Free Ties That Bind by Phillip Margolin Page B

ribbon that divided the valley, a tanker heading inland on the Columbia River to the Port of Portland.
    “Has anyone notified Harold’s wife?” Tim asked as soon as he was breathing normally.
    “She’s flying back from a medical convention in Seattle.”
    “This is fucking terrible,” said Kerrigan.
    McCarthy knew the DA did not expect a response.
    “Have we found the murder weapon?”
    “No, but I’m thinking a baseball bat or something like it.”
    “He looked like . . .” Kerrigan shook his head and didn’t finish the thought.
    “Dick called while you were driving over. He said you knew him.”
    “Yeah. I played golf with him this weekend.”
    “Can you think of anyone who’d hate him enough to do this?”
    “I didn’t know him that well. You should call Carl Rittenhouse. He’s his AA. He might be able to help.”
    “Do you have a number?”
    “No, but Judge Grant knows Rittenhouse. Hell, he knew Harold real well, too. Travis was his clerk during the summer before his last year of law school.”
    A man in a dark blue windbreaker walked up to McCarthy and Kerrigan and threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the front of the house.
    “We’ve got a visitor from an organization headquartered in Washington, D.C.,” said Alex DeVore, McCarthy’s partner.
    “I was wondering how long it would take for the G-men to put in an appearance. Is it anyone we know?”
    “His name is J. D. Hunter and I’ve never seen him before.”
    “Tim?” McCarthy asked.
    The prosecutor shook his head.
    “Let’s go meet our guest.”
    McCarthy led the way back to the entry hall where an athletically built man was studying the activity in the living room.
    “Agent Hunter?”
    The man turned. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on Hunter’s small, broad nose, and his skin was deep black. McCarthy introduced himself and the senior deputy DA.
    “You’re not local, are you?” Tim asked.
    “With the victim being a senator, Washington wanted an agent from headquarters on the case.” He shrugged. “Politics. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d fill me in.”
    “Sure,” McCarthy said, “but we don’t know very much yet. There’s a service that cleans the house. They were told to come out late afternoon. One of the women found the body around five and called 911.”
    “Is this where the senator lived?” Hunter asked.
    “No,” Tim answered. “He’s got a home in Dunthorpe.”
    “Then who owns this place?”
    “We’re not certain. A realty company deals with the cleaning service. They’re closed, so we won’t be able to find the name of the owner until the morning.”
    “Isn’t there anything in the house that would let you know?” Hunter persisted.
    McCarthy shook his head. “Forensics might give us a clue when they finish analyzing the prints, blood, etc. But the drawers in the bedroom are empty and there were no bills or notes on the kitchen bulletin board. We did find liquor and cocaine in a cabinet in the living room . . . .”
    “Cocaine!” Kerrigan said.
    “We dusted the baggie, so we’ll know who handled it pretty soon.”
    “I hope to God it wasn’t Harold,” Kerrigan murmured to himself.
    “Was there anything else?” Hunter asked.
    “Yeah. Travis’s body was found in the living room, but there’s a blood trail leading downstairs from the sleeping loft. We think the killer started on him up there and chased him downstairs. One of the techs found an earring under the bed. It’s a gold cross. Travis doesn’t wear an earring. We’re hoping that the killer does.”
    “That would be a break,” Hunter said.
    “The easier the better, I always say,” DeVore answered with a smile.
    “I’d like to take a look at the body, if that’s okay,” Hunter told McCarthy.
    “Sure thing.”
    As he watched the FBI agent cross the living room, Kerrigan realized that something beyond the obvious was bothering him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
    Cindy was waiting for Tim