Read Online Grace Under Pressure by Julie Hyzy - Free Book Online

his hair was more salt than pepper, and even though it was morning, he already had sweat trickling down the sides of his face. His pale green short-sleeved shirt must have been purchased thirty pounds ago, because the buttons looked ready to spring. He eyed the leather chair and sat down as soon as I invited him to do so.
    By contrast, Flynn was lean, buff, and fidgety. Looking just as Hispanic as his partner, despite the Irish surname. He rolled his shoulders and neck, maintaining his balance on the balls of his feet, poised to run a marathon, shoulder holster and all. When Rodriguez gestured for him to sit, the younger man’s eyes flashed. “This is the victim’s office, isn’t it?” he asked me. I nodded, about to answer when he continued. “Where is your office?”
    I pointed toward the door. “Just outside.”
    “Why are you in here, then?” He shot a look toward Rodriguez. “Has this room been processed?”
    Rodriguez smiled, teeth bright, holding up a pinkie-ringed hand. “I went through everything last night,” he said slowly. “Don’t worry, amigo.”
    “Already?” Flynn’s head twisted as he took in all corners of the room. “There’s no fingerprint dust anywhere. And I don’t remember seeing any pictures of this room in the file.”
    “You wouldn’t have. We didn’t take any photos in here.” Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Rodriguez took a deep breath. “If you remember from all your studying, we are working under the assumption that . . .” He pulled out a pair of reading glasses and consulted his notes. “That Mr. Abraham Vargas was killed in a botched robbery attempt.”
    “We shouldn’t close off any paths until we’ve exhausted all possible options.”
    To me, Rodriguez said, “My friend here is just transferred in from a big city up north. He is not used to our pace yet.”
    Nor was I. Maybe it was all the years I’d spent in New York City before coming back here to live, but Rodriguez already struck me as a little too laid-back for a murder investigation. Although they proceeded to ask me all the questions I’d anticipated—how long I had worked here, where I had been during the time of the murder, did I know anyone who had a motive to kill Abe—their manner led me to believe that I’d been eliminated as a suspect already. At least in Rodriguez’s view.
    To me, the botched robbery theory didn’t fit, so I floated my own hypothesis. “Did you consider that Abe might have been killed in a case of mistaken identity? He’s similar in size and coloring to Mr. Marshfield. And after all the threatening letters, it’s possible that whoever targeted Mr. Marshfield found Abe in the private residence and shot him by mistake.”
    Flynn’s eyes widened and I thought he might leap across the desk to grab me, but Rodriguez waved him down. Licking his lips, he recited and scribbled into his notebook at the same time. “The deceased bears a resemblance to Bennett Marshfield, owner of the estate. Possible anyone attempting to break into mansion’s private rooms expected to find Mr. Marshfield. Got it.” Focusing on me, he said, “Now, what about these letters? Why didn’t we hear about them last night?”
    I was dumbfounded. To me, these letters were the most important clue of all—why wouldn’t the entire department have this information? “I explained, last night, that I didn’t know where they were. That’s why I called you. I found them this morning.”
    Flynn again looked ready to jump up, eager to do something—anything. I could relate. Rodriguez nodded again. “Gonna let me see them?”
    I’d taken my gloves off during the plethora of phone conversations, dropping them on the desktop where I’d noticed Flynn eyeing them suspiciously ever since he’d walked in. Now I pulled them back on and answered his unasked question.
    “As assistant curator here, I regularly deal with precious artifacts. These . . .” I held up my gloved hands and wiggled my fingers,