Read Online Killing Spree by Kevin O'Brien - Free Book Online

Gillian and gaping out the window. She had piercings in her nostril and eyebrow. “Think I should call the police?”
    “She is the police,” Gillian replied. “Or at least, she was. She’s retired now. Give it another minute, and let’s just see what happens.”
    Gillian had been through this before with Ruth. Whenever Ruth Langford saw a wrong, she had to right it. Litterbugs, illegal parkers, people who didn’t clean up their dog’s poop—they were all gambling with the wrath of Ruth when they committed their petty transgressions in her presence.
    The young man—with his baseball cap on backwards, and the waist of his jeans down below his butt—was goaded by his two buddies to go face-to-face with the old lady who had been screaming at him. One hand holding onto his jeans to keep them from falling down, the boy stood, slouch-shouldered in front of Ruth, apparently half-listening as she talked with him. Ruth even poked him in the chest with her finger a few times. He nodded tiredly, almost ashamedly. He shuffled back to where he’d discarded the twenty-four-ounce drink container, swiped it off the sidewalk, then marched to a nearby trash can and threw it in there.
    A few people who were watching from in front of the movie theater across the street applauded. Ruth patted the young man’s shoulder. He waved her away, then ambled back to his friends, who were laughing—and applauding with the other spectators.
    “I think we’re all right,” Gillian told the barista.
    Ruth strode back into the café, and sat down at the table. “Did you catch the pants on that kid? The zipper was down at his knees, for God’s sakes. I’ve seen some stupid fashion fads come and go, but that one takes the cake. Cops in all the major cities keep finding these slain gang members with their pants down around their ankles. These idiots can’t run away from rival gangs with their pants riding down so low. Morons!”
    Gillian grinned at her. “Feel better now? Did you blow off some steam?”
    “I do, and I did. And that kid will think twice before he tosses his trash on the sidewalk again.” Ruth sipped her Coke. “Now, where was I?”
    “You were talking to a friend with the NYPD about the Jennifer Gilderhoff case. And by the way, thanks again for doing this, Ruth.”
    “No thanks necessary, hon. I live for this kind of shit.” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “So Jennifer flew from Portland to New York two days before Halloween. She was traveling alone, and registered at the Best Western Hospitality House in Manhattan. Jennifer met with her publisher for dinner the night after her arrival. Halloween night, she was seen leaving the Best Western in a saucy flamenco-dancer getup, complete with castanets. She took a cab to a Greenwich Village bar, where later she was spotted with someone dressed as Zorro. No one could come up with a decent description of the guy, except to say he was white, about thirty, and looked like—Zorro. Duh! Anyway, Jennifer and her ‘Z-Man’ caught a cab outside the bar. The address Zorro gave the driver was for a travel agency that has been closed for two months. The driver said this character flew out of the taxi and ran into an alley, and only then did he realize the girl in back had been stabbed.”
    The barista arrived with their lunch orders. Ruth started digging into her crepes. But Gillian didn’t touch her salad.
    “So Jennifer must have been dating this guy who stabbed her,” she said.
    “Not necessarily,” Ruth replied, her mouth full. “According to Jennifer’s friends and her family, she hadn’t been seeing anybody recently. And she didn’t know a soul in New York—except her editor.”
    “But their Halloween costumes complemented each other. They must have planned it ahead of time together. It’s too much of a coincidence—”
    “It was Halloween, Gill,” Ruth interrupted. “Jennifer bought the dress at a little thrift shop in St. Mark’s Place