a pen, black with an intricate gold design etched onto it. "Do you recognise this?" he asked.

The question quickly proved redundant as Lisa's reaction provided a non-verbal affirmative. She turned a sickly white colour and burst into tears. Steve heard the disjointed explanation of 'anniversary ...two weeks ago...final present' before turning away, resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn't be able to extract any more useful information from Mrs. Gilman that day. Dealing with lachrymose females was not his forte, and he was deeply grateful for his father's assistance. He marveled at the many facets of his father's personality that he'd seen in the last hour: the dedicated sleuth, the mischievous boy and now the caring grandfather.

Everyone, young or old, seemed to respond to that aval quality in Mark. The kindness transparent in his gentle blue eyes and the very genuine interest he displayed in their troubles convinced even strangers to confide in him. Steve thought wryly that he knew from experience that it was the best interrogation technique he'd ever seen. As a teenager, he'd believed his father could extract the truth with one glance, and even now, it was a good thing that Mark usually respected his privacy since he was never able to withstand that bright, inquisitive gaze fixed on him for long.

While Mark comforted Mrs. Gilman, Steve took the opportunity to explore the other rooms in the house, more to get a feel for the family, its relationships and interests than because he expected to find clues to the murderer. He found several photographs taken over a span of years of a girl he thought was Gilman's daughter, but on the whole the house was strangely impersonal.

When he returned to the living room, Lisa was more composed and was talking with some animation about her recent anniversary while Mark admired the pen. An almost imperceptible headshake from his father warned Steve not to attempt any more questions, so he merely thanked her for her cooperation, promised to keep in touch, and escorted her back to her car as she swore she couldn't sleep another night in the house.

There was no time for further sleuthing as Mark needed to get back to Community General to start his shift. For a while in the car, neither of the men spoke as they considered their impressions and the evidence presented so far, but finally Steve turned to his father. "So, what do you think?" he queried.

Mark was still looking pensive. "I've only met Lisa Gilman twice before and I don't know her well enough to predict her reactions. Not all her responses quite rang true, but I don't know if she's guilty of complicity in her husband's murder."

"Ninety-two million dollars, or half that sum, is quite an incentive." Steve pointed out.

"True, but it's not like she didn't have access to that money before. I don't think that Jack begrudged her anything. If she was involved, there's something more to it." Seeing that they were nearly at Community General, Mark asked. "What are your plans now?"

"For now, I think I'll head back to the station and do a bit more background digging on the daughter and the former business partner." Steve stopped the car in front of the hospital to let his father out.

As he watched his son start to drive away, Mark was suddenly seized by a strong impulse. "Steve, wait!" he called out sharply.

Steve braked quickly and, when his father didn't move, reversed and wound down the window. "What's wrong, Dad?" he asked with some concern. For a long moment Mark didn't answer, trying to pin down the source of his trepidation. He was no stranger to the feeling of fear for the safety of his son, he'd had to learn to live with its continued discordant presence in his life, but he could never claim prescience. Each of Steve's lamentably frequent injuries had come as a jarring shock, despite the dread and anticipation of such an event.

There had to be an explanation for the sense of foreboding that gripped him, some hint of danger that his mind had subliminally recognised but was unable to consciously grasp. He stared helplessly at this son, unable to articulate a reason for the sharp stab of fear that urged him to keep his son close.

Steve waited patiently, curiosity apparent in his expression.

"Just be careful," Mark said lamely.

Steve could sense there was something more his father wanted to say but, unsure how to help, he settled for what hoped was a reassuring but light-hearted reply of - "I always am."

Mark snorted. "If that's your best effort at careful, please spare me your demonstration of careless," he said dryly.

Steve laughed, the familiarity of the complaint reassuring. "See you later, Dad."

Mark watched him drive away, resolutely pushing his anxiety aside. Even Steve couldn't get into too much trouble at the station, and maybe his subconscious would come up with the answer as to what was bothering him quicker if he was distracted by his work. But as he entered the building he found himself wishing that he had at least worded his warning more forcefully.