Read Online Kill All the Judges by William Deverell - Free Book Online

describing how she caught her husband with the maid.” Rosy’s nipple scuffed his shoulder, hard as a pebble. The smell of her. She quoted the divorcee: “‘I opened the door and they were on the floor.’ It rhymes! Then…I’m not sure, I think I heard, ‘with his hand between her thighs.’”
    â€œHis head between her thighs.”
    The beast below had begun stirring. He quickly swivelled to the window, and stood, trying to concentrate on Cud Brown jaywalking to the honky-tonk bar. Girls! Girls! Girls!
    When he turned back, she was bent over the desk, displaying, offering her behind, heart-shaped in a tight skirt. He couldn’t take much more. He reached behind the forensics texts and fumbled for his sixteen-year-old Laphroaig. Women didn’t usually unsettle him this way. Maybe it was the L’Eau d’Hiver–how did she know he fancied that scent, with its subtle sillage ? He poured an ounce and downed it.
    Rosy turned, caught him staring. “Thanks, I’ll have one.” She hoisted herself onto his desk, her skirt riding up. “At first, with your little earring and your morning rose and all, I thought you were gay. But you’re not, are you?”
    He couldn’t hide the proof of that as he passed her a drink. His breathing had become irregular. Lance couldn’t bear not being in control. He was not in control now, the woman was exploiting his one great weakness–it was as if she’d known about it, the flaw that persuaded the Yard to quietly let him go.
    She ignored the drink he sought to hand her, and without warning she grabbed his belt and pulled him on top of her, open wet mouth finding his, fingers sliding toward his groin.
    In less than a minute her panties were dangling from her ankles, and Lance was between them. At the transcendent moment of merging, it came to him that he hadn’t locked the outer office door. This ugly realization was confirmed when Hank Chekoff walked into the inner office, red-faced and spitting bile as he yanked out his police issue Smith 9 mm.
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    â€œIt’s her fault!” the coward screamed, and the burlesque queen died in a hail of bullets.
    It had to be done. The author had lusted for Rosy but never loved her, and she must be buried in the graveyard of the stereotypical.The subtle essence of L’Eau d’Hiver was wasted on this femme pornographique, save it for a sidekick with cool, with class.
    Widgeon, Chapter Nineteen, “The Credible Sidekick.” Ever since the pioneering Dr. Watson, the role of best supporting actor–the foil, the mirror against whom your hero humbly shines–has been crucial to the success of mystery series. If I may be allowed to drop the name of my own Constable Ed Marchmont, it was no easy task to create a totally humourless character and make him interesting!
    Brian remembered to back up, then put his weary old Mac to sleep. He must gird himself for the office, for Cudworth Brown and his ill-meant apologies for his ill-mannered accusations. He cut up some coke for the road, poured it into a little envelope torn from a Craven A packet.
    He didn’t feel especially bonkers now that he was off Xanax, which had done little, merely stabilized him. Cocaine seemed a more natural remedy, curative; he felt healthier after a snort or two, sharper, confident. And it helped cut down the drinking.
    He shrugged into his coat and descended into the bowels of downtown, a gloomy day, a cold drizzle. An ATM on Georgia Street coughed up three hundred dollars. He was going through his account fast, that was the drawback of his mood enhancer of choice.
    He had to buy presents for the kids, find a way to smuggle them in. The shops were busy, depressing. Dumbly smiling elves in tinselled windows, syrup from speakers, tunes for illiterate ears, Christmas lights everywhere, sputtering, blinking, inducing a new phobia, fear of epileptic seizure.
    He tarried a while