Read Online Chasing the Dragon by Domenic Stansberry - Free Book Online
Authors: Domenic Stansberry
Tags: Mystery
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Salvatore,” he called.
There was no answer, but this did not surprise him. The stairs were around back, off the kitchen, and his uncle’s office was at the top of those stairs, toward the rear of the house. And Aunt Regina, he knew, was on her weekly visit across the bay, to her sister in Alameda.
The house was bigger than his father’s house—light and full of air. There were none of Grandmother Pellicano’s talismans here, and not much in the way of old world Italiana. Aunt Regina was a modern woman who did not like her place to look like a museum.
In the kitchen, Dante found the back door open, as well. He stood on the rear landing and noticed that the gate leading into the alley was thrown wide. Dante had an ill feeling in his gut that he told himself was foolishness, paranoia, based on nothing, too many years in the company.
Upstairs, he found his uncle.
The old man lay on the floor, with his feet straddled wide on the imported carpet. The air smelled of cordite. The room around him was in disarray, papers and books scattered everywhere.
Uncle Salvatore had been shot in the head, and there was a large amount of blood, as yet uncongealed. The skin had lost its pink, but the extremities did not yet have the mottled look that came when the blood settles into the lowest parts of the body.
After his years in Homicide, Dante was familiar with crime scenes. Maybe it was because the professional part of him took over. He knew better than to touch anything. He did not want to jeopardize the evidence, or somehow implicate himself. From the looks of things, the wound was fresh, the killing very recent. And something else: there was a great deal of splatter, but no smearing. It suggested that the visitor had searched the room before the shooting. Otherwise the blood droplets would lay on top of the scattered papers.
Dante took out his gun. He searched all the rooms, but found no one.
The killer had left through the back door, Dante surmised, through the alley.
If Dante called the police, he would be in for a lot of questions. He did not want the attention. The company had him here on assignment, and it would be best to keep his distance.
He holstered his gun. He had disturbed nothing, touched nothing. The problem was to leave without being seen. In the alley, just beyond the back gate, a tree crew had just pulled up, going after an old Bay Laurel in a nearby yard. So Dante went out the front.
He left the front door ajar, just as it had been. He guessed that the killer, whoever it was, had stuck the gun in Uncle Salvatore’s face as soon as he opened the door. Bossed him into the house. Sat him down while he searched the room.
The street was deserted, and Dante was glad for that. As he hit the sidewalk he glanced up at the Widow Bolinni’s. One of the lace panels parted, then fell closed.
And he knew he had been seen.
ELEVEN
Ying should have been at home hours ago, in his little house in El Cerrito with the Queen Palm out front. He should have taken the five o’clock tube under the bay. Then he would have been home when the call came, home with his wife, Lei, and their two kids, and somebody else would have been assigned to the case. Instead he’d worked late, then dallied in Chinatown, stopping in Portsmouth Square to watch some old bachelors from Guangdong haggle over a game of go. Afterward he’d doubled back to his grandmother’s house in Winter Alley.
His grandmother’s place was tiny, and the rooms were small, closet-sized. A fire escape jagged to the rooftop. On more than one occasion Ying had folded the escape ladder back up because the gangbangers in the neighborhood were always yanking it down, using it as a way onto the roof. There was a small desk in one of the rooms, and a bed where Ying slept when his work kept him in the city.
About a year ago, he had walked in to find the upstairs room trashed, his files scattered and the bed overturned. Whether it had been the doing of the neighborhood
There was no answer, but this did not surprise him. The stairs were around back, off the kitchen, and his uncle’s office was at the top of those stairs, toward the rear of the house. And Aunt Regina, he knew, was on her weekly visit across the bay, to her sister in Alameda.
The house was bigger than his father’s house—light and full of air. There were none of Grandmother Pellicano’s talismans here, and not much in the way of old world Italiana. Aunt Regina was a modern woman who did not like her place to look like a museum.
In the kitchen, Dante found the back door open, as well. He stood on the rear landing and noticed that the gate leading into the alley was thrown wide. Dante had an ill feeling in his gut that he told himself was foolishness, paranoia, based on nothing, too many years in the company.
Upstairs, he found his uncle.
The old man lay on the floor, with his feet straddled wide on the imported carpet. The air smelled of cordite. The room around him was in disarray, papers and books scattered everywhere.
Uncle Salvatore had been shot in the head, and there was a large amount of blood, as yet uncongealed. The skin had lost its pink, but the extremities did not yet have the mottled look that came when the blood settles into the lowest parts of the body.
After his years in Homicide, Dante was familiar with crime scenes. Maybe it was because the professional part of him took over. He knew better than to touch anything. He did not want to jeopardize the evidence, or somehow implicate himself. From the looks of things, the wound was fresh, the killing very recent. And something else: there was a great deal of splatter, but no smearing. It suggested that the visitor had searched the room before the shooting. Otherwise the blood droplets would lay on top of the scattered papers.
Dante took out his gun. He searched all the rooms, but found no one.
The killer had left through the back door, Dante surmised, through the alley.
If Dante called the police, he would be in for a lot of questions. He did not want the attention. The company had him here on assignment, and it would be best to keep his distance.
He holstered his gun. He had disturbed nothing, touched nothing. The problem was to leave without being seen. In the alley, just beyond the back gate, a tree crew had just pulled up, going after an old Bay Laurel in a nearby yard. So Dante went out the front.
He left the front door ajar, just as it had been. He guessed that the killer, whoever it was, had stuck the gun in Uncle Salvatore’s face as soon as he opened the door. Bossed him into the house. Sat him down while he searched the room.
The street was deserted, and Dante was glad for that. As he hit the sidewalk he glanced up at the Widow Bolinni’s. One of the lace panels parted, then fell closed.
And he knew he had been seen.
ELEVEN
Ying should have been at home hours ago, in his little house in El Cerrito with the Queen Palm out front. He should have taken the five o’clock tube under the bay. Then he would have been home when the call came, home with his wife, Lei, and their two kids, and somebody else would have been assigned to the case. Instead he’d worked late, then dallied in Chinatown, stopping in Portsmouth Square to watch some old bachelors from Guangdong haggle over a game of go. Afterward he’d doubled back to his grandmother’s house in Winter Alley.
His grandmother’s place was tiny, and the rooms were small, closet-sized. A fire escape jagged to the rooftop. On more than one occasion Ying had folded the escape ladder back up because the gangbangers in the neighborhood were always yanking it down, using it as a way onto the roof. There was a small desk in one of the rooms, and a bed where Ying slept when his work kept him in the city.
About a year ago, he had walked in to find the upstairs room trashed, his files scattered and the bed overturned. Whether it had been the doing of the neighborhood
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