Read Online Don't Look Now by Richard Montanari - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Montanari
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voice. ‘So what do you have?’
Paris matched his volume. ‘I have shit,’ he said. ‘Not a print, not a partial, no blood from the killer, no semen. Not a fucking thing. Except three bodies.’
‘DNA?’
‘All three samples are out to the feds.’
‘What do you have on the asshole?’
‘I got a tall white male, thirties, glasses, mustache and a tweed hat.
Maybe
. And
that’s
probably a disguise. Could be you, even. If you had a mustache.’
Murdock smiled. ‘And if I was tall and still in my thirties.’
‘We don’t even have this guy anywhere near the Milius murder. She leaves work one day, she shows up dead. Could have been someone else. Except—’
‘Except what?’
‘It doesn’t leave this booth?’
‘Hand to God, Jackie.’
Paris took a moment, debating. ‘All three had patches of skin removed.’ He kept the information about the bodies being made up after they were killed to himself. He trusted Tim Murdock as much as any other cop, but some things were better kept inside the investigation for as long as possible. Murdock didn’t press Paris on any other details for the time being. He knew the routine.
‘How’s the hot shot?’
‘Tommy’s fine,’ Paris said. ‘He’s really going to be the lead sniffer on this one, though. Great instincts for a guy his age. He’s the real sleeper at the Unit. Everybody’s talking Bobby Dietricht, but Tommy might just smoke him.’
‘Kid’s that good?’
‘That good,’ Paris said. ‘I don’t know too much about him personally yet. Never been asked to his place.’
The two caught up quickly on each other’s ex-wives and children and Paris rose to leave just as Murdock’s breakfast arrived. Paris, whose stomach was legendarily susceptible to any and all sick jokes, knew that Tim Murdock was just as bad, if not worse. As Reuben Ocasio couldn’t resist taunting
him
, Paris found that he couldn’t resist taunting Murdock. For the first time, Paris thought he understood Reuben.
‘I’m telling you, Timmy,’ Paris began, laying down a tip, ‘this guy sliced the skin off in a wide strip. And when you look at it like that, it’s almost transparent, you know?’
Murdock – whose face was beginning to drain of color – looked down at his two pieces of slightly undercooked bacon and called for the waitress.
Paris drove south on Coventry, noting that the dogwood trees that lined Fairmount Boulevard were straining at their buds once again. He had told Beth that he would stop by on his way to the office, knowing that she and Melissa would probably be going to ten o’clock mass. He needed a built-in excuse for leaving, in case his emotions got the best of him, as they seemed to be doing with unnerving regularity of late.
He found a space right in front of Beth’s building, got out of the car, raised his collar against the wind.
It may have been Easter Sunday, but it was still March in Cleveland.
Beth wore a pale apricot dress and matching heels. Her hair was much shorter than Paris had ever seen it. Lighter too. She seemed to have taken on the look of a woman who was content to move among her new circle of friends: the movers and shakers of Cleveland society. Paris always scanned the society column in the
Plain Dealer
to see if Beth Shefler-Paris attended this society function or that hospital benefit. He saw her name once in a column about a recent chichi gourmet function called the Five Star Sensation, and it made him feel like shit for a week.
Beth kissed him on the cheek, looking much younger than her thirty-six years. She took the dozen lilies Paris had grossly overpaid for at the last minute, knowing well enough to let him hand Melissa the huge Easter basket himself. ‘How are you, Jack?’ she asked, walking him into the kitchen. ‘You look good.’
‘Overpaid, underworked, overstaffed,’ he said. ‘The usual.’
Beth found a vase for the lilies, cut them, filled the vase with water and arranged the flowers on the dining
Paris matched his volume. ‘I have shit,’ he said. ‘Not a print, not a partial, no blood from the killer, no semen. Not a fucking thing. Except three bodies.’
‘DNA?’
‘All three samples are out to the feds.’
‘What do you have on the asshole?’
‘I got a tall white male, thirties, glasses, mustache and a tweed hat.
Maybe
. And
that’s
probably a disguise. Could be you, even. If you had a mustache.’
Murdock smiled. ‘And if I was tall and still in my thirties.’
‘We don’t even have this guy anywhere near the Milius murder. She leaves work one day, she shows up dead. Could have been someone else. Except—’
‘Except what?’
‘It doesn’t leave this booth?’
‘Hand to God, Jackie.’
Paris took a moment, debating. ‘All three had patches of skin removed.’ He kept the information about the bodies being made up after they were killed to himself. He trusted Tim Murdock as much as any other cop, but some things were better kept inside the investigation for as long as possible. Murdock didn’t press Paris on any other details for the time being. He knew the routine.
‘How’s the hot shot?’
‘Tommy’s fine,’ Paris said. ‘He’s really going to be the lead sniffer on this one, though. Great instincts for a guy his age. He’s the real sleeper at the Unit. Everybody’s talking Bobby Dietricht, but Tommy might just smoke him.’
‘Kid’s that good?’
‘That good,’ Paris said. ‘I don’t know too much about him personally yet. Never been asked to his place.’
The two caught up quickly on each other’s ex-wives and children and Paris rose to leave just as Murdock’s breakfast arrived. Paris, whose stomach was legendarily susceptible to any and all sick jokes, knew that Tim Murdock was just as bad, if not worse. As Reuben Ocasio couldn’t resist taunting
him
, Paris found that he couldn’t resist taunting Murdock. For the first time, Paris thought he understood Reuben.
‘I’m telling you, Timmy,’ Paris began, laying down a tip, ‘this guy sliced the skin off in a wide strip. And when you look at it like that, it’s almost transparent, you know?’
Murdock – whose face was beginning to drain of color – looked down at his two pieces of slightly undercooked bacon and called for the waitress.
Paris drove south on Coventry, noting that the dogwood trees that lined Fairmount Boulevard were straining at their buds once again. He had told Beth that he would stop by on his way to the office, knowing that she and Melissa would probably be going to ten o’clock mass. He needed a built-in excuse for leaving, in case his emotions got the best of him, as they seemed to be doing with unnerving regularity of late.
He found a space right in front of Beth’s building, got out of the car, raised his collar against the wind.
It may have been Easter Sunday, but it was still March in Cleveland.
Beth wore a pale apricot dress and matching heels. Her hair was much shorter than Paris had ever seen it. Lighter too. She seemed to have taken on the look of a woman who was content to move among her new circle of friends: the movers and shakers of Cleveland society. Paris always scanned the society column in the
Plain Dealer
to see if Beth Shefler-Paris attended this society function or that hospital benefit. He saw her name once in a column about a recent chichi gourmet function called the Five Star Sensation, and it made him feel like shit for a week.
Beth kissed him on the cheek, looking much younger than her thirty-six years. She took the dozen lilies Paris had grossly overpaid for at the last minute, knowing well enough to let him hand Melissa the huge Easter basket himself. ‘How are you, Jack?’ she asked, walking him into the kitchen. ‘You look good.’
‘Overpaid, underworked, overstaffed,’ he said. ‘The usual.’
Beth found a vase for the lilies, cut them, filled the vase with water and arranged the flowers on the dining
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