Read Online All Mortal Flesh by Julia Spencer-Fleming - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Spencer-Fleming
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Domestic Fiction, Mystery Fiction, Police Procedural, New York (State), Women clergy, Episcopalians, Van Alstyne; Russ (Fictitious character), Adirondack Mountains (N.Y.), Ferguson; Clare (Fictitious character), Fergusson; Clare (Fictitious character)
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was locked tight. He nodded once, a jerk of the head.
“I’d like to propose a working theory,” Lyle said. Mark could feel the whole room’s relief as the deputy chief changed the topic. “The chief hasn’t checked the house yet, but it appears at this time that this wasn’t a home invasion gone bad. Mrs. Van Alstyne had no obvious enemies. Chief, does anyone gain financially from her death?”
The chief’s mouth worked for a moment. He shook his head. “There’s her sister, Debbie. In Florida. My mom called to let her know last night. She has two grown sons. They get something. I think. We don’t have a whole lot. It’s mostly the house and the land, and that’s in both our names.”
“Insurance?”
“Just… just…” He seemed unable to find the words. His hands shaped a small rectangle.
“Burial expenses?” Kevin Flynn’s voice was so tentative, for a second Mark wasn’t sure he had really heard the younger man. The chief nodded.
“No financial gain,” Lyle said, writing the words on the whiteboard. “But”—he wrote
RUSS VAN ALSTYNE
on the board—“the victim was married to a cop.” Next to the chief’s name he wrote
20+
. “A cop who’s headed up our department for almost seven years. And who was an MP for twenty years before that.”
“Twenty-two,” the chief said automatically.
“Fact,” MacAuley said. “The perp either knew Mrs. Van Alstyne would be home alone or didn’t know the chief was away and expected to find him at home on Sunday.”
Mark could see the others nodding in agreement.
“Fact. Of the two Van Alstynes, a lot more bad guys have a hate-on for the chief than for his wife.”
“After thirty years of putting them away? Sure,” McCrea said.
“Theory. Linda Van Alstyne wasn’t the target of this murder. She was just the stand-in, either accidentally or incidentally, for her husband.” MacAuley slashed two heavy black lines beneath the chief’s name. “In other words, the intended victim isn’t Linda. It’s the chief.”
NINE
Russ Van Alstyne loved his house. After a lifetime of living in base housing or rental apartments, he had embraced the pleasures and pains of home ownership like an ecstatic embracing a demanding god. He restored the kitchen woodwork to its origins in the Second World War. He converted the cavernous walk-in attic into an all-modern-conveniences workspace. He reinforced the sagging barn floor so it could be used as a garage. He repainted it, clapboard, trim, and shutters, one side every summer.
Now he sat in his truck, in his driveway, looking at his house. Afraid to get out. Afraid he might throw up the moment he crossed the threshold.
“A cleaning crew’s already been in.” Lyle sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for him to get his act together. He had seen Russ in the station parking lot, fumbling with his keys, and roughly bumped him out of the way. “Shove it over,” he had said. “You’re not in any condition to drive.” Now he continued, “After the CS techs finished last night. The kitchen was cleaned.”
“That was fast.” There was a service in Albany that provided crime scene and biohazard cleanup, but it usually took a couple of days for them to make it to a job.
“I called in a few chips.”
“Oh.”
There was a silence.
“Russ, you have to go in sooner or later. And if you want the investigation to go forward, it’d better be sooner.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“I know.” Lyle nodded. “Look, how about we go in the front door?”
Except in the summertime, when they opened it to circulate air through the house, the formal front door was never used. In the winter, Russ didn’t bother to shovel it out, and he and Lyle would have to wade through several weeks’ worth of accumulated snow to reach it. But it was at the other end of the house from the kitchen. In fact, if he went in the front door, he might never have to set foot in the kitchen. He didn’t worry
“I’d like to propose a working theory,” Lyle said. Mark could feel the whole room’s relief as the deputy chief changed the topic. “The chief hasn’t checked the house yet, but it appears at this time that this wasn’t a home invasion gone bad. Mrs. Van Alstyne had no obvious enemies. Chief, does anyone gain financially from her death?”
The chief’s mouth worked for a moment. He shook his head. “There’s her sister, Debbie. In Florida. My mom called to let her know last night. She has two grown sons. They get something. I think. We don’t have a whole lot. It’s mostly the house and the land, and that’s in both our names.”
“Insurance?”
“Just… just…” He seemed unable to find the words. His hands shaped a small rectangle.
“Burial expenses?” Kevin Flynn’s voice was so tentative, for a second Mark wasn’t sure he had really heard the younger man. The chief nodded.
“No financial gain,” Lyle said, writing the words on the whiteboard. “But”—he wrote
RUSS VAN ALSTYNE
on the board—“the victim was married to a cop.” Next to the chief’s name he wrote
20+
. “A cop who’s headed up our department for almost seven years. And who was an MP for twenty years before that.”
“Twenty-two,” the chief said automatically.
“Fact,” MacAuley said. “The perp either knew Mrs. Van Alstyne would be home alone or didn’t know the chief was away and expected to find him at home on Sunday.”
Mark could see the others nodding in agreement.
“Fact. Of the two Van Alstynes, a lot more bad guys have a hate-on for the chief than for his wife.”
“After thirty years of putting them away? Sure,” McCrea said.
“Theory. Linda Van Alstyne wasn’t the target of this murder. She was just the stand-in, either accidentally or incidentally, for her husband.” MacAuley slashed two heavy black lines beneath the chief’s name. “In other words, the intended victim isn’t Linda. It’s the chief.”
NINE
Russ Van Alstyne loved his house. After a lifetime of living in base housing or rental apartments, he had embraced the pleasures and pains of home ownership like an ecstatic embracing a demanding god. He restored the kitchen woodwork to its origins in the Second World War. He converted the cavernous walk-in attic into an all-modern-conveniences workspace. He reinforced the sagging barn floor so it could be used as a garage. He repainted it, clapboard, trim, and shutters, one side every summer.
Now he sat in his truck, in his driveway, looking at his house. Afraid to get out. Afraid he might throw up the moment he crossed the threshold.
“A cleaning crew’s already been in.” Lyle sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for him to get his act together. He had seen Russ in the station parking lot, fumbling with his keys, and roughly bumped him out of the way. “Shove it over,” he had said. “You’re not in any condition to drive.” Now he continued, “After the CS techs finished last night. The kitchen was cleaned.”
“That was fast.” There was a service in Albany that provided crime scene and biohazard cleanup, but it usually took a couple of days for them to make it to a job.
“I called in a few chips.”
“Oh.”
There was a silence.
“Russ, you have to go in sooner or later. And if you want the investigation to go forward, it’d better be sooner.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“I know.” Lyle nodded. “Look, how about we go in the front door?”
Except in the summertime, when they opened it to circulate air through the house, the formal front door was never used. In the winter, Russ didn’t bother to shovel it out, and he and Lyle would have to wade through several weeks’ worth of accumulated snow to reach it. But it was at the other end of the house from the kitchen. In fact, if he went in the front door, he might never have to set foot in the kitchen. He didn’t worry
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