Chapter 3
Burke put on protective gloves and opened the mansion’s front door.
He had to ignore Abby as she watched him study the aged brass lock that appeared original to the house.
She was buzzing with energy as if she wanted to take over.
He couldn’t let her. Nor could he let her distract him during the investigation.
One false move, and Sheriff Ryder could change his mind about keeping Burke on as a detective.
Ignore her. You have to ignore her.
He tuned her out and intensified his focus. He saw no sign of gouging in the wood or slashes from a sharp object in the lock itself. “Looks like we’re clear here.”
She moved in closer. Of course she didn’t trust his assessment. He couldn’t fault her, though. He would’ve done the same thing.
Keeping the blueprint roll tucked under her arm, she ran a gloved finger over the lock and the strike plate before looking up. “Agreed. But the door was open when I arrived. It likely doesn’t latch properly, so someone could’ve entered without leaving any evidence behind.”
“I found it open too,” Burke said.
“And that was after I saw Victor shove it closed.”
“Means we can’t rule this door out as the point of entry, and we need forensics to dust for prints.” He thought about who they would get out here, and a heavy, sinking feeling filled his chest. “Our forensic team is tied up with a homicide, and I might have to call in the state.”
She rested her hands on her hips and tipped her head. “Can I suggest alternatives?”
“I’m listening.”
“My first thought is we bring in a forensic team from the Veritas Center in Portland.”
He tried to stop his mouth from falling open, but didn’t manage it. “You can’t be serious. No way we can afford to pay for a world-renowned forensic team.”
“They do work pro bono. I have contacts there and would be glad to ask.”
“Putting you in line to receive forensic results first.” He scowled. “My sheriff won’t go for that, and I won’t either.”
“They can sign a contract with your agency stipulating your department has exclusive rights to receive the results.”
“Okay,” he said, but something about it still didn’t sit well with him. “What’s your second option?”
“Not nearly on the same level as Veritas, but my friend at Blackwell Tactical was a skilled Portland forensic tech before she joined the team. As a bonus, she served as a patrol officer before moving to forensics, making her sensitive to investigative needs. She’s built a top-notch lab and would most certainly do it as a favor to me. ”
Right off the bat, the second option seemed better. He could control one person. Maybe. She was Abby’s friend after all, and her loyalty would go to Abby. Could be problematic.
“I’ll think about it.” He wasn’t ready to make a commitment about anything until he had a chance to consider the situation he found himself in. He didn’t want to drag his feet on this investigation, but he also didn’t want to make a major mistake.
A shadow of concern passed over her face as if she didn’t like his answer. Maybe she was worried he would choose a subpar forensic team. Not his plan at all. Part of the decision would come down to who could get to the scene quickest. The rest would depend on his sheriff’s preference.
She pulled the blueprints from under her arm and settled them on a round table coated in dust. If it wasn’t rude, he’d push her out of the way and take over the plans.
He might not be happy she was here, but it wasn’t in his nature to be rude to anyone.
So he came alongside her while she unrolled them on the table.
The mansion had three entrances in addition to the front door. Four possible places the intruder could’ve entered to steal the crown, not counting the windows.
“Why don’t we work our way down the right side around the perimeter and back?” he asked, instead of demanding. He’d done far too much of that already.
She rerolled the prints. “Follow me. I know the location of the first door.”
She took off at a rapid pace through the dingy, dismal foyer, and he stayed on her heels.
“Hold up.” He stopped near a wall, the upper half covered in old portraits. “Did you see the dust print from these missing paintings?”
Abby narrowed her eyes. “Victor never mentioned stolen art. Just the crown.”
Burke’s instincts buzzed—quietly, insistently. He jotted a note on a pad he took from his suit jacket. If the missing paintings had anything to do with the investigation, he would leave no stone unturned.
She continued to focus on the wall. “You don’t think he’s telling the whole truth.”
“No, I don’t.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “I think there are more secrets here than he’ll ever reveal to us, but are they related to the investigation?”
“Problem is, we have to rely on him to make that determination.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t bode well for us, does it?” She hurried ahead and rounded a corner, then slowed to make her way down a few stone stairs into what appeared to be the mansion’s original kitchen.
