Read Online A grave denied by Dana Stabenow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dana Stabenow
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Women Private Investigators, Fiction - Mystery, Crime & mystery, alaska, Crime thriller, Shugak; Kate (Fictitious character), Shugak; Kate (Fictitious chara, Women private investigators - Alaska - Fiction., Alaska - Fiction., Shugak; Kate (Fictitious character) - Fiction., Women private investigators - Alaska
Ads: Link
she thought before giving herself up to his single-minded possession was, “I’ll ask Kate to check this brother out. Then we’ll see.” And then she stopped thinking, because only a fool would not pay attention when Bobby got her horizontal, and Dinah Cookman was no fool.
5
I don’t think I’ve seen Dreyer since last fall,“ Bernie said. ”September, maybe? Maybe later.“ ”He stop in for a drink?“
“He was working for me. Hauled and laid gravel on the paths between the cabins and the outhouses, and the Roadhouse and my house. They were starting to get a little boggy.”
The Roadhouse was one big square room with exposed beams, a bar down one side, tables around two others, and a small dance floor covered with Sorel scuff marks. A thirty-two-inch television hung from the ceiling, blaring a basketball game.
“Isn’t basketball season ever over?” Kate said unwisely.
There was a sign behind the bar that proclaimed free throws win ball games, and Bernie, in his spare time the coach of the Kanuyaq Kings, swore to the precept with a fervor only previously matched by medieval saints. “Basketball?” he said, politely incredulous. “Over?”
“Sorry,” Kate said. “I forgot myself there for a moment. I’m all better now. About Dreyer.”
“Basketball is never over, Kate,” he said. “Basketball is the one true thing. Basketball is the only game where brains and brawn are equal. Basketball—”
“Bernie-”
“Not to mention which, basketball is the only sport where the ball is big enough you can actually keep your eye on it. I mean to say, have you ever watched a football game? Or baseball? Now there’s a ball you could shove up a—”
“Yes, yes,” Kate said hastily. “You’re absolutely right. Couldn’t be righter if you were the governor. But about Len Dreyer—”
Bernie, deciding he’d ridden that horse long enough, capitulated. “Like I said, last time I saw him was August, shoveling pea gravel. I think I paid him off around Labor Day.”
There was a note in his voice she couldn’t identify. “Check or cash?”
He gave her a look.
“Right,” Kate said, “of course cash, what was I thinking.” She was thinking a check was traceable and that cash was not, and that she’d like to have just one piece of paper with Dreyer’s prints on it. “Probably didn’t make him sign a W-2, either,” she said with no hope at all.
“What, you’re working for the IRS nowadays?” Bernie inspected an imaginary spot on the glass he was polishing. “Is it true he caught a shotgun blast to the chest?”
“That news already out, is it?”
“Well, hell, Kate, there were a few kids around when the body was found.”
“And some of them play for you,” Kate said. “Yeah, I get it. Anyway, yes. Front and center.”
“Ouch.”
She frowned. “You know him well?”
He shrugged. “Well as anybody, I guess.”
He met her eyes with a look of such studied indifference that she stiffened. “He hang with any particular Park rats?”
“Didn’t have many friends that I noticed.” Somebody yelled for a refill, and as he moved down the bar Kate thought she heard him say, “Not a big surprise.”
She watched him pull a tray full of beers and amble over to the table in front of the television, where sat the four Grosdidier brothers and Old Sam Dementieff, taking turns calling the play-by-play and not hesitating to revile the ancestry of the referees every time a whistle blew.
She heard a song she liked, a woman singing about sweet misery, and she wandered over to the jukebox to see who it was.
“Play a song for you, Kate?” George Perry appeared next to her, smoothing out a bill in preparation for feeding it into the slot.
“I like this one,” she said.
“Yeah, Michelle Branch, great album. Want me to pick up one for you next time I’m in
5
I don’t think I’ve seen Dreyer since last fall,“ Bernie said. ”September, maybe? Maybe later.“ ”He stop in for a drink?“
“He was working for me. Hauled and laid gravel on the paths between the cabins and the outhouses, and the Roadhouse and my house. They were starting to get a little boggy.”
The Roadhouse was one big square room with exposed beams, a bar down one side, tables around two others, and a small dance floor covered with Sorel scuff marks. A thirty-two-inch television hung from the ceiling, blaring a basketball game.
“Isn’t basketball season ever over?” Kate said unwisely.
There was a sign behind the bar that proclaimed free throws win ball games, and Bernie, in his spare time the coach of the Kanuyaq Kings, swore to the precept with a fervor only previously matched by medieval saints. “Basketball?” he said, politely incredulous. “Over?”
“Sorry,” Kate said. “I forgot myself there for a moment. I’m all better now. About Dreyer.”
“Basketball is never over, Kate,” he said. “Basketball is the one true thing. Basketball is the only game where brains and brawn are equal. Basketball—”
“Bernie-”
“Not to mention which, basketball is the only sport where the ball is big enough you can actually keep your eye on it. I mean to say, have you ever watched a football game? Or baseball? Now there’s a ball you could shove up a—”
“Yes, yes,” Kate said hastily. “You’re absolutely right. Couldn’t be righter if you were the governor. But about Len Dreyer—”
Bernie, deciding he’d ridden that horse long enough, capitulated. “Like I said, last time I saw him was August, shoveling pea gravel. I think I paid him off around Labor Day.”
There was a note in his voice she couldn’t identify. “Check or cash?”
He gave her a look.
“Right,” Kate said, “of course cash, what was I thinking.” She was thinking a check was traceable and that cash was not, and that she’d like to have just one piece of paper with Dreyer’s prints on it. “Probably didn’t make him sign a W-2, either,” she said with no hope at all.
“What, you’re working for the IRS nowadays?” Bernie inspected an imaginary spot on the glass he was polishing. “Is it true he caught a shotgun blast to the chest?”
“That news already out, is it?”
“Well, hell, Kate, there were a few kids around when the body was found.”
“And some of them play for you,” Kate said. “Yeah, I get it. Anyway, yes. Front and center.”
“Ouch.”
She frowned. “You know him well?”
He shrugged. “Well as anybody, I guess.”
He met her eyes with a look of such studied indifference that she stiffened. “He hang with any particular Park rats?”
“Didn’t have many friends that I noticed.” Somebody yelled for a refill, and as he moved down the bar Kate thought she heard him say, “Not a big surprise.”
She watched him pull a tray full of beers and amble over to the table in front of the television, where sat the four Grosdidier brothers and Old Sam Dementieff, taking turns calling the play-by-play and not hesitating to revile the ancestry of the referees every time a whistle blew.
She heard a song she liked, a woman singing about sweet misery, and she wandered over to the jukebox to see who it was.
“Play a song for you, Kate?” George Perry appeared next to her, smoothing out a bill in preparation for feeding it into the slot.
“I like this one,” she said.
“Yeah, Michelle Branch, great album. Want me to pick up one for you next time I’m in