Read Online If Looks Could Kill by Eileen Dreyer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eileen Dreyer
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Turner."
"Jackson. My real name's Jackson."
"Oh, is it really?"
Chris was going to ask then where they might have met, what the detective wanted, when she heard a new voice on the other end of the line. Imperious, furious. Intruding.
"Sorry..." The first voice apologized, and then, evidently bowing to the flood of obscenity and command, handed over the line.
"...well, I'm here now," the new voice snapped in conclusion. Chris couldn't say she was encouraged by this new, more strident tone. Another woman. Unfortunately, the real Detective Lawson. "Sorry," the policewoman said to Chris, not sounding as much sorry as irritated. "That was one of the dispatchers. She has no goddamn business answering phones up here. Goddamn groupies are all alike..." And then, abruptly, she sighed. "She's been drivin' me nuts ever since she heard your name. Probably wants an autograph or something."
"I don't mind," Chris tried to protest.
It didn't do her much good. Evidently Lawson wasn't any more interested in her opinions than she was in those of the anonymous dispatcher who'd had the bad taste to answer Lawson's phone for her. Chris didn't like the detective already.
She decided to be just as polite. "Why do you think your murder has anything to do with my book, Detective?"
"Simple," Detective Lawson said in that abrupt, sharp tone of hers, evidently not at all thrown off. "The signature. Remember how Emma stabbed her husband in the shins just to make sure he couldn't get up and run after her, even when he already looked like Alpo?"
Give Chris a cop anytime for not mincing words. "Yeah," she agreed halfheartedly. "But you can't mean to tell me that nobody else has ever done that before."
"Of course not. Maybe coincidence works for writers. It just doesn't cut it for me, though."
The detective wasn't winning any friends on this phone line. Chris could hear the distinctive tonal qualities of a person intent on the cooperation-through-intimidation school of charm, police edition. Everybody plays by my rules, cause I got the gun. Well, Detective Lawson had it bad.
"What makes you think it's not maybe a wife who read my book and kept that kind of pattern in the back of her mind?" Chris tried diffidently, not even happy with that explanation. It would still be a kind of culpability she didn't want. She wasn't writing "how-to" manuals here.
"Because this cookie can't read. Nothing but street signs and beer labels, anyway. She swears she came home from a visit to the tavern with her girlfriends to find her husband sliced and diced by an unknown intruder. That alibi went over about as big here as Ted Kennedy saying he just couldn't find his pants."
"What about forensics? Do they bear her out?"
"Inconclusive. Which leaves the wife cooling her heels in the county jail without enough for bail, and me on overtime."
Like it was all Chris's fault. Chris shook her head, the idea still too alien, the logic forced. The detective was looking for a cheering section, and Chris wasn't in the mood to help.
She tried again to escape. "I still don't see why you're so sure she didn't really do it."
"Because I've read your work. I recognize similarities. M.O., evidence, area of town, even the victim's name. We've almost got a perfect match here."
Chris didn't realize she'd set down her coffee. "The name? The guy's name was Ralph Watson?"
"Not Watson, Weaver. But he was from Affton, just like the guy in your book. Murdered in the middle of the night with a kitchen knife the size of a machete that was dropped back in the corner of the bathroom. And that shin thing, just like I told you. It even happened on a Tuesday night."
For just a moment Chris closed her eyes, sucked in a long breath past the constriction in her chest. The itch had grown into dread. Impossible. This just couldn't be happening.
Chris leaned back in her chair, opened her eyes and deliberately looked out to the forest of blossoms that filled the opening into the showroom. She took a
"Jackson. My real name's Jackson."
"Oh, is it really?"
Chris was going to ask then where they might have met, what the detective wanted, when she heard a new voice on the other end of the line. Imperious, furious. Intruding.
"Sorry..." The first voice apologized, and then, evidently bowing to the flood of obscenity and command, handed over the line.
"...well, I'm here now," the new voice snapped in conclusion. Chris couldn't say she was encouraged by this new, more strident tone. Another woman. Unfortunately, the real Detective Lawson. "Sorry," the policewoman said to Chris, not sounding as much sorry as irritated. "That was one of the dispatchers. She has no goddamn business answering phones up here. Goddamn groupies are all alike..." And then, abruptly, she sighed. "She's been drivin' me nuts ever since she heard your name. Probably wants an autograph or something."
"I don't mind," Chris tried to protest.
It didn't do her much good. Evidently Lawson wasn't any more interested in her opinions than she was in those of the anonymous dispatcher who'd had the bad taste to answer Lawson's phone for her. Chris didn't like the detective already.
She decided to be just as polite. "Why do you think your murder has anything to do with my book, Detective?"
"Simple," Detective Lawson said in that abrupt, sharp tone of hers, evidently not at all thrown off. "The signature. Remember how Emma stabbed her husband in the shins just to make sure he couldn't get up and run after her, even when he already looked like Alpo?"
Give Chris a cop anytime for not mincing words. "Yeah," she agreed halfheartedly. "But you can't mean to tell me that nobody else has ever done that before."
"Of course not. Maybe coincidence works for writers. It just doesn't cut it for me, though."
The detective wasn't winning any friends on this phone line. Chris could hear the distinctive tonal qualities of a person intent on the cooperation-through-intimidation school of charm, police edition. Everybody plays by my rules, cause I got the gun. Well, Detective Lawson had it bad.
"What makes you think it's not maybe a wife who read my book and kept that kind of pattern in the back of her mind?" Chris tried diffidently, not even happy with that explanation. It would still be a kind of culpability she didn't want. She wasn't writing "how-to" manuals here.
"Because this cookie can't read. Nothing but street signs and beer labels, anyway. She swears she came home from a visit to the tavern with her girlfriends to find her husband sliced and diced by an unknown intruder. That alibi went over about as big here as Ted Kennedy saying he just couldn't find his pants."
"What about forensics? Do they bear her out?"
"Inconclusive. Which leaves the wife cooling her heels in the county jail without enough for bail, and me on overtime."
Like it was all Chris's fault. Chris shook her head, the idea still too alien, the logic forced. The detective was looking for a cheering section, and Chris wasn't in the mood to help.
She tried again to escape. "I still don't see why you're so sure she didn't really do it."
"Because I've read your work. I recognize similarities. M.O., evidence, area of town, even the victim's name. We've almost got a perfect match here."
Chris didn't realize she'd set down her coffee. "The name? The guy's name was Ralph Watson?"
"Not Watson, Weaver. But he was from Affton, just like the guy in your book. Murdered in the middle of the night with a kitchen knife the size of a machete that was dropped back in the corner of the bathroom. And that shin thing, just like I told you. It even happened on a Tuesday night."
For just a moment Chris closed her eyes, sucked in a long breath past the constriction in her chest. The itch had grown into dread. Impossible. This just couldn't be happening.
Chris leaned back in her chair, opened her eyes and deliberately looked out to the forest of blossoms that filled the opening into the showroom. She took a
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