Grace Swinton followed closely behind, her eyes wide with shock. Gary Wohnt tried to detain her, but she pushed him away, yelling meaningless, angry words. He calmed her down, restraining her by holding her upper arms and speaking to her calmly. I was close enough to hear him tell her he’d drive her to the hospital, and her wailing in pain. She was acting a lot like a woman who was seeing a loved one carted away in an ambulance.
The realization set me on my heels. Swinton was in love with Swydecker. I tried to fit that epiphany into the puzzle of Webber’s murder but didn’t know where it belonged. Was she Swydecker’s alibi, the woman he’d rather go to jail for than reveal as his lover? The only thing certain was that being involved with her boss’ opponent must have caused her a great deal of stress. Enough stress to kill, though?
Bernard showed up on our heels, having left the gimpy Mrs. Berns on the street out front of Stella’s. After some begging, I convinced Johnny that it was absolutely necessary to go back and drive Mrs. Berns home because she shouldn’t be so active this soon after her accident. Bernard insisted on staying to dig around for a story, which struck me as incredibly tacky, but I wasn’t sure I was any better.
The ambulance pulled out, as did Wohnt with Swinton in his car. I didn’t recognize the police officer who had stayed behind to secure the scene, but he was determined that Bernard and I were not to interfere, were not even to have access to the second floor. Bernard listened before charging to the lobby to make a call on his cell phone, presumably to his editor. I did not listen, which is why when the officer strode to his car to retrieve his police tape, I was able to sprint to the second floor unnoticed.
Swydecker’s door was open and I darted in. I knew I had only a few seconds. A quick visual scan showed me the exact same room I’d been in during the interview except for a messy pile of paper pooling on the floor and an old-fashioned women’s handkerchief lying by the bed. I reached for it but heard footsteps coming up the stairs and only had time to make out two of the three letters monogrammed on the white cloth: a G and an S. Grace Swinton, the woman who hadn’t slept in her bed the night of Webber’s murder and who looked like her world had ended when Swydecker was whisked away by ambulance. I was now willing to bet my car that she was Swydecker’s alibi the night of the murder and he hers, but that neither one of them could risk their careers by coming forth.
Knowing I was on borrowed time, I flew out of the room, my heart thumping in my ears, and rushed to the far end of the second floor walkway a split second before the police officer came into view. If he glared at me, I didn’t see. I had my back to him, pretending to knock on Glokkmann’s door. I heard a rustle of tape being unwound and glanced to my right, just enough to see that the officer had strung “Do Not Cross” tape across the entrance to his half of the second story and was doing the same to Swydecker’s room.
Meanwhile, on the other side of Glokkmann’s door, a howling fight was underway. I heard the crash of glass, a loud thud, and then the most violent sound of all: quiet.