Rourke was close behind him when he knocked on the closed door leading into the bedroom. There was no answer. Shayne turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly.
Sara Morton lay at the foot of a twin bed that had a rumpled spread and knotted pillow. There was an ugly gash in her throat and blood stained the rich carpeting around a shaggy, soaked white rug under her head and shoulders.
Shayne’s first reaction was, oddly, one of numbing disappointment, for now he would never really know what sort of a person Sara Morton had been.
Chapter Two
Advice for a ReformerShayne and Rourke stood very still, side by side, blocking the doorway. They heard Beatrice Lally’s whisper from the other door, tense and breathless.
“Is-she isn’t there, is she?”
Shayne’s elbow jabbed Rourke’s fleshless ribs before he started backing out. Rourke turned, half bent, with both hands pressed against his side, and followed him out.
Shayne was saying rapidly, “Take Miss Lally to her room, Tim. We’re going to have to work this fast and make no mistakes. Give her the lowdown when you get her to her room, and for God’s sake keep things quiet. I’ll be along in three minutes.”
Without a word, Rourke took the girl’s arm and led her out. Shayne watched them go, knowing he needed no reply from the reporter who had worked with him for years and who had not fully recovered from a bullet wound he received some three years ago.
Shayne bolted the door on the inside and went back to the death room, stood to the right of the body where less blood had seeped onto the carpet from the shaggy rug, and looked at her for a long moment.