Read Online An Intimate Murder (The Catherine O'Brien Series) by Stacy Verdick Case - Free Book Online
Authors: Stacy Verdick Case
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automated voice said.
That explained why I was receiving pink message slips. I bet Arnie, who manned our main reception area, had cursed my name every time my phone rolled to the main switchboard.
The first message started to roll.
“Hi Officer O’Brien this is Jane Katts.”
I hit the number nine on the keypad.
Message deleted . The sweet automation said.
The next message left a few minutes after the first began. “Hi Officer O’Brien, it’s Jane Katts, again.”
Nine.
Message deleted .
This process continued until the final message, the last satisfying, message deleted , chimed in my ear.
I slung my purse over my shoulder.
“Anyone important?” Louise smirked at me.
“I think it was a wrong number,” I said. “They kept asking for an Officer O’Brien. They must not have realized they’d been transferred to Detective O’Brien instead.”
I shrugged. “It was probably just someone wanting to renew a newspaper subscription.”
“You’re not interested then?” Louise asked.
“No, I’ve decided to get my news from reliable sources, like the Weekly World News .”
Chapter Four
“Jonathan Luther was a saint.”
Liz Trainor, Jonathan Luther’s boss at Balsam Real Estate stabbed her finger toward us punctuating each word with a thrust forward. Each stab fanned the air around her and sent the heavy smell of some high-class perfume I couldn’t identify wafting toward us. The smell might have been nice if Liz Trainor hadn’t bathed in the perfume.
“He would have never, could have never hurt anyone.”
She sat back with such force that her Dolly Parton-esque boobs rippled up and down in grotesque waves of fat. Her deep-veed, gauzy white blouse barely covered the bottoms of her breasts let alone the top.
“I have no doubt that he wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Louise said. “But someone did want to hurt him.”
“They succeeded,” I said.
“Are you the Detective I saw in the paper this morning?”
Liz Trainor looked at me with deep concentration. I squirmed in my chair.
“You are, aren’t you?”
The wrinkles on her face smoothed with resolve. Her lips flattened and she nodded.
My gut twisted into knots. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to bolt from the room. Instead, I stared wide-eyed and mute.
“Yep, you are,” she said. “You’ve botched the investigation and now you’re here trying to dig up some dirt on the victim. Well you’re not going to find any skeletons in Jonathan Luther’s closet.”
“We’re not looking for skeletons.” My tone was surprisingly calm and even, considering the irritation grating at my nerves. I was sure an edge of malice would lace all my conversations today. “We want to find the truth.”
“Well, you just found it. Jon and his wife would give you the shirts from their backs. They were probably attacked by some junkie,” she said. “Did you check for finger prints? Whoever it was probably already has a record.”
Gee, why hadn’t we thought of looking for fingerprints? I mentally rolled my eyes.
“Do you mind if we go through his desk?” Louise asked.
“What are you looking for?” Liz Trainor folded her chubby, fake nail-tipped fingers together. The thin-banded rings looked as if they would cut into her flesh or break in half from the pressure at any second.
“I don’t know yet,” Louise said. “I’m hoping we’ll find something that might give us a direction.”
“We’d like to speak with his co-workers too,” I said.
“I think I’m going to call my lawyer first.” She turned to her credenza, punched up an address book on her computer, and scrolled through the names. “I don’t want you people crawling through my office trying to find a way out of the hole you’ve dug yourself into.”
“Mrs. Trainor –”
“It’s Ms. Trainor. I’m not married.”
“Ms. Trainor.” I corrected myself, though I couldn’t care less if she were offended by my non-politically correct title. The correction was more to
That explained why I was receiving pink message slips. I bet Arnie, who manned our main reception area, had cursed my name every time my phone rolled to the main switchboard.
The first message started to roll.
“Hi Officer O’Brien this is Jane Katts.”
I hit the number nine on the keypad.
Message deleted . The sweet automation said.
The next message left a few minutes after the first began. “Hi Officer O’Brien, it’s Jane Katts, again.”
Nine.
Message deleted .
This process continued until the final message, the last satisfying, message deleted , chimed in my ear.
I slung my purse over my shoulder.
“Anyone important?” Louise smirked at me.
“I think it was a wrong number,” I said. “They kept asking for an Officer O’Brien. They must not have realized they’d been transferred to Detective O’Brien instead.”
I shrugged. “It was probably just someone wanting to renew a newspaper subscription.”
“You’re not interested then?” Louise asked.
“No, I’ve decided to get my news from reliable sources, like the Weekly World News .”
Chapter Four
“Jonathan Luther was a saint.”
Liz Trainor, Jonathan Luther’s boss at Balsam Real Estate stabbed her finger toward us punctuating each word with a thrust forward. Each stab fanned the air around her and sent the heavy smell of some high-class perfume I couldn’t identify wafting toward us. The smell might have been nice if Liz Trainor hadn’t bathed in the perfume.
“He would have never, could have never hurt anyone.”
She sat back with such force that her Dolly Parton-esque boobs rippled up and down in grotesque waves of fat. Her deep-veed, gauzy white blouse barely covered the bottoms of her breasts let alone the top.
“I have no doubt that he wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Louise said. “But someone did want to hurt him.”
“They succeeded,” I said.
“Are you the Detective I saw in the paper this morning?”
Liz Trainor looked at me with deep concentration. I squirmed in my chair.
“You are, aren’t you?”
The wrinkles on her face smoothed with resolve. Her lips flattened and she nodded.
My gut twisted into knots. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to bolt from the room. Instead, I stared wide-eyed and mute.
“Yep, you are,” she said. “You’ve botched the investigation and now you’re here trying to dig up some dirt on the victim. Well you’re not going to find any skeletons in Jonathan Luther’s closet.”
“We’re not looking for skeletons.” My tone was surprisingly calm and even, considering the irritation grating at my nerves. I was sure an edge of malice would lace all my conversations today. “We want to find the truth.”
“Well, you just found it. Jon and his wife would give you the shirts from their backs. They were probably attacked by some junkie,” she said. “Did you check for finger prints? Whoever it was probably already has a record.”
Gee, why hadn’t we thought of looking for fingerprints? I mentally rolled my eyes.
“Do you mind if we go through his desk?” Louise asked.
“What are you looking for?” Liz Trainor folded her chubby, fake nail-tipped fingers together. The thin-banded rings looked as if they would cut into her flesh or break in half from the pressure at any second.
“I don’t know yet,” Louise said. “I’m hoping we’ll find something that might give us a direction.”
“We’d like to speak with his co-workers too,” I said.
“I think I’m going to call my lawyer first.” She turned to her credenza, punched up an address book on her computer, and scrolled through the names. “I don’t want you people crawling through my office trying to find a way out of the hole you’ve dug yourself into.”
“Mrs. Trainor –”
“It’s Ms. Trainor. I’m not married.”
“Ms. Trainor.” I corrected myself, though I couldn’t care less if she were offended by my non-politically correct title. The correction was more to
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