Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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“You’re beautiful when you finally get the picture, Carson.”
“Nautilus, you asshole,” Linette brayed from behind us, “gimme back my fuckin’ flowers.”
It was eighty-eight degrees at 11:00 p.m. A wet haze smothered the stars and gauzed the moon. Two days had passed since Nelson’s murder, and the team Squill had assigned to the case hadn’t made any progress. I stood at water’s edge and cast the spinning rig, retrieved the lure slowly, cast again. I usually fish with a fly rod and know what I’m fishing for: specs, reds, pompano, Spanish mac. But now and then I use a spinning rig to dredge the night waters. Sometimes my line ties me to a shark. Or a big ray. Familiar species. But on rare occasions I’ve reeled in bizarre life-forms not mentioned in my books on Gulf fishing. I never know what trick of tide or current directs them to my line, but there they are, wriggling species from unknown depths, daring my touch. It’s strange, but without them I doubt I’d enjoy fishing as much.
It’s the soothing aspect of angling that often compels me to fish when troubled, and I had been upset since hearing Clair’s buzzsawing of Dr. Davanelle. I hadn’t meant to overhear, nor spy on Dr. Davanelle’s private horror, but it was acid-etched in my mind.
Of Dr. Davanelle’s choice for the pathologist position, I knew only the edges of the story: she was the second choice for the job, hired only after the horror of Dr. Caulfield’s injury. It took a tragedy for her to gain the position in Mobile, her first professional assignment. As Harry had reminded me during our session at Cake’s bar, I, too, had stumbled into my position through the misfortunes of others. I knew such a thing could feel like a form of dishonesty. It didn’t help that Dr. Davanelle worked with Clair—brilliant, renowned, sought at forensics symposia worldwide—a total perfectionist who demanded nothing less than the best from every staff member, every second.
I reeled in my line and set the rod in the spike. I sat in the sand with my arms wrapping my knees and stared across the rippling plain of water, liquid obsidian burnished by moonlight. After several minutes of reflection I scrabbled through the cooler bag where I’d tossed my cell phone at the last minute. Phone on ice; Freud would have enjoyed that.
Information provided Ava Davanelle’s number and I dialed. Her recorded voice was as cold as the device in my hand. She provided her number, referred to the beep, and was gone. I heard the tone, listened to the emptiness, clicked the call dead. Only then did it hit me—had she answered the phone, what would I have said?
“Hello, Dr. Davanelle, it’s Detective Ryder. I’m sorry for being a pain in the ass at the Nelson autopsy, I didn’t mean to add to your problems. What problems? I was, uh, skulking in Willet Lindy’s office yesterday when you came down the hall and watched as you…”
I sighed and unzipped the cooler bag, preparing to refrost the phone, when it started chirping.
It was Harry. “Got a call from the ME’s man on the scene,” he said. “We got us another headless horseman at Eight thirty-seven Caleria. Saddle up and ride, Ichabod. I’ll meet you in Sleepy Hollow.”
The scene was a large Italianate-style home near the southern outskirts of downtown, a neighborhood of stately historic homes intermingled with apartments. Insects burred from the hovering pines and wide-spread oaks. Several patrol cars fronted the scene, as did the crime-scene van and an ambulance. A news van did a U and pulled to the curb. Neighbors with somber faces milled on the sidewalk. Traffic thickened, drivers drawn like moths to the flashing lights and activity. A patrolman in the street waved his arms and bawled, “Move on, folks, move on.” I saw Harry and pulled up on the curb behind him.
“Weasels ’R’ Us around?” I asked.
Harry shook his head. “Squill’s been at his brother’s condo in Pensacola. On his way.”
Pensacola was at least ninety minutes away. Given time elapsed, we had maybe a half hour without him.
“Let’s hit it while we can, bro,” I said. We walked onto a large front porch. Leaning against a white column was Detective Sergeant Warren Blasingame from District Three, who—since we were in D-3—had initial jurisdiction. Blasingame was sucking a cigarette and staring at the treetops.
“What’s happening inside, Warren?” Harry asked.
Blasingame drew a finger across his Adam’s apple. “That’s all I know.”
“You haven’t been inside?”
“Just ME folk, scene techs, and Hargreaves. She took the call,” Blasingame drawled, spitting onto the lawn. “My guys ain’t supposed to go in till Squill gets here. Neither are you, probably, no matter what Piss-it rules say about you being in charge.”
“Didn’t hear nothing about that,” Harry said as our footsteps thumped across the porch.
Words scripted around a logo on the door: Deschamps Design Services. A small sign below the doorbell advised, PLEASE RING TO ENTER. A decal on the glass said PROTECTED BY JENKINS SECURITY SYSTEMS. While the place wasn’t the Bastille, neither was it open-door policy. Directly inside was a small pastel-hued reception area that screamed Designer at Work: Chagall-hued abstracts spotlit by track lighting; a puffy blue-leather couch; a frame-and-fabric chair more like a kite than a sitting device. One wall held framed awards for best this and that in design. The place had a subtle astringent smell, like disinfectant, or strong cleanser.
“Could chill beer in here,” Harry said, cinching his tie. We walked a short hall. I heard a muffled sob from a room to the left and gently opened the door. A slender woman sat at a small conference table with patrol officer Sally Hargreaves. Sal had been first on the scene. She was talking softly with her hand over the woman’s wrist. Sal saw me and came to the door.
“Cheryl Knotts, victim’s fiancée,” she whispered. “Flight attendant out for three days. She got here fifty minutes ago to find one Peter Edgar Deschamps dead in his studio.”
“Impression?” I asked, knowing Sal’s got the magic.
“She had nothing to do with it, I’d bet the farm on that. She’s devastated.”
By magic I mean Sal has that rare sense letting her read people fast and dead on. All cops grow the ability to detect bullshit better than your average citizen, but some are prodigies, polygraphic Mozarts. On Sal’s take alone I pretty much X’d out the fiancée as a suspect.
“Get her to answer some questions in a few?” I asked.
Sally nodded, touched my arm. “Walk light if you can.”
Sally’s got a hint of wet in her eyes; the magic has its price. I kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Did I tell you I dreamed about you last week?” I said. “I was a nurse and you were a Viking…”
Sal smiled for the first time and pushed me down the hall. “Go take care of Harry before he does something weird,” she said.
The victim was on his back next to a drawing board. Beside the board was a desk with a Mac, and a monitor with a screen larger than the one on my TV. The man’s garb was white-collar casual: blue Oxford-cloth shirt, pressed khakis, webbed belt, brown loafers. The deceased was solidly СКАЧАТЬ