my RP?” Petrie asked.
What does that mean? Ruhl asked himself.
Oh, yeah …
It meant, “Who reported the crime?”
The dispatcher replied, “A BAU agent called it in from Phoenix, Arizona. I know how strange that sounds, but …”
The dispatcher fell silent.
Petrie said, “Code Three response?”
Ruhl knew that Petrie was asking whether to use flashing lights and a siren.
The dispatcher asked, “How close are you to the location?”
“Less than a minute,” Petrie said.
“Better keep quiet then. This whole thing is …”
Her voice faded away again. Ruhl guessed she was concerned that they not draw too much attention to themselves. Whatever was really going on in this luxurious and privileged neighborhood, it was surely best to keep the media out of the loop for as long as they could.
Finally the dispatcher said, “Look, just check it out, OK?”
“Copy,” Petrie said. “We’re on our way.”
Petrie pushed the accelerator and they sped along the quiet street.
Ruhl stared in astonishment as they approached the Farrell mansion. This was the closest he’d ever been to it. The house sprawled in all directions, and it looked to him more like a country club than anybody’s home. The exterior was carefully lit—for protection, no doubt, but also probably to show off its arches and columns and great windows.
Petrie parked the car in the circular drive and stopped the engine. He and Ruhl got out and strode up to the huge front entrance. Petrie rang the doorbell.
After a few moments, a tall, lean man opened the door. Ruhl guessed from his fancy tuxedo-like outfit and his stern, officious expression that he was the family butler.
He looked surprised to see the two police officers—and not at all pleased.
“May I ask what this is all about?” he asked.
The butler didn’t seem to have any idea that there might be trouble inside that mansion.
Petrie glanced at Ruhl, who sensed what his mentor was thinking …
Just a false alarm.
Probably a prank call.
Petrie said to the butler, “Could we speak with Mr. Farrell, please?”
The butler smiled in a supercilious manner.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he said. “The master is fast asleep, and I have very strict orders—”
Petrie interrupted, “We have reason to be worried about his safety.”
The butler’s eyebrows rose.
“Really?” he said. “I’ll look in on him, if you insist. I’ll try not to waken him. I assure you, he would complain quite vociferously.”
Petrie didn’t ask permission for him and Ruhl to follow the butler into the house. The place was vast inside, with rows of marble columns that eventually led to a red-carpeted staircase with curved, fancy banisters. Ruhl found it harder and harder to believe that anybody could actually live here. It seemed more like a movie set.
Ruhl and Petrie followed the butler on up the stairs and through a wide hallway to a pair of double doors.
“The master suite,” the butler said. “Wait right here for a moment.”
The butler passed on through the doors.
Then they heard him let out a yelp of horror inside.
Ruhl and Petrie rushed through the doors into a sitting room, and from there into an enormous bedroom.
The butler had already switched on the lights. Ruhl’s eyes almost hurt for a moment from the brightness of the enormous room. Then his eyes fell upon a canopied bed. Like everything else in the house, it too was huge, like something out of a movie. But as big as it was, it was dwarfed by the sheer size of the rest of the room.
Everything in the master bedroom was gold and white—except for the blood all over the bed.
CHAPTER THREE
The butler was slumped against the wall, staring with a glazed expression. Ruhl himself felt as though the wind had been knocked out of his lungs.
There the man was, lying on the bed—the rich and famous Andrew Farrell, dead and extremely bloody. Ruhl recognized him from seeing him on TV many times.
Ruhl had never seen a murdered corpse before. He’d never expected the sight to seem so weird and unreal.
What made the scene especially bizarre was the woman sitting in an ornate upholstered chair right next to the bed. Ruhl recognized her, too. She was Morgan Farrell—formerly Morgan Chartier, a now-retired famous model. The dead man had turned their marriage into a media event, and he liked to parade her around in public.
She was wearing a flimsy, expensive-looking gown that was streaked with blood. She sat there unmoving, holding a large carving knife. Its blade was bloody, and so was her hand.
“Shit,” murmured Petrie in a stunned voice.
Then Petrie spoke into his microphone.
“Dispatch, this is four-Frank-thirteen calling from the Farrell house. We’ve got a one-eighty-seven here for real. Send three units, including a homicide unit. Also contact the medical examiner. Better tell Chief Stiles to get over here as well.”
Petrie listened to the dispatcher on his earpiece, then seemed to think for a moment.
“No, don’t make this a Code Three. We need to keep this as quiet as we can for as long as we can.”
During this exchange, Ruhl couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. He’d thought she was beautiful when he’d seen her on TV. Weirdly enough, she seemed just as beautiful to him even now. Even holding a bloody knife in her hand, she looked as delicate and fragile as a china figurine.
She was also as still as if she were made of china—as motionless as the corpse, and apparently unaware that anyone had entered the room. Even her eyes didn’t move as she kept staring at the knife in her hand.
As Ruhl followed Petrie toward the woman, it occurred to him that the scene no longer reminded him of a movie set.
It’s more like an exhibit in a wax museum, he thought.
Petrie gently touched the woman on the shoulder and said, “Mrs. Farrell …”
The woman didn’t seem the least bit startled as she looked up at him.
She smiled and said, “Oh, hello, Officer. I wondered when the police were going to get here.”
Petrie put on a pair of plastic gloves. Ruhl didn’t need to be told to do the same. Then Petrie delicately took the knife out of the woman’s hand and handed it to Ruhl, who carefully bagged the weapon.
As they were doing this, Petrie said to the woman, “Please tell me what happened here.”
The woman let out a rather musical chuckle.
“Well, that’s a silly question. I killed Andrew. Isn’t that obvious?”
Petrie turned to look at Ruhl, as if to ask …
Is it obvious?
On one hand, there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for this bizarre scene. On the other hand …
She looks so weak and helpless, Ruhl thought.
He couldn’t begin to imagine her doing such a thing.
Petrie said to Ruhl, “Go talk to the butler. Find out what he knows.”
While Petrie examined the body, Ruhl went over to the butler, who was still crouched against the wall.
Ruhl