Gage’s cell phone rang as he walked into Skeeter’s office to pick up his associates’ research on Brandon Meyer’s cases.
“I didn’t do it,” the caller said. “I’ll take a polygraph.”
Gage mouthed the name Porzolkiewski to Skeeter sitting at his conference table going over the reports.
“Didn’t do what?”
“Karopian.”
“Did what to Karopian?”
“I don’t know.” Porzolkiewski’s voice rose in exasperation and panic. “I told you I didn’t do it.”
“Back up.”
Gage heard Porzolkiewski take in a breath.
“The widow of one of the other men killed in the explosion called. She lives in out in the Delta. It was in the local paper. Karopian’s wife found him dead late last night. Lying on his dock.”
“Did the article say what happened?”
“No. They’re doing an autopsy. But they’re guessing it was a heart attack brought on by heat stroke. Out in the sun too long.”
“But you’re thinking he must’ve been murdered,” Gage said, “because you felt like murdering him yourself.”
“Not just me. There are three widows and their kids who have just as good a motive as me.”
“Where were you yesterday evening?”
“Home. I got back at about six o’clock.”
“Back from where?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“The Delta. Near Big Break. She called me last week and asked me to help her pick out some shrubs at a nursery.”
“Isn’t that something she could’ve done herself?”
“Well, we sort of… kind of… made friends over the years.”
“What time did Karopian’s wife find the body?”
“The newspaper said ten o’clock. She last saw him during the morning. She spent the afternoon at one of the spas in Calistoga with her girlfriends. They had dinner in Napa.”
Gage glanced at Skeeter’s wall calendar.
“I’ll check into it,” Gage said. “Fax or e-mail me a chronology of where you were every minute during those hours. And give me a call if the police pay you a visit.”
Porzolkiewski sighed. “You’ll be the first.”
Skeeter grinned after Gage filled him in, and said, “Maybe you scared the asshole to death.”
Gage didn’t smile back.