Read Online 1 Runaway Man by David Handler - Free Book Online Page B

sound strange, Bunny. What’s the matter?”
    I told her. How I’d found Bruce dead. How I’d led his killer right to him.
    “Why, that no-good WASP shithead!” she erupted when she was done listening. “I am going to get him on the other line right now. Hang on, Bunny. I’ll put him on speaker.”
    The lawyer’s number rang twice before I heard his burgundy baritone intone: “This is Peter Seymour.”
    And heard mom say: “It’s Abby Golden. We found the Weiner boy up at Candlewood Lake.”
    “You people move fast, Mrs. Golden. I’m impressed. I was just sitting down to dinner. Could we continue this after I’ve?—”
    “He’s dead. Somebody shot him.”
    Seymour fell silent. “Dear God.…”
    “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
    “Whatever do you mean by that, Mrs. Golden?”
    “I demand to know who your client is.”
    “That’s privileged information. You know that.”
    “Here’s what I know,” she shot back. “You won’t get away with this. We won’t take the fall for you. My mother didn’t raise no patsies. And Benji’s mother sure as hell didn’t.”
    “Madam, I assure you that I have—”
    “Don’t ‘madam’ me, you momser . You played us. Benji found the bugs in our car.”
    “Has he spoken to the Connecticut State Police yet?”
    “Why are you asking me that?”
    “Because I’d appreciate it if he kept our firm’s name out of this—as a professional courtesy.”
    “Not a chance. We’re telling them chapter and verse.”
    “I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs. Golden.”
    “Guess what? I don’t take advice from lying snakes. I didn’t like you from the second you walked in this office. I just liked that nice, fat check from your so-called Aurora Group. I should have smelled it for what it was—blood money.”
    “Does that mean you’re returning it?”
    “Hell, no. We earned every penny of it. And the twenty-five thou bonus you promised us. I’m expecting a certified check for the full amount on my desk by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. If it’s not here, I’m suing your ass. And don’t ever call us again, hear me?”
    “Loud and clear, Mrs. Golden. Are we done now?”
    “We’re done. What are you having for dinner?”
    “Steak au poivre.”
    “I hope you choke on it.” She hung up on him. “Bunny, are you still there?”
    “Still here,” I said, standing there in the frigid snow.
    “Have you phoned it in?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Make the call. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

 
    CHAPTER THREE
    “LET’S GET ONE THING STRAIGHT RIGHT AWAY, tough guy. I don’t like anybody trying to tell me how to run my investigation.”
    “I don’t blame you one bit, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t either.”
    “And don’t get smart with me. I don’t like anybody trying to get smart with me.” Which already made two things Detective Lieutenant Marco Battalino really didn’t like, and we were just throwing our warm-up tosses.
    “Absolutely. Whatever you say.”
    We were seated at a table in a windowless interview room in the charm-free Troop L Barracks up in Litchfield. I was there to provide the lieutenant and his sergeant with my detailed witness statement. I was not, as of yet, considered a suspect or person of interest. I’d been allowed to accompany them there from Candlewood Lake in my own car. The door to the interview room was open. We were drinking coffee together. Battalino was sprawled comfortably in his chair with one foot plopped on the table. It was all quite cordial—except for the way he kept pointing out that I, a New York City private investigator, was a source of annoyance to him. Not a major source of annoyance. More of a petty one along the lines of, say, jock itch.
    Battalino was a squat, baleful fireplug in his early thirties. He had a twenty-inch neck, curly black hair that grew unusually low on his forehead, a furry black strip of monobrow, furry ears, furry knuckles. The man was just really furry. As I looked at his brogan-clad