Read Online Dream of Danger (A Brown and De Luca Novella) by MAGGIE SHAYNE - Free Book Online Page A

would be the last time he would row out across Stillwater Lake in the predawn chill to lay a young man to rest at the bottom.
    Looping the rope around a post, he climbed out of the boat, pulled himself up onto the old wooden dock, and realized that it was getting harder. He’d been putting on weight. His joints ached. Thirty-eight. He shouldn’t feel this bad at thirty-eight.
    He walked toward the cabin, past the tire swing that dangled from the giant maple tree at the water’s edge. He and his kid brother used to swing out on that tire and try to see who could land farther out in the lake. He smiled as he remembered. They’d had a lot of fun here as kids. His own boys played the same game. Or used to. He hadn’t had the heart to bring them up here in a long, long time.
    He’d polluted the water with the blood of his victims. He should have found a different place to put them to rest. Hell, he should have done a lot of things differently. But he was broken, and he didn’t know why. He only knew that he had to find a way to fix himself. To keep the rat sealed behind the wall, keep it there until this time it starved to death.
    He walked past the cabin, not going inside. His pickup was parked in front. The hammer, already washed and dried, was hanging back in its spot in the toolshed. There was nothing more to do. And if he could just hold on to his willpower, there never would be. He got into his white F-150 and drove. He needed to be home with his family and to forget about this morning’s task. Forget, if he could, about all of those pretty, pretty boys.

1
     
    I f the bullshit I wrote was true, I wouldn’t [I w"0ehave been standing in the middle of a beehive where all the bees were cops—not one worker bee in the hive, either— trying to get someone interested in finding out what had happened to my brother.
    Then again, if the bullshit I wrote was true, I wouldn’t be holding a white-tipped cane in my hand, either. But the bullshit I wrote was just that. Bullshit.
    Solid-gold bullshit, though. Which was, after all, why I kept writing it.
    “Look, I’m going to need to talk to someone else,” I said to the queen bee behind the tall counter. My fingertips rested on the front edge, which was up to my chest. Smooth wood, with that slightly tacky feel from being none too clean. I took my fingers away, but the sticky residue remained. Ick .
    “And just who else would you like to talk to?” the queen bee asked.
    “Are you getting sarcastic with me now?” I leaned nearer. “How about I talk to your boss, then?”
    “Ma’am, that attitude of yours is not going to help. I told you, your case is getting the same attention any other missing persons case would get from this office.”
    “The same attention as any other missing homeless heroin-addict case, you mean?”
    “We do not discriminate here.”
    “Not on the basis of intelligence, anyway.”
    When her voice came again, it came from way closer. She was, I surmised, leaning over her tall counter. I could smell her chewing gum. Dentyne Ice. “Never thought I’d be so tempted to smack a blind woman upside her head,” she muttered. It was probably supposed to be under her breath, but I had hearing like a freakin’ bat. I heard everything . Every nuance. So I knew she meant it.
    “Want to try it now?” I asked. “Because I promise you, I will—”
    “Miss de Luca? Is it really you? ”
    That woman’s voice wasn’t angry. It was adoring, and coming from about seven o’clock. That was how I found things. A clock inside my head where I was always the center. You know, the pin that held the hands in place so they could spin all around me while I stood still. It was an accurate illustration in more ways than one.
    I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses, shut my mouth, pasted a fake smile on my face and turned. Sometimes not being able to look in the mirror and see how far I missed the mark from the expression I thought I was making was a blessing, and I