Read Online Damage Control by Robert Dugoni - Free Book Online Page A

the 1970s, when the building industry was booming and you couldn’t throw a hammer without hitting someone who claimed to be a framer. A two-story box with a flat tar-and-gravel roof, the building had been tagged with gang graffiti; the aluminum-framed windows were rusted and pitted, and the decking peeled and worn. At the top of the landing, Logan checked the intersection between the iron railing and the stucco wall. The large black bolt had wiggled free, creating a hole that allowed water intrusion. Probably dry rot. The handrail wouldn’t support a man’s weight leaning against it.
    The rooms were located off the landing, a staircase at each end. Room 8 wasn’t difficult to find—it was the only room with the door open and an armed police officer standing guard. Logan nodded to the officer and scribbled his name on the log before stepping in. Carole Nuchitelli knelt near a body, a man lying faceup on a shag carpet the color of a thick glass of Nestlé Quik.
    “You keep following me, Nooch, and people will think we’re dating.”
    Nuchitelli looked up with seeming disinterest. “I’ve been here an hour. I think you’re stalking me.”
    The room held the stench of soiled carpet and death. Logan looked down at the corpse. The man’s bowels had released. His eyes were open, his face pale and devoid of any emotion. But for the dime-size hole in his head, the man looked frozen. A dark halo around the back of his head indicated that the carpet had absorbed much of the blood. “Looks like a twenty-two,” Logan said.
    “Falcon nine-millimeter,” Nooch said.
    Logan pointed to the bullet wound in the forehead. “I’m not talking about the gun in his pants. I’m talking about the hole in his head. Looks like a twenty-two.”
    She shrugged. “Or a nine-millimeter.”
    “Or a nine-millimeter,” Logan agreed. He turned and studied the doorway. “What do you estimate the distance to be?” he asked, pacing it off.
    “Eight to ten feet.”
    “Eight feet,” he confirmed. He wiped sleep from his eyes. “Heck of a shot.”
    Nuchitelli shrugged, unimpressed. “Not that far.”
    “Not if you have time to aim.”
    She stopped what she was doing, sat back, and smiled up at him. “All right, go ahead. You know you want to.”
    Logan pointed at the butt of the Falcon. “That tells me the guy didn’t even see it coming. He was shot in the forehead so he was obviously facing his killer, but, he didn’t even have the chance to reach for his weapon.”
    “Maybe the guy surprised him.”
    Logan nodded. “Oh, I’m sure he did, but not the way you’re thinking.” He pointed to the front door. “No forced entry. So either he had a key or he was already in the room. Do we have an ID?”
    “You know I like them anonymous, Logan. What are you doing out here, anyway?”
    “Murphy called. Said he had something for me.”
    She pointed at the doorway to the adjacent room and rolled her eyes. “He’s in there.”
    “I think he just likes getting my ass out of bed for kicks.”
    “You may be right.”
    As Logan started for the other room, he noticed a wad of bills on the floor, partially hidden by the body, as well as bloodied clothes. “His?” he asked, referring to the corpse.
    Nuchitelli nodded. “In his right-front pants pocket.”
    “Whose clothes?”
    She shrugged. “Don’t know. His I guess.”
    Logan walked toward the door that separated Room 8 from Room 7.
    The door frame between the two rooms had been splintered. This was a forced entry. Maybe the killer
had
surprised him. Patrick Murphy stood with his partner, Debra Hallock, and a swarm of people inside the room. Murphy and Hallock worked out of the South Precinct. Murphy was a stereotype: Irish and looked it, with fair skin, ruddy cheeks, and freckles, and was proud to profess his heritage to anyone and everyone. Thin blue veins traversed a bulbous nose that revealed a penchant for happy hours.
    Murphy grinned. “Look what the cat dragged out late at