Read Online L a Requiem (1999) by Robert - Elvis Cole 08 Crais - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert - Elvis Cole 08 Crais
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to the wind and wondering what to do next when a soft voice behind him said, "To the side."
Chen jumped up, stumbling over his own feet as the diagram fell into the weeds.
The man said, "We don't want extra prints on the trail."
The man himself was standing off the trail in the weeds, and Chen wondered how he'd gotten here without Chen having heard. The man was almost as tall as Chen, but roped with lean muscle. He wore dark glasses and short military hair, and Chen was scared to death of him. For all John knew, this guy was the shooter, come back to pop another vie. He looked like a shooter. He looked like a psychopath who liked to pull the trigger, and those two damned uniforms were probably still making out, the girl slurping hickies the size of Virginia all over her partner's neck.
Chen said, "This is a police crime scene. You're not supposed to be here."
The man said, "Let me see."
He held out his hand and Chen knew he meant the diagram. Chen passed it over. It didn't occur to him not to.
First thing the man said was, "Where's the shooter?"
Chen felt himself darken. "I can't place him. There's too much obscuration." He sounded whiny when he said it, and that made him even more embarrassed. "The police are up on the road. They'll be down any minute."
The man stayed with the diagram and seemed not to hear him. Chen wondered if he should make a run for it.
The man handed back the diagram. "Step off the trail, John."
"How'd you know my name?"
"It's on the document form."
"Oh." Chen felt five years old and ashamed of himself. He was certain he would never get that Porsche. "Do you have any business being here? Who are you?"
The man bent close to the trail, looking at it from a sharp angle. The man stared at the scuffmark for a time, then moved up the trail a few feet where he went down into a push-up position. He held himself like that without effort, and Chen thought that he must be very strong. Worse, Chen decided that this guy probably got all the poon he could handle. Chen was just beginning to think that maybe he should join a gym (this guy obviously lived in one) when the man stepped to the side of the trail, and looked in the brush and weeds.
John said, "What are you looking for?"
The man didn't answer, just patiently turned up leaves and twigs, and lifted the ivy.
John took one step closer and the man raised a finger, the ringer saying: Don't.
John froze.
The man continued looking, his search area growing, and John never moved. He stood frozen there, wondering if maybe he should shout for help, sourly thinking that those two up in the radio car were so busy huffing and puffing that they'd never hear his cries.
The man said, "Your evidence kit."
John picked up his evidence kit and started forward.
The man raised the finger again, then pointed out a long half-moon route off the trail. "That way."
John crashed through the low brush where the man told him, ripping his pants in two places and picking up a ton of little scratches that pissed him off, but when he arrived, the man said, "Here."
A brass .22 casing was resting under an olive leaf.
John said, "Holy jumpin' Jesus." He stared at the man, who seemed to be staring back, though John couldn't tell for sure because of the dark glasses. "How'd you find this?"
"Mark it."
The man went back to the trail, this time squatting. John jammed a wire into the ground by the casing, then hurried to join him. The man pointed. "Look. Here to the side."
John looked, but saw nothing. "What?"
"Shoe." The man pointed closer. "Here."
John saw little bits and pieces of many prints, but couldn't imagine what this guy was talking about. "I don't see anything."
The man didn't say anything for a moment.
"Lean close, John. Use the sun. Let the light catch it, and you'll see the depression. A three-quarter print." His voice was infinitely patient, and John was thankful for that.
John rested with his belly in the brush alongside the trail, and looked for the
Chen jumped up, stumbling over his own feet as the diagram fell into the weeds.
The man said, "We don't want extra prints on the trail."
The man himself was standing off the trail in the weeds, and Chen wondered how he'd gotten here without Chen having heard. The man was almost as tall as Chen, but roped with lean muscle. He wore dark glasses and short military hair, and Chen was scared to death of him. For all John knew, this guy was the shooter, come back to pop another vie. He looked like a shooter. He looked like a psychopath who liked to pull the trigger, and those two damned uniforms were probably still making out, the girl slurping hickies the size of Virginia all over her partner's neck.
Chen said, "This is a police crime scene. You're not supposed to be here."
The man said, "Let me see."
He held out his hand and Chen knew he meant the diagram. Chen passed it over. It didn't occur to him not to.
First thing the man said was, "Where's the shooter?"
Chen felt himself darken. "I can't place him. There's too much obscuration." He sounded whiny when he said it, and that made him even more embarrassed. "The police are up on the road. They'll be down any minute."
The man stayed with the diagram and seemed not to hear him. Chen wondered if he should make a run for it.
The man handed back the diagram. "Step off the trail, John."
"How'd you know my name?"
"It's on the document form."
"Oh." Chen felt five years old and ashamed of himself. He was certain he would never get that Porsche. "Do you have any business being here? Who are you?"
The man bent close to the trail, looking at it from a sharp angle. The man stared at the scuffmark for a time, then moved up the trail a few feet where he went down into a push-up position. He held himself like that without effort, and Chen thought that he must be very strong. Worse, Chen decided that this guy probably got all the poon he could handle. Chen was just beginning to think that maybe he should join a gym (this guy obviously lived in one) when the man stepped to the side of the trail, and looked in the brush and weeds.
John said, "What are you looking for?"
The man didn't answer, just patiently turned up leaves and twigs, and lifted the ivy.
John took one step closer and the man raised a finger, the ringer saying: Don't.
John froze.
The man continued looking, his search area growing, and John never moved. He stood frozen there, wondering if maybe he should shout for help, sourly thinking that those two up in the radio car were so busy huffing and puffing that they'd never hear his cries.
The man said, "Your evidence kit."
John picked up his evidence kit and started forward.
The man raised the finger again, then pointed out a long half-moon route off the trail. "That way."
John crashed through the low brush where the man told him, ripping his pants in two places and picking up a ton of little scratches that pissed him off, but when he arrived, the man said, "Here."
A brass .22 casing was resting under an olive leaf.
John said, "Holy jumpin' Jesus." He stared at the man, who seemed to be staring back, though John couldn't tell for sure because of the dark glasses. "How'd you find this?"
"Mark it."
The man went back to the trail, this time squatting. John jammed a wire into the ground by the casing, then hurried to join him. The man pointed. "Look. Here to the side."
John looked, but saw nothing. "What?"
"Shoe." The man pointed closer. "Here."
John saw little bits and pieces of many prints, but couldn't imagine what this guy was talking about. "I don't see anything."
The man didn't say anything for a moment.
"Lean close, John. Use the sun. Let the light catch it, and you'll see the depression. A three-quarter print." His voice was infinitely patient, and John was thankful for that.
John rested with his belly in the brush alongside the trail, and looked for the
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