“That’s who found Ormiston’s body,” Jones said, her gaze following his. “Her name’s Taylor. Nicole Taylor.”
“Yeah.” He remet the officer’s gaze. Jones had done things by the book—she’d checked the scene, secured it, then put the person who discovered the body in her scout car while she advised dispatch to contact Homicide.
He also had procedure to follow, Jake reminded himself when he again felt the pull to walk over and open the car’s back door. Right now, it was his job to find out what Nicole had already told the officer on the scene.
He nodded in the direction of a sleek red Jaguar parked in the circular drive. “Is that Miss Taylor’s?”
“Yes. The registration checks to her.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That Ormiston is a widower and a client of the dating service she owns.” As she spoke, Jones pulled a business card off her clipboard and handed it to Jake. He glanced down, saw it was identical to the card Nicole had tried to slide into his pocket while they danced. The remembered feel of her warm flesh beneath his palm rose in his brain like a seductive phantom.
“Can you imagine a man with Ormiston’s money needing to hire somebody to find him a date?” Jones asked.
Frowning, Jake jabbed the card into his shirt pocket while picturing again the way Nicole had worked the crowd at the wedding. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out that some of the men who signed with her company hoped to get a date with her.
“What does she say about her relationship with Ormiston?”
“She claims their association was purely business.”
When Jake realized he felt stupidly pleased, he scowled. Any other woman, he thought, shoving his fingers through his hair. Why the hell couldn’t it have been anyone else on earth sitting in the back of that scout car instead of the woman who’d crowded his thoughts for days? And nights. At this point, the best he could hope for was that Phillip Ormiston had dropped dead from a nice, tidy aneurism.
“What reason did Miss Taylor give for being here?” he asked.
“She said Ormiston didn’t phone her with a report on the last date he’d had through her service. That’s apparently a standard thing for clients to do. He also hadn’t shown up tonight at the gym for his scheduled racquetball game. When he didn’t answer his phone, Taylor says she got worried and decided to stop on her way home to check on him. She referred to it as an extension of the customer service she offers her clients.”
Jake looped his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “How did she get in the house?”
“She said she didn’t realize the front door was only partially closed until she knocked. When she did, it swung open. She walked in, saw Ormiston lying on the far side of the entry.” Jones paused. “She touched the body.”
Jake expelled a muffled curse. “Why?”
“She said she thought he’d maybe fallen and hit his head, that he was unconscious.” Jones glanced toward the house. “The way he’s lying there, I can see how she’d think that.”
“If Ormiston was dead, he couldn’t have buzzed her through the security gate. Did she say how she got in?”
“No. If you need me to, I can check with the guard to see if he let her in. And if so, why he did without authorization from the person she was visiting.”
“Do that. Also find out if Ormiston had any other visitors tonight. Any idea who the victim’s next of kin is?”
“Ormiston’s a widower, with one son who lives a couple of miles from here. The neighbor I talked to is getting his address so we can make the death notification.” Jones angled her chin. “You want me to do that, or will you?”
“I’ll do it after I’m through here.” Jake looked back at the scout car. Nicole’s gaze had not moved from the house’s front door; her fingers were still threaded through the security screen. His stomach tightened. Dammit, she wasn’t under arrest, he knew that. She wasn’t a suspect. She was a witness, waiting to be interviewed. Maybe, he thought ruthlessly, his reaction to seeing her caged was because it hadn’t been that long since he’d been locked in a cell, charged with eight counts of murder.
“I need to have a look at the body,” he grated. Turning, he stalked across the pristine lawn toward the house while Jones took two strides to his one to keep up. “While I’m inside, Jones, I want you to do something.”
“What’s that, Sergeant?”
Jake paused at the brick steps that led up to a porch lined by tall, fluted columns. “Move Miss Taylor to my cruiser.”
“To your cruiser?”
He wanted Nicole out of that cage; he wasn’t going to waste breath trying to explain why when he didn’t understand it himself. “That’s right, Jones, to my cruiser. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure thing, Sergeant.”
“Tell her I’ll talk to her as soon as I get done inside.”
Jake took the steps two at a time. As he strode across the porch, he toyed with the seeds of suspicion that, when it came to Nicole Taylor, he was destined to act like an idiot.
When he walked through the wide front door, he saw the usual contingent of forensic people milling in the foyer. Opposite the door, a curving staircase of gleaming oak swept up to the second floor. The sight of Phillip Ormiston’s body lying facedown at the base of the staircase centered Jake’s thoughts on business.
He recognized the man crouched beside the body as Zack Upchurch, the M.E.’s assistant.
“Evening, Zack. What can you tell me?”
“Evening, Sarge.” The man used his tongue to nudge a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Not a whole lot at this point.”
Jake nodded. No matter what time of the day or night he ran into Upchurch, the man’s brown hair was always standing in spikes, as if he’d come to whatever scene he’d been called to directly from bed.
“Any idea of time of death?” Jake persisted.
“Twelve hours, give or take.” The surgeon’s gloves Up-church wore gave his hands a grayish hue that matched the dead man’s face. “Have to wait until we get him on the table to give you a better idea.”
A flash of light to his left had Jake turning his head. Beyond an arched doorway, a lab tech wearing a blue jumpsuit snapped pictures in a living room with paneled walls, acres of matching upholstered furniture and a shiny hardwood floor.
Detective Wes Gianos, a tall, swarthy man, stood near the room’s green marble fireplace, talking into a cell phone. When he saw Jake, he raised a hand.
“Ford just got here,” Gianos said into the phone as he walked across the expansive tapestry rug toward the entryway. “Smith and I will head there in a few minutes.”
“Got another call?” Jake asked as Gianos clicked off his phone and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat.
“This one’s on the east side. Got two DRTs,” he said, using cop shorthand for victims who were dead right there. “One shot, one stabbed. Sounds like the Gun and Knife Club is hard at work.” Gianos nodded toward the staircase. “Meet Phillip Ormiston. Did the uniform outside bring you up to speed?”
“Yes. Any sign of a struggle in the house?”
“No. Smith and I also checked for signs of forced entry on the doors and windows. Didn’t find anything.”
“Any drugs around?”
“Negative.”
Jake stepped forward. Leaning in, he examined the