Burke took a long look. How could anyone prepare a meal in such a tiny space? Especially service for a large number of guests. If the original owner hosted dinner parties, the crown’s identity might’ve been discovered then. Or maybe he’d been a hermit like Victor.
“The door’s straight ahead,” she said, tucking the blueprints back under her arm. “I saw it when I arrived and came in looking for Victor. Turns out he was upstairs taking a nap.”
“Odd,” Burke said. “He’s a hermit who knew someone was coming to invade his sanctuary. How could he nap? He surely would’ve been upset about the theft of the crown at least.”
“We might have to accept that Victor is unpredictable.”
“Which could make this investigation even more difficult.” Burke tried not to sound discouraged, but he liked things more black and white than he was finding tonight.
Stopping in front of a door, she tugged on the handle. “Locked.”
She handed him the blueprints. “Hold these for a second, please.”
She pulled the key ring from her pocket, the metal clinking in the quiet stone hallway, and fumbled through them until she found one to fit the lock. “The blueprint makes this look like a passageway that doesn’t lead to the outside.” Pulling the door open, she stared ahead.
Eager to see where it led, he stepped past her to find additional stone stairs leading downward. He returned the blueprints to her and shone his flashlight at the lock. Zero evidence of tampering.
He looked around the space. “No sign of a break-in and no sign of lights, but I do see a few kerosene lamps and matches on the shelf. They’ll cover a wider area than our flashlight so I’ll light one for each of us.”
After stowing his flashlight in his pocket, he fired up the lamps, illuminating the area around him.
He handed one to her and took his down the stairway.
Six stone stairs in all, the temperature falling with each one until he reached an earthen floor, the dirt packed from many years of traffic.
A rank odor clung to the thick stone walls.
With her footsteps trailing him, he held his light out to lead them ten feet down the passageway. The narrow space opened to a wide room with a higher ceiling.
He looked ahead. Blinked. Blinked again.
Couldn’t be, could it?
Yeah, he was seeing clearly.
Two eight-by-ten prison-like cells with iron bars, heavy chains, and padlocks filled the room. Each cell held a wooden cot with a straw mattress, a chamber pot, and a small table.
“A dungeon?” Abby’s voice bounced off the stone walls. “Why would anyone build a dungeon in their home?”
“At the time this house was built, rural Oregon was pretty lawless,” he said as he came to grips with the sight in front of him. “Maybe the homeowner had to take the law into his own hands to protect his property.”
“Something to ask Victor about.” Frowning, she looked around, then bolted for the furthest cell and pointed inside. “Look at this. It isn’t from the 1800s.”
Inside the cell, something red on the cot caught his attention. He moved close enough to pick up an individual paper packet of Tylenol, the top torn and the package empty.
He turned it over. “Expiration date is less than two years from now. If I’m right, the manufacturer sets the dates two years from packaging.”
Her face brightened. “So this packet is current and should be processed for prints.”
“Maybe our first real lead.”
She lifted the mattress. “A penny. There’s a penny.”
He grabbed the coin and flipped it over with gloved fingers. “Stamped 1992. Another newer item.”
“Let’s keep going.” Her excited tone encouraged him. “See what else we find.”
He replaced both items so their forensic tech could photograph them in situ before trying to lift prints. The other cell held nothing of interest, so they continued ahead until they reached the broken window.
He stared at it. “If Victor isn’t telling the truth about this window, and it was used to get in, it’s suspiciously clean. Too clean. No shattered glass in here, almost as if someone staged it.”
“Inside job?” she asked.
“Could be the housekeeper or estate manager, but they really wouldn’t have to break a window, would they?”
“Not likely.” She started down another narrow passage.
Burke held his light out until they reached a door at the end of the corridor where they extinguished their lanterns and set them on the floor.
“This should lead to the outside.” She followed the same procedure as door number one, handing the plans back to him and finding the right key. She tugged the door open, then gave the lock and wood a careful study. “I don’t see any proof of forced entry here either.”
They exited the building, but he stopped to examine the lock. She was right. No sign anyone forced the door open. She made her way along an overgrown path leading from the building, but his light caught something near her feet.