Free The Art of Detection by Laurie R. King Page B

expressed uncertainty. “He could have been, or he might have been asexual, as Holmes himself appears to have been. I just couldn’t say.”
    “Well, maybe we could just get the names of the dinner club members, then.”
    “Sure, I’ll send them along with the names of his family. Although he may have a file for them on his computer. Want me to look?”
    “We’ll do that, Mr. Rutland. I may phone you to confirm that we’ve got them all.”
    “Sure. I’d start with Ian Nicholson, if I were you. He’s probably the member Philip was closest to—although, come to think of it, Ian’s out of town for a few days. He’s sure to be back by Wednesday, that’s our monthly dinner night. Unless we cancel it because of…Well, I’ll have to consult the others about that.”
    “Now, just to check, Mr. Rutland: You live and work in Berkeley, is that right?”
    “My office is actually just inside the border of Oakland, but yes.”
    “But you come to San Francisco regularly.” Kate waited until he had said yes, then asked, “And you know the Marin headlands.”
    “Only to walk around. It’s a great place to take out-of-town visitors, to get a perspective on San Francisco. Blows them away.”
    He answered without hesitation, and with no apparent awareness of having made an admission. However, people who left bodies invariably chose a place within their comfort zone, generally fifteen or twenty miles from where they felt at home. The problem here was, the Marin headlands were fifteen or twenty miles from half the population of northern California.
    There was not much more they could ask the lawyer just then, and little point in detailed inquiries as to his alibi without a closer idea of when Gilbert had died. They did ask, and he told them, that he had last spoken to his client on the morning of Friday, January 23, before leaving at 3:30 for a weekend with golfing friends in Palm Springs. (Palm Springs, Kate noted; not Mexico.) They thanked him for his assistance, gave him their cards with e-mail addresses for the information he’d promised, and Kate saw him to the door.
    They finished a cursory search of Gilbert’s desk, noting his various numbers—phone, credit card, bank account—for the warrants they would need and to request that the banks be on the lookout for any uses, then packed up the records for Lo-Tec to take away with him.
    In another room, a little tune played, a tune Kate had heard before. She was not surprised when Lo-Tec appeared in the doorway.
    “I checked out the car, no signs of disturbance, I don’t think we need to take it in. Are we about finished here?”
    “Yeah, I think so. That was your phone I heard—you got another call?”
    “Break-in, practically around the corner. It can wait if you need us.”
    “No, I’m just boxing these files for you.”
    “What about the hard drive? You want me to take that?”
    “We found the guy in his pajamas, it’s far more likely to be sex than his business records. Let’s leave it for the time being.”
    “Okay.”
    They carried their collection of evidence out to the van. Kate closed up the safe, logged everyone out, set the door alarm, turned the deadbolt lock on the front door, and posted seals across the front and back doors. Williams drove her home, turned down her offer of something to drink, and said he’d phone her the next day.
    Kate left a text message for the lieutenant, to follow up on his conversation with Hawkin that afternoon.
    Even so, she was still in good time to read Nora to sleep.
    But at five minutes past ten o’clock, as Kate was thinking of heading for an early bed herself, her cell phone rang. It was Thomas Rutland.
    “I’m sorry to call you so late,” the lawyer said, “but I just realized, I think there was something missing from Philip’s study. Did you happen to notice a statue of the Maltese Falcon—like in the movie, shiny black thing about ten inches tall—on the shelf beside the door?”
    Kate admitted that