Read Online Dead Man's Thoughts by Carolyn Wheat - Free Book Online

who make it and the people who see it. He turned some people off. They said he was being moralistic. But that’s how strongly he felt about it.”
    â€œThis wouldn’t be the first time a guy has said one thing and done another,” Button said. “Besides, that movie house only shows girlie stuff. Maybe he felt differently if boys were involved.”
    â€œWhy are you doing this!” I cried, nearly in tears. “Can’t you see I’m upset? My friend is dead, and you’re calling him dirty names.”
    There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy in Button’s face or voice. “The dead man may have been your lover, Miss Jameson, but it looks to me like he was somebody else’s too. And that somebody else killed him. I want that guy, and I want the truth from you. Did you know your boyfriend was AC-DC?”
    â€œHe wasn’t!” I screamed. “He wasn’t!”
    â€œOkay,” he rapped out. “You didn’t know. Do you know if he hung out at any special bars or if he had any particular male friends?”
    I shook my head, too angry to talk. “What about his clients?” Button barked. I shook my head again. At that moment, I think I hated Button even more than I hated Nathan’s killer.
    â€œLook, Miss Jameson.” Button’s voice went back to being soothing. “I know this is hard on you. But it looks very much like your friend picked up the wrong guy this time. All I want is some cooperation in catching that guy. If you think of anything later, any little thing that could help, just let me know.” He handed me a card with his name and phone number on it, then stood up.
    â€œIf you’d like me to drive you home—” he began.
    The last thing in the world I wanted was to be alone in a police car with Button. The second last thing I wanted was to go home. Face it, the cheerful colors, the instant furniture, the political posters were fun when you were in a good mood, but it was no place to go for comfort.
    â€œNo,” I shook my head, “I’ll stay with a friend in the neighborhood.”
    When I looked up, Button was staring at me. A steady, sad gaze. The pity in his eyes hurt more than all the nasty things he’d said about Nathan.

E IGHT
    A young cop in uniform brought me my purse and tote bag. I thanked him and meant it; I’d have left them there rather than go back up to Nathan’s apartment. He also warned me to leave right away. They were bringing the body downstairs in a green bag, and he didn’t think I’d want to see it. He was right.
    I headed straight for the Promenade. Ordinarily its panoramic view of Lower Manhattan gave me a thrill, but now I had only one thought—getting to Dorinda’s apartment.
    I followed the Promenade to its end, then up an incline to Columbia Heights. There was a steep hill. I walked down it slowly, my semi-good boots too high-heeled to permit easy navigation. I could see Dorinda’s building, once a whorehouse for local sailors, but I didn’t dare look up in case there was no light in the window.
    Dorinda Blalock’s been my friend since our freshman year in college. We went to Kent State before it became a headline. She split in our junior year to go live in the East Village with an experimental filmmaker, the first of a series of men she’s followed to various artsy locales. Now she’s on her own, living under the Brooklyn Bridge and cooking for a natural food restaurant in the Heights. Dorinda’s a pretty good cook, if you can forget you’re eating soybeans instead of steak.
    When I reached the bottom of the hill, I looked up and sighed with relief. There was a light. I called Dorinda’s name in a voice ragged with tears and damp cold. She looked out, waved, and tossed me the key. The buzzer system in that building hasn’t worked since they took the red light off the front door.
    I let myself in and ran up the three