Read Online Dressed to Killed by Milton Ozaki - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Milton Ozaki
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Hard-Boiled, Men's Adventure
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disgustedly. "What a Pig!"
"What a party, you mean," another voice put in. "You see the babe he was with?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't mind a few drinks with her myself."
Raucous laughter. "You mean you wanta earn a Purple Heart?" More laughter.
"Won't be long now. He's coming around some."
Ice water cascaded over my shoulders. I huddled down, with my head nearly touching my knees, and let my insides shudder and twist Hands forced my head up. With increased vigor, the slapping resumed.
"Not so much muscle, sergeant," a voice suggested. "We don't want him bruised."
"We'll be careful, lieutenant."
The slapping began again, but with restraint. It took all my strength to open my eyes. Immediately, someone turned a lamp on, blinding me. I blinked. The room swayed, then gradually settled into focus. It was a small, dank room, illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from wires. My eyes fixed on a waist-high table, on which rested two narrow pieces of black stone, an ink roller, a tube of carbon-black, several pieces of square paper. Then I knew where I was. I was in the basement, the fingerprinting room, of the Chicago Avenue police station.
With infinite weariness, I moved my head a few inches. Three cops were standing about me, two of them in their undershirts. One held a dripping tin bucket, the other was slapping his leg restlessly with a wet rag. They were both grinning malevolently at me. I shifted my eyes to the third. A gold badge was pinned to the pocket of his blue shirt. I remembered him vaguely. Lieutenant something. The name escaped me. I sighed, closed my eyes, and slumped listlessly in the chair.
The wet rag gave my cheeks a quick one-two. I got my head up again.
"Okay," I muttered. "Okay."
"How do you feel, Forbes?" The lieutenant bent toward me.
I stared at him. "Okay," I said again. I took a deep breath. "Okay, I guess..."
"All right, boys, take care of the mess." He jerked his head at the others. "I'll take him up to the captain. Come on, Forbes, get on your feet."
I pushed myself up and stood swaying beside him. He grabbed my arm to steady me and swung me toward a stairway. I stumbled toward it, fighting to keep my balance, and got to the iron rail beside it. Clutching the rail, I pulled myself up, step by step. As I reached the top step, his name floated into my mind. Trottmann. Lieutenant Trottmann.
Somehow, remembering his name made me feel better. Maybe I was getting a grip on things.
We paused in front of a door. Trottmann squeezed my arm. "You're in for a rough time," he said, not unkindly. "I know you feel like hell, but you may as well make up your mind to face it. After all, it's your own damned fault."
"Yeah," I muttered. "I know."
He turned the knob and pushed me in ahead of him. Matthews lifted his head from the newspaper he'd been reading and gave me a nod the size of a baby pecan. I sank into the wooden chair in front of his desk.
"Forbes." He rolled the word around in his mouth as though it were an olive which he was preparing to nibble. "Private eye." Snort. "Killer!" Snort. "Lover-boy!" His fist smote the desk. "You goddamn bastard!"
I stared at the round, pinkish face which hadn't caught up to his 60 years and at the stubby gray hair which bristled like a nylon brush, and I tried to remember what I had heard about him. A tough man to tangle with, a cop who had worked his way up from the ranks. Unswerving in purpose, unbribable, efficient—but eager, too eager, sometimes, when it came to pounding a charge home. My lips trembled and a shiver coursed through my body. For the first time, I realized that I was wearing shoes and trousers—and nothing else.
"I want a confession!" Matthews shouted. "You understand? I want a confession right now!" He punctuated the last two words by banging his fist on the desk again.
"That depends." The sound of my own voice startled me.
"On what?" There was a sharp cutting edge to his inflection.
I sucked in my breath. "On what you expect me to confess
"What a party, you mean," another voice put in. "You see the babe he was with?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't mind a few drinks with her myself."
Raucous laughter. "You mean you wanta earn a Purple Heart?" More laughter.
"Won't be long now. He's coming around some."
Ice water cascaded over my shoulders. I huddled down, with my head nearly touching my knees, and let my insides shudder and twist Hands forced my head up. With increased vigor, the slapping resumed.
"Not so much muscle, sergeant," a voice suggested. "We don't want him bruised."
"We'll be careful, lieutenant."
The slapping began again, but with restraint. It took all my strength to open my eyes. Immediately, someone turned a lamp on, blinding me. I blinked. The room swayed, then gradually settled into focus. It was a small, dank room, illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from wires. My eyes fixed on a waist-high table, on which rested two narrow pieces of black stone, an ink roller, a tube of carbon-black, several pieces of square paper. Then I knew where I was. I was in the basement, the fingerprinting room, of the Chicago Avenue police station.
With infinite weariness, I moved my head a few inches. Three cops were standing about me, two of them in their undershirts. One held a dripping tin bucket, the other was slapping his leg restlessly with a wet rag. They were both grinning malevolently at me. I shifted my eyes to the third. A gold badge was pinned to the pocket of his blue shirt. I remembered him vaguely. Lieutenant something. The name escaped me. I sighed, closed my eyes, and slumped listlessly in the chair.
The wet rag gave my cheeks a quick one-two. I got my head up again.
"Okay," I muttered. "Okay."
"How do you feel, Forbes?" The lieutenant bent toward me.
I stared at him. "Okay," I said again. I took a deep breath. "Okay, I guess..."
"All right, boys, take care of the mess." He jerked his head at the others. "I'll take him up to the captain. Come on, Forbes, get on your feet."
I pushed myself up and stood swaying beside him. He grabbed my arm to steady me and swung me toward a stairway. I stumbled toward it, fighting to keep my balance, and got to the iron rail beside it. Clutching the rail, I pulled myself up, step by step. As I reached the top step, his name floated into my mind. Trottmann. Lieutenant Trottmann.
Somehow, remembering his name made me feel better. Maybe I was getting a grip on things.
We paused in front of a door. Trottmann squeezed my arm. "You're in for a rough time," he said, not unkindly. "I know you feel like hell, but you may as well make up your mind to face it. After all, it's your own damned fault."
"Yeah," I muttered. "I know."
He turned the knob and pushed me in ahead of him. Matthews lifted his head from the newspaper he'd been reading and gave me a nod the size of a baby pecan. I sank into the wooden chair in front of his desk.
"Forbes." He rolled the word around in his mouth as though it were an olive which he was preparing to nibble. "Private eye." Snort. "Killer!" Snort. "Lover-boy!" His fist smote the desk. "You goddamn bastard!"
I stared at the round, pinkish face which hadn't caught up to his 60 years and at the stubby gray hair which bristled like a nylon brush, and I tried to remember what I had heard about him. A tough man to tangle with, a cop who had worked his way up from the ranks. Unswerving in purpose, unbribable, efficient—but eager, too eager, sometimes, when it came to pounding a charge home. My lips trembled and a shiver coursed through my body. For the first time, I realized that I was wearing shoes and trousers—and nothing else.
"I want a confession!" Matthews shouted. "You understand? I want a confession right now!" He punctuated the last two words by banging his fist on the desk again.
"That depends." The sound of my own voice startled me.
"On what?" There was a sharp cutting edge to his inflection.
I sucked in my breath. "On what you expect me to confess
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