Free Murder Mile High by Lora Roberts Page A

Naylor to verify these names.”
    "That’s because he’s dead,” the woman in personnel said triumphantly. “Gladys just told me that the police were here this morning, trying to find out where he’s been working since he left.”
    “Goodness, I’d better get in touch with them. And I guess I won’t need to check references after all. The police have probably already talked to this Kyle person.”
    “I don’t know if they have.” She sounded thoughtful now. “He’s volunteering on a dig in the Four Corners area—he likes that archaeology stuff.”
    "Thanks for your help.” I hung up quickly, before she could demand information from me. At least I had gotten Kyle’s last name—and I remembered Leonard Tobin, too. I’d met him at one of those functions, and then Tony had railed loudly about him more than once, about Leonard taking his credit and obstructing his advancement. I hadn’t paid much attention—Tony suspected most people of those crimes. I didn’t think Tobin was that much older—certainly not retirement age. But perhaps, as senior broker, he’d made his pile and was ready to spend it.
    Back to the phone book again. This time I was lucky. Both Kyle and Leonard were listed, Kyle in the chic old section near downtown that Amy had referred to as LoDo, for Lower Denver, and Leonard in the Cherry Creek area. I wrote down their addresses and phone numbers and went back to the bus, where Barker munched dog food while I munched peanut butter and jelly, trying to figure out how I would talk to these people, and hoping that somehow what I heard could help me.
     

Chapter 9
     
    Since Kyle Baldridge was out of town, I decided to head for Cherry Creek to see if Leonard Tobin was at home. After my experience with Maud, I didn’t phone first. It’s too easy to hang up on someone.
    Leonard Tobin lived in one of those subdivisions with roads winding through landscaping that captures the dichotomy of Colorado—one house sprawls in a Southwestern jumble of cactus, sand, boulders; the next one is a mock Tudor enveloped in a lush cottage garden. Tobin’s was discreetly middle-of-the-road ranch style, with foundation shrubs and a brick path to the door. A FOR SALE sign swung in the front yard.
    I parked on the street. My bus was an anomaly among all the gleaming Cadillacs and sport utility vehicles that ornamented the driveways. There was no car in Tobin’s driveway; the garage was shut.
    The doorbell made a hollow sound inside the house. I was about to turn away when the door opened.
    “Yes?”
    I suddenly felt jittery—I hadn’t really thought he’d be home, framed the right approach.
    “Uh—Mr. Tobin?”
    “Yes?” He peered at me suspiciously. I recognized him when he moved into the sunlight: the thin face, the high-bridged nose. His hair was much sparser. “What do you want?”
    “I’m Liz Sullivan. Tony Naylor’s ex-wife.”
    His face changed; for one instant, fear lanced out. Then he looked down. “Sorry. I don’t know you.”
    The door began to close. “Wait. Mr. Tobin—I just want to ask you some questions. Tony’s dead. Did you know?”
    He froze, one hand on the doorknob. “Dead?” His other hand passed, trembling, over his mouth. “I—didn’t know.” He looked up again. “What do you want? Why have you come here?”
    “Some answers.” I could see I was losing him. “The police suspect me.”
    “And you want to throw suspicion on me?” His face tightened. I could see that the past decade had left a heavy mark on him. “Look, if I’d killed Tony, I would have done it awhile ago, when it would still have benefited me. But now—” he pointed at the sign on his front lawn—”now there’s no reason. I’ve already lost it all. My job. My wife. My home’s next to go.” He leaned toward me, his mouth twisted, and I smelled the whiskey on his breath. “He won, you see. He won over a year ago. Why would I wait so long to kill the bastard?”
    “I’m sorry.” I didn’t