Read Online Before She Dies by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online Page A

parked in the soft sand along the side of the highway, far enough from the pole that no part of the truck would be in the photographs. He extended the truck’s hydraulic outriggers, then swung the boom out and lowered the bucket. For the first time Estelle hesitated.
    “There doesn’t look like there’s room in there for both of us,” she said.
    “Yeah, we’ll fit,” Nelson said. “You just tell me what you want.”
    They squeezed into the red bucket and then with a whine were lofted into the air. Bob Torrez and I backed away, squinting into the sun and watching the performance. Nelson maneuvered the bucket to a point directly behind the string-post and then, with Estelle bracing the camera, lifted the bucket straight up, gradually increasing the angle of sight along the strings. Finally, hovering fifteen feet up and as many feet behind the post, Estelle found what she was looking for. A few minor adjustments and the bucket hung quietly while she burned film.
    She shot photos from several other positions before nodding that she was satisfied.
    “Anything else, just holler,” Nelson said a few minutes later, and then the county truck rumbled back toward town.
    “You want to meet in my office in a few minutes?” I asked. “Or down at the hospital?”
    Estelle looked down at the macadam thoughtfully. “Francis is going to let me know the instant there’s any change in Linda’s condition, sir. I’m going to head over that way. I have a couple of questions to ask the medical examiner, and then I want to follow up with Mr. Peña.”
    “He’s pretty upset,” Torrez said. “I tried to talk with him, but he wasn’t much help.”
    “I’ll give it a try,” Estelle said. She would pry out any information the old ranch hand knew, in one language or another. “And I want to use one of the hospital’s stereoscopes. See what the shotgun casing has to offer.”
    Slim evidence, but maybe the killer had been confident that we’d never find the shell casing in the first place. I found myself hoping he’d stay confident and give us something more.

Chapter 9
    Sheriff Martin Holman sat in my chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped at his forehead as if he were deep in prayer. A newspaper was spread out under his elbows. He looked up from the
Posadas Register
as I entered and dropped one hand to the paper so he could mark his place with an index finger.
    “Ron Schroeder wants to see you.”
    I hung my Stetson on the hat tree behind the door, taking my time so Holman wouldn’t feel rushed about getting out of my chair. He didn’t move.
    “Schroeder knows where I work,” I said.
    “No, no, Bill. This is a summons into The Great One’s presence.” That wasn’t entirely fair, since District Attorney Ron Schroeder was as hardworking as they come—bright, diligent, ambitious—all those traits that somehow never quite seemed to make up for the giant streak of condescension running down his back.
    Holman turned the newspaper so that I could see it and then pushed it across the desk.
    I sighed and fished what was left of my glasses out of my pocket. “Somebody else worked all night, too,” I said, and before my eyes could focus I was already wondering how Dayan had managed to sneak a crime scene photograph when we hadn’t allowed so much as a centipede through the roadblocks.
    But I had forgotten about Sonny Trujillo and the Friday night follies.
    “Not very flattering, Bill,” Holman said. There I was, in perfect focus, spread across three columns at the top of the page. The photographer had popped the flash at the instant that Trujillo’s fat fist made contact with my cheek and glasses. In the picture, my glasses were askew, Trujillo’s mouth was open and bellowing, and there in the bottom left corner, perfectly in focus, was my service revolver. My left hand was clamped around the barrel and cylinder, obviously twisting hard.
    “Nice picture,” I said. I squinted at the