He had no intention of going and had almost convinced himself that he felt nothing about the situation. But he couldn’t stop the coil of anger twisting through him at the thought of so many people gathering to pay their respects to a man who couldn’t deserve it less. The community would mourn and reflect on the wonderful man they thought Roger Wilde was—the same man who fed people drugs before luring them into orgies that frequently crossed the line into outright violence. Men, women, even his own son; Roger hadn’t cared who attended so long as he found it entertaining.
Nausea curled in his stomach as the memories peeked through the thick wall he’d constructed to keep them at bay.He’d been thirteen the first time his father drugged him and brought him to a party. Monk didn’t remember everything from that night, but he remembered enough. He remembered his father encouraging a woman three times Monk’s age to play with him. He remembered his father watching, laughing, as she coaxed him into a state that allowed her to do things that should never be done to a child or anyone unable to consent. And he remembered the shame. The shame of waking up and knowing his body had betrayed him. He hadn’t wanted what had happened to him. And yet, young and drugged, his body had succumbed.
That had been the first time.
Beside him, his phone rang, jarring him from his dark journey down memory lane. Glancing at the number, he connected the call.
“Leo,” he said.
“Monk. I did some digging. I don’t have answers yet, but I have a few interesting bits of information.”
Between taking down the lunch buffet and preparing for the dinner reception, he’d called the cyber expert and asked him to look into both Flannery and Weber.
“On?”
“Flannery’s death. It appears to be from self-inflicted knife wounds.”
“I’m assuming since you used the word ‘appears’ and two detectives were here yesterday, there’s some question.”
“You would be right. The cleaner had been in that day. She left at two, stating that Flannery was usually home by three and he preferred she be out of the house by then. According to the file, he left work at the usual time, stopped by the grocery store where he purchased two steaks and a quart of premade broccoli salad?—”
“Weird thing to buy if you’re planning to kill yourself.”
“Agreed. Based on the timelines, the police believe he arrived home around fifteen minutes before four. The time of death isn’t between four and ten, but between four and seven, although I’d say closer to four than seven.”
“Why?”
“Nothing in the house was disturbed other than the room where they found him. He parked in the garage as usual, took his shoes off in the mudroom, and put the steaks and salad in the fridge.”
“Then?”
“Then comes my hypothesis.”
“Which is likely to be closer to the truth than the police’s.”
“I appreciate that,” Leo said. “What I think happened is that someone came to the front door. His work bag was left on the floor in the kitchen, and his footprints—in socks, not shoes—were found on the newly vacuumed carpet in the living room, the room he’d show a guest into.”
“He was found in the living room?”
“He was. The shutters were closed, so no witnesses from outside, but that’s where it happened. The pictures aren’t pretty. Arterial spray is nothing to scoff at.”
Monk knew that all too well.
“They found him, in his work clothes, with his throat cut, and the police are still considering a suicide?”
“To be fair, I think it’s the chief, more than the detectives. Napa isn’t an area with a high murder rate, and I’m guessing she’d like to keep it that way.”
“But the detectives are still investigating.”
“Aside from the anomalies you summarized, there’s one more.” Leo paused.
“You’re being dramatic. Sabina is rubbing off on you.” Sabina was Leo’s boss, and she had a thing for the dramatic pause.Monk was sure she read too much Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes.
A chuckle rumbled over the line. “Sorry. In addition to the anomalies you noted, they found another footprint.”
“On the newly vacuumed rug?”
“Exactly. A shoe. Men’s size eleven dress shoe.”
