Free Rules of Vengeance by Christopher Reich

But no one—not she, nor Reg Cleak, nor any of the doormen who had worked the day before—had seen any unknown persons enter the building, or
—and this was the crucial point
—walk through the front door of Russell’s residence on the fifth floor. Eight hours and not a single clue.
    At four the coroner had phoned with news confirming that Russell’s skull had been fractured before his fall. It was his opinion that the weapon was a blunt instrument, something akin to a ballpeen hammer. And though he couldn’t say whether or not the blow had killed Russell, he was able to state with certainty that the blow had rendered him unconscious. The news confirmed her suspicion that Russell was already dead, or at the least incapacitated, when he’d fallen from his balcony, and had bolstered her belief that the assailant had been waiting for Russell upon his return. The question remained: how in God’s name had he gotten in?
    Reaching the second floor, Kate advanced down a gloomy hallway. The first door on the right stood ajar. Inside a cramped, sun-filled office, a burly young man in rugby kit was bent over a desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. Kate poked her head in. “Is this Professor Dodd’s office?”
    “It is,” answered the student without looking up.
    “Is he about?” Kate asked.
    “He is indeed.” The young man put down his papers and stood up. He was taller than she’d expected, at least six feet four inches, and handsome. His cheeks were flushed, his brow damp with sweat below a head of tousled brown hair. But it was his legs she couldn’t help but notice. His thighs were as stout as tree trunks and striated with muscle.
    “Where?”
    “You’re looking at him.” Dodd nodded, stretching a hand to shake as he came closer. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m used to it. I’ll be forty next week. I’m praying for my first gray hair.”
    “Lucky you,” said Kate. “I’ve been plucking mine since I was thirty. Detective Chief Inspector Ford.”
    “I figured as much.” Dodd moved his rugby ball off a chair and motioned for Kate to sit. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, beer, diet soda?”
    “Water would be fine.”
    Dodd picked up a cell phone and called the scout with his order. “Sorry about the getup,” he said afterward. “Coming from a practice. Season’s almost here. I’m only a coach, but I like to stay in shape.” He took up position, leaning against his desk. “Anyway, let’s talk about Robert.”
    “You knew him well?”
    “I was his tutor,” said Dodd. “I supervised his doctoral work. We met twice a week for three years. We kept up contact since. I’d say I knew him well enough to know he’d never commit suicide. I take it you’re not convinced either.”
    Just then Tom Tower stroked the hour of six. Dodd’s eyes shot to the window, and the two of them sat waiting for Great Tom to stop tolling. As the last bell died, he turned his gaze to her.
    “No, Professor Dodd,” said Kate. “We’re not.”
    “Call me Tony. How can I help?”
    “I’m interested in learning a bit about Lord Russell.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    “Everything,” said Kate. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
    Dodd granted her permission with the wave of his hand. Kate pulled her notepad and pen out of her jacket. She did not carry a purse. Purses were for girly girls, and she’d never been one of those. Everything she needed—her badge and identification, her phone, her wallet, and her gun—she carried on her person.
    “Robbie came up in ’96,” Dodd began. “He was an Old Etonian. But he was different. Humble, not arrogant. He was smart enough to know he didn’t know everything. You don’t see that often, not from that kind of family. The Russells go all the way back to the Domesday Book. They fought with William the Conqueror at Hastings. But Robbie didn’t care about that. He was of the here and now. He put his nose to the grindstone from day one. He had a