Read Online A Safe Place for Dying by Jack Fredrickson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Fredrickson
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my cup on the pile in the sink instead. I was already breathing like I was running uphill. I went outside to sit on the city bench facing the river.
The only thing worse than being a paper tiger is being the last one to realize it. I could growl in the air all I wanted, but the Bohemian had me pegged. He knew I wouldnât call the cops.
Point One: I wasnât a licensed investigator, or an attorney, but the Bohemian would have checked around, learned I always respected the confidentiality of my clients. Point Two: If I ever did go to the cops against the wishes of a client, Iâd be ruined in the business I was trying to rebuild, and afterward, the best I could hope for would be a greeterâs job in a discount store. Point Three: Amandaâs three-million-dollar house was involved. She didnât have much cash, just that big-buck residence and a fortune in art. Losing the house would jeopardize her ability to keep the artworks, and the Bohemian knew Iâd go to any length to protect her.
Points One, Two, and Three were why the Bohemian hired me in the first place; he was sure of the control heâd have over me before he sent Stanley flashing a check. I could protest and threaten all I wanted, but the Bohemian knew I wouldnât go to the cops.
But there was a Point Four: The sand was running out of the hourglass. The Gateville bombs couldnât be kept quiet forever. A Board member would tell his wife to get the kids out of town; sheâd tell someone, and someone elseâa cleaning woman, a gardener working under an open windowâwould hear and sell it as a news tip to a radio station for twenty-five bucks. Word was going to get out, unless the bomber sent a note soon, he got paid, and he went away. Quicklyâand for good.
Point Four was where my brain dead-ended: Why did the Bohemian think he could get the whole thing resolved before it became public, and why was he so certain that, once paid, the bomber would go away forever?
What did the Bohemian know?
I watched the river, but the river offered up nothing but empty eddies.
I got up. Maybe the answer was simply that the Bohemian understood money motives better than I. He was managing multimillion-dollar portfolios while I sniffed varnish, trying to
cobble up enough for a roof and a hot water heater. I went into the turret for my gym bag.
Except for the trucks lumbering through town along Thompson Avenue, the streets were empty. It was nine thirty in the morning, too early for the commerce of Rivertown, too early for the pawnshops, video arcades, bars, and working girls. That would change when the lizards got the condo builders to start stacking young urban professionals along the Willahock. Then the latte emporiums, trendy clothiers, and organic-broccoli peddlers would come, daytime places for daytime people with daytime needs. Until then, Rivertown would stay a nighttime town.
And that was fine, at least until I could finish the rehab, get my zoning changed, and unload the turret. Because when the developers did come, the first thing theyâd push over was the health center, to chase out the drunks. Yups wonât pay a half million for a condo if theyâre going to be greeted mornings by some grizzled fellow in urine-stained pants, savoring an eye-opening splash of muscatel against their bricks because he couldnât find his way back to his room.
I needed that health center, too, except I needed it for the hot water and for the times when the inside of the turret got too tight.
I pulled into the lot and crept around the potholes to the husk of the doorless Buick. The locker room was empty except for the guy asleep on a towel bag. He had a room upstairs but slept down by the lockers in the summer because it was cooler. I put on my workout duds, went up, and walked more laps than I ran, so my gasping wouldnât drown out my voice of reason, should it decide to speak up. It didnât. After forty-five minutes, I
The only thing worse than being a paper tiger is being the last one to realize it. I could growl in the air all I wanted, but the Bohemian had me pegged. He knew I wouldnât call the cops.
Point One: I wasnât a licensed investigator, or an attorney, but the Bohemian would have checked around, learned I always respected the confidentiality of my clients. Point Two: If I ever did go to the cops against the wishes of a client, Iâd be ruined in the business I was trying to rebuild, and afterward, the best I could hope for would be a greeterâs job in a discount store. Point Three: Amandaâs three-million-dollar house was involved. She didnât have much cash, just that big-buck residence and a fortune in art. Losing the house would jeopardize her ability to keep the artworks, and the Bohemian knew Iâd go to any length to protect her.
Points One, Two, and Three were why the Bohemian hired me in the first place; he was sure of the control heâd have over me before he sent Stanley flashing a check. I could protest and threaten all I wanted, but the Bohemian knew I wouldnât go to the cops.
But there was a Point Four: The sand was running out of the hourglass. The Gateville bombs couldnât be kept quiet forever. A Board member would tell his wife to get the kids out of town; sheâd tell someone, and someone elseâa cleaning woman, a gardener working under an open windowâwould hear and sell it as a news tip to a radio station for twenty-five bucks. Word was going to get out, unless the bomber sent a note soon, he got paid, and he went away. Quicklyâand for good.
Point Four was where my brain dead-ended: Why did the Bohemian think he could get the whole thing resolved before it became public, and why was he so certain that, once paid, the bomber would go away forever?
What did the Bohemian know?
I watched the river, but the river offered up nothing but empty eddies.
I got up. Maybe the answer was simply that the Bohemian understood money motives better than I. He was managing multimillion-dollar portfolios while I sniffed varnish, trying to
cobble up enough for a roof and a hot water heater. I went into the turret for my gym bag.
Except for the trucks lumbering through town along Thompson Avenue, the streets were empty. It was nine thirty in the morning, too early for the commerce of Rivertown, too early for the pawnshops, video arcades, bars, and working girls. That would change when the lizards got the condo builders to start stacking young urban professionals along the Willahock. Then the latte emporiums, trendy clothiers, and organic-broccoli peddlers would come, daytime places for daytime people with daytime needs. Until then, Rivertown would stay a nighttime town.
And that was fine, at least until I could finish the rehab, get my zoning changed, and unload the turret. Because when the developers did come, the first thing theyâd push over was the health center, to chase out the drunks. Yups wonât pay a half million for a condo if theyâre going to be greeted mornings by some grizzled fellow in urine-stained pants, savoring an eye-opening splash of muscatel against their bricks because he couldnât find his way back to his room.
I needed that health center, too, except I needed it for the hot water and for the times when the inside of the turret got too tight.
I pulled into the lot and crept around the potholes to the husk of the doorless Buick. The locker room was empty except for the guy asleep on a towel bag. He had a room upstairs but slept down by the lockers in the summer because it was cooler. I put on my workout duds, went up, and walked more laps than I ran, so my gasping wouldnât drown out my voice of reason, should it decide to speak up. It didnât. After forty-five minutes, I
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