All he needed was a minute inside. No detailed search, just a quick check, for a dead body or signs of a struggle, and Goddard would be out of there. He walked through the kitchen and dining area to the sparsely furnished living room at the front. The place was standard bachelor-mess. Two old pump shotguns were resting in the corner of a hall closet. He held them up and smelled them. He didn't know why, habit he guessed. The murder weapon was a .38 revolver, not a shotgun. Neither had been fired recently. Another door off the hall opened to a small bedroom jammed with boxes, tools, hoses and containers smelling of chemicals.
He found something interesting in the other bedroom. On the computer desk was a large framed photograph of a naked woman. Beautiful with full breasts, sitting upright and posed with her hands resting on her spread knees. Looped over one corner of the picture frame was a real blue bra. Matching panties were hooked on the other side. They didn't look new.
Goddard started to walk away when he realized something about the photo. He leaned closer. He recognized the woman. At least he recognized her face. It was Tammy Jerrold.
He studied the photo for signs of a paste-up. It was seamless. Indeed, it seemed to be Tammy posed there. Probably digitized software was used to put her head on someone's body. Goddard's concern was Barner possibly lying dead in the place.
On his way out through the kitchen, he paused at the refrigerator; covered with cards, notes and an interesting newspaper clipping. The old clipping from the society page showed Senator Towson in his tuxedo standing with a group of people and Tammy Jerrold at his side. The image of Towson was crossed out with a red felt-tip. Interesting. But there was no dead body in that house.
Driving back downtown, he was waiting at a traffic light when a lipstick-red Miata dashed across the intersection directly in front of him. He had noticed the little convertible with the top down and bearing Pennsylvania plates earlier that day and had followed it for a while, watching the driver's short brown hair scattering about in the wind. He knew who was driving. He turned and followed.
Sandy Reid pulled into a space in front of the real estate office. The dark gray Impala she had noticed following her pulled across behind her, blocking her. Easy to spot a cop even in an unmarked car, she thought, they always sit up so straight.
She watched him walk up to the side of her convertible and open his jacket slightly to show the badge clipped on his belt. Hot looking cop, she decided. Get him a decent sports jacket, and he could model for GQ. She looked up at him. "You don't want to look in my trunk, do you?" He didn't look amused.