Watchdog by Laurien Berenson

his chest, which identified him as Officer Pickering. I tried looking around him.
    â€œIs my brother in here?”
    â€œMel!” Frank hurried over. “It’s all right. I asked her to come.”
    â€œIt’s not all right,” Pickering said firmly. “This is a crime scene, and nobody’s coming in until the detective gets here.”
    â€œCome on.” I took Frank’s arm. “Let’s go outside. We can wait on the porch.”
    Pickering nodded and stepped aside, and I saw what he’d been guarding. I wish I hadn’t looked. But once I did, I couldn’t seem to do anything but stare.
    Marcus Rattigan’s crumpled body was lying on the wooden floor. There was a pool of blood beneath him, and more splattered like red slash marks over the worn floorboards around him. A wooden framework of some sort lay half on top of him, and the back of his suit jacket had been pierced by a large, jagged piece of glass. There was more glass, sharp shards of it, everywhere.
    It took me a moment to realize what the frame was. When I did, I looked up. The skylight that should have been in the roof, wasn’t.
    â€œI think I’m going to throw up,” I said.
    Frank grabbed my shoulder and turned me away. Pickering pushed us both out the door before I could pollute his crime scene. The cool air felt good on my heated cheeks. I dragged in one deep breath, then another, and began to feel a little better.
    â€œYou okay?” asked Frank.
    â€œI think so.” The urge to retch was passing. I staggered over to the porch railing and sat, half slumped, on the narrow perch. “Frank, what happened?”
    â€œHow should I know? I got here this morning and there he was.”
    â€œWere you the first?”
    Frank nodded. “The crew usually rolls in around nine-thirty. After I spoke with you, I called Avril, gave him the day off, and told him to spread the word. I didn’t say anything about Marcus, I just told him not to bother coming in.”
    â€œDidn’t he ask why?”
    â€œMaybe. Who knows? To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what I said. I just wanted the police to hurry up and get here.”
    I could certainly understand that. “What about Rattigan? Did you talk to him yesterday afternoon like you said you were going to?”
    â€œNo, I couldn’t get hold of him.”
    Frank was squirming. It wasn’t a good sign. More likely he hadn’t tried to get hold of Rattigan.
    â€œYou talked to his secretary?”
    He half shrugged. It wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but before I could press him on it, two more cars pulled up in front of the building. Both were late models, dark colored, and American made. The two men who’d arrived greeted each other briefly, then walked past us and went inside.
    â€œThe troops have begun to arrive,” said Frank. “I wonder what happens now.”
    After a few minutes, the door opened again and one of the new arrivals came out to talk to us. He was a tall, spare black man with a solemn expression and a deliberate stride. His dark brown eyes examined the two of us thoroughly before coming to rest on Frank.
    â€œDetective James Petrie,” he said. “I understand you were the one who found the body?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    I glanced at my brother. He sounded nervous, and was threading his fingers together as if he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. Even to me, he looked as though he had something to hide.
    â€œWhat time was that?”
    Frank looked at his watch. “About half an hour ago?”
    â€œYou called me at eight-thirty-five,” I said.
    â€œYou’re his sister?” Petrie asked, and I nodded.
    â€œName?”
    â€œMelanie Travis.”
    â€œMind telling me why you’re so sure of the time?”
    â€œMy son’s school bus comes at eight-thirty two, and if he misses it, it’s a hassle so