Read Online Diagnosis Murder 4 - The Waking Nightmare by Lee Goldberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
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him around the neighborhood the last few days."
Steve tipped the bookcase aside, crouched over the body, and checked the man's pockets for ID. He found a thin wallet and opened it up. There was no driver's license or credit cards, just six dollars, a hotel room key for room 17 at the Paradise Hotel, and a newspaper clipping folded into a tight square.
He unfolded the clipping. It was a picture of Rebecca Jordan and the huge stuffed bear.
"I've been home ten minutes and already I've fought off a burglar, I've learned my roommate tried to kill herself, and I've found a corpse in my living room." Lissy sat down on the couch and sighed. "I've had better mornings."
CHAPTER NINE
The living room of Winston Brant's Spanish-Mediterranean mansion in Newport Beach was two stories tall. The walls were adorned with several large paintings, smatterings of vivid color reminiscent of Jackson Pollock. Perhaps they were Pollocks, for all Mark knew. Marble sculptures filled individually lighted niches near the ceiling. One of the sculptures was of a jaguar, poised to spring on its prey below which, in this case, was Brant's widow, Dr. Sara Everden, and her guest, Dr. Mark Sloan.
Sara sat very straight on the edge of a white couch covered with little pillows of various colors and fabrics. She was tall, blond-haired, with the gently muscled physique of a casual athlete, the kind who kept in shape with occasional visits to the tennis court or golf course. She deftly balanced elegance and relaxed charm. Her white silk blouse hung loosely on her fine-boned shoulders, a strand of pearls around her long, slender neck, a stark contrast to the faded jeans and Reeboks she was also wearing.
Mark sat across from her in an extremely uncomfortable antique French chair and tried not to squirm too much while they spoke, their voices echoing off the high, steepled ceiling. He wondered what kind of home Rebecca Jordan came from, what kind of art was on the walls, and if the chairs were cushy and comfortable.
"I'm glad you're here, Mark, If your son hadn't asked you to look into my husband's murder, I would have," Sara said. "What happened to him was an abomination."
"Murder always is," Mark said.
"This was worse," she said. "Whoever did it not only killed Win, but cruelly mocked everything he lived for."
"Win?"
"That's what my husband liked to be called," Sara said. "He thought 'Winston' sounded prissy and aristocratic. He felt that 'Win' embodied his approach to everything."
"He was competitive?"
"It wasn't about beating somebody else but succeeding against adversity, overcoming an obstacle on his own terms. Win never felt more alive than when he was tackling a physical challenge, particularly if it was dangerous. That's where the thrill came in. To him, feeling that exhilaration was life itself."
"And he only felt that alive when he was cheating death?"
"He found exhilaration in other things," she said, a sad look passing over her face. "In his family, of course. Watching his children grow up. But it wasn't the same kind of thrill. It wasn't enough."
"That didn't bother you?"
"I knew what kind of man he was when I married him," she said, her eyes becoming moist. "It was part of the attraction. I've always been so practical, so 'down-to-earth'."
"You aren't a thrill seeker, too?"
Sara shook her head. "I'm a doctor. I can't take those kinds of physical risks. I know all too well what happens when you lose. It's not worth it to me. I can't even get on a rollercoaster."
Mark knew how she felt. He was the same way and couldn't understand how Steve could enjoy surfing and dirt biking and any other sport that could leave him paralyzed for life. His son was probably the target audience for Brant's magazine.
"You didn't try to change him?" Mark asked, thinking of all the times he tried to talk Steve out of dangerous pursuits.
"I always knew to stay vibrant and alive, Win needed a wave to tame, a mountain to climb, to know the only
Steve tipped the bookcase aside, crouched over the body, and checked the man's pockets for ID. He found a thin wallet and opened it up. There was no driver's license or credit cards, just six dollars, a hotel room key for room 17 at the Paradise Hotel, and a newspaper clipping folded into a tight square.
He unfolded the clipping. It was a picture of Rebecca Jordan and the huge stuffed bear.
"I've been home ten minutes and already I've fought off a burglar, I've learned my roommate tried to kill herself, and I've found a corpse in my living room." Lissy sat down on the couch and sighed. "I've had better mornings."
CHAPTER NINE
The living room of Winston Brant's Spanish-Mediterranean mansion in Newport Beach was two stories tall. The walls were adorned with several large paintings, smatterings of vivid color reminiscent of Jackson Pollock. Perhaps they were Pollocks, for all Mark knew. Marble sculptures filled individually lighted niches near the ceiling. One of the sculptures was of a jaguar, poised to spring on its prey below which, in this case, was Brant's widow, Dr. Sara Everden, and her guest, Dr. Mark Sloan.
Sara sat very straight on the edge of a white couch covered with little pillows of various colors and fabrics. She was tall, blond-haired, with the gently muscled physique of a casual athlete, the kind who kept in shape with occasional visits to the tennis court or golf course. She deftly balanced elegance and relaxed charm. Her white silk blouse hung loosely on her fine-boned shoulders, a strand of pearls around her long, slender neck, a stark contrast to the faded jeans and Reeboks she was also wearing.
Mark sat across from her in an extremely uncomfortable antique French chair and tried not to squirm too much while they spoke, their voices echoing off the high, steepled ceiling. He wondered what kind of home Rebecca Jordan came from, what kind of art was on the walls, and if the chairs were cushy and comfortable.
"I'm glad you're here, Mark, If your son hadn't asked you to look into my husband's murder, I would have," Sara said. "What happened to him was an abomination."
"Murder always is," Mark said.
"This was worse," she said. "Whoever did it not only killed Win, but cruelly mocked everything he lived for."
"Win?"
"That's what my husband liked to be called," Sara said. "He thought 'Winston' sounded prissy and aristocratic. He felt that 'Win' embodied his approach to everything."
"He was competitive?"
"It wasn't about beating somebody else but succeeding against adversity, overcoming an obstacle on his own terms. Win never felt more alive than when he was tackling a physical challenge, particularly if it was dangerous. That's where the thrill came in. To him, feeling that exhilaration was life itself."
"And he only felt that alive when he was cheating death?"
"He found exhilaration in other things," she said, a sad look passing over her face. "In his family, of course. Watching his children grow up. But it wasn't the same kind of thrill. It wasn't enough."
"That didn't bother you?"
"I knew what kind of man he was when I married him," she said, her eyes becoming moist. "It was part of the attraction. I've always been so practical, so 'down-to-earth'."
"You aren't a thrill seeker, too?"
Sara shook her head. "I'm a doctor. I can't take those kinds of physical risks. I know all too well what happens when you lose. It's not worth it to me. I can't even get on a rollercoaster."
Mark knew how she felt. He was the same way and couldn't understand how Steve could enjoy surfing and dirt biking and any other sport that could leave him paralyzed for life. His son was probably the target audience for Brant's magazine.
"You didn't try to change him?" Mark asked, thinking of all the times he tried to talk Steve out of dangerous pursuits.
"I always knew to stay vibrant and alive, Win needed a wave to tame, a mountain to climb, to know the only
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