“Incredible,” I said.
“It seems that the coroner found the injection sight clean and straight, with no sign of a struggle. Wendell willingly let whoever did this give him the injection. I think that’s telling.”
“I think so, too.”
Because Tom wanted to hear my version of all that had happened, I went through the entire story once again, pausing only when Angelina came into the room with an armload of clothing. She put it on top of the dresser and then left, closing the door softly behind her.
“That’s about it,” I said, finishing my tale. “Now I’m stuck here until the police decide I can leave town.”
“What did you do with the J.O.S.H.U.A. money?”
“Still have it,” I said. “The check is in my briefcase.”
Tom told me to hang onto it for the time being, to wait and see whether they planned to proceed with the purchase of the building before we handed over the money.
“Sure.”
“I can’t imagine what could possibly have happened to lead to Wendell being murdered,” he said somberly. “If you had known him, Callie, you’d understand my shock. He was my mentor, my hero. I’d have bet the farm he didn’t have a single enemy in the whole world.”
“All it takes is one,” I replied softly, picturing the man’s lifeless form lying on the floor in front of me.
“You know, of course,” Tom continued, his voice suddenly resolute and business-like, “we’ll have to run our own concurrent investigation. I’m sure the Philadelphia police department is competent, but I want to take things a step further. No expense spared here, Callie. Wendell Smythe was my friend. If he was indeed murdered, I want you to find out who killed him and why.”
I had had a feeling this would be coming. My head throbbed as the image of my little canoe, my beautiful tributaries, receded further still from my mind.
“I don’t have any contacts,” I said halfheartedly. “The Philadelphia police aren’t exactly going to open their files to me. They’ll only think I’m in their way.”
“I’ll take care of that,” he replied, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. In other words, he knew someone who knew someone—and with probably one phone call the whole homicide department would be laid out at my feet. Tom’s world always seemed to work that way.
“I’m not licensed in Pennsylvania, Tom.”
“Already looked into that. Takes at least 30 days to get a license there, so you’ll have to work under someone else’s. I’ve already contacted an old friend of mine, Duane Perskie of the Perskie Detective Agency. He says it’s just a formality, that as long as you keep him posted, you can work on your own. You know the drill, Callie; we’ve done it plenty of times before.”
“But not in a criminal case, Tom. I haven’t done any criminal investigating in a long, long time.”
Tom knew that I had begun working for a private detective when I was in high school. I loved that job, and I had stayed with it through college and law school. I still kept my PI license current. But the day I passed the bar was the day I unofficially “resigned” as that type of private investigator. The next morning, I had traded in my Nike sneakers for a pair of Dolce & Gabbana pumps and headed for my new position with a law firm. My career had taken a few twists and turns in the eight years since then, but I still had no desire to go back to the gritty, full-time PI world of liars and murderers, coroner’s reports and crime scene photos.