Read Online Lassiter 06 - Fool Me Twice by Paul Levine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Levine
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whirling, twirling, unidentifiable
mass.
My first impression was that someone had
leapt off the landing of the stairs at me, like a cowboy in a
Western. I ducked and head-rolled on the old pine floor, coming up
in a crouch, adrenaline pumping, knees bent, legs spread, fists
clenched.
My second impression was different. There
were two of us in the room, all right, but one of us was dead.
***
He was suspended from the ceiling fan and
looked like one of those circus performers on the high rings,
spinning dizzying circles. The body swung at a forty-five-degree
angle from the ceiling, circling above me in endless, hypnotic
motion. The legs were straight out, the arms flung back from the
centrifugal force. In the moonlight, the shadow danced crazily
across the floor and up the wall.
A jumble of emotions. On South Beach, I had
the strange sensation that something was wrong. Blinky was usually
late, but he always shows. Tonight he had been afraid of something,
someone. What, who?
I felt my heart beating and beating hard. I
tried to calm myself down and think. What to do first? Cut him
down, call the police, take care of Kip? They don’t train you for
this stuff, not in three-a-day practices in August, and not in
night law school in September.
Now my mind was tearing along at a speed I
couldn’t control. Flashes of overlapping thoughts and unanswered
questions kept jolting me with each spin of the body. Who killed
Blinky Baroso and why, and had the killer been looking for me? I
said a silent prayer of thanks that Kip was unhurt.
I duck-walked out from under the body and
got to the wall, reaching for the light switch. Overhead, three
spots flashed on. I squinted through the glare and saw how he was
fastened to the motor housing of the fan. What looked like a bolt
of colorful silk cloth was digging into his neck and tied to
something, a wire coat hanger maybe, that was attached to the
fan.
In the brightness, I could see his eyes were
bulging open, and his tongue, black and swollen, stuck out the side
of his mouth. And I could see something else, too.
It wasn’t Blinky Baroso.
Chapter 6
My Alibi
I called Charlie Riggs
first, getting a recording that informed me he had gone fishing,
telling all his friends, “ Vive
valeque.” I should have figured he was
still in the Keys. Granny never complained when I headed north
early, leaving Charlie behind to keep her company. I think it was
Father Andrew Greeley, with the aid of the Gallup Poll, who
determined that couples in their sixties have the best sex.
Something to look forward to.
Granny answered on the second ring, and I
pictured her rolling over in bed and handing the phone to my old
friend. Charlie said he’d get here in an hour-fifteen if his old
Chew pickup didn’t throw a rod.
Next, I called Miami Homicide where I am
known, but not necessarily liked. A woman with a faint Cuban accent
took down the information, calmly checking the address three times,
and politely asking me not to leave the premises. From her tone,
she might have been taking an order for a pizza with anchovies, but
that’s the way cops act, particularly in a city where homicides are
as plentiful as mosquitoes. Next I called Abe Socolow at home,
figuring if I hadn’t, the cops would have, and Abe’s the kind of
guy who remembers the small stuff.
At first, I tried not to touch anything,
having been educated by television that I might foul up the crime
scene with my fingerprints. Once every hundred years or so, a crime
will be solved by finding an unknown assailant’s fingerprints at
the scene. Usually, fingerprints merely corroborate what everyone
already knows: Three witnesses in the liquor store identify the
gunman, and a fingerprint specialist confirms his prints are on the
gun dropped at the scene.
Then, I remembered Kip was still in the car.
I didn’t want him to see the body a second time, so I hit the
switch for the fan, went into the kitchen, hauled out a high
mass.
My first impression was that someone had
leapt off the landing of the stairs at me, like a cowboy in a
Western. I ducked and head-rolled on the old pine floor, coming up
in a crouch, adrenaline pumping, knees bent, legs spread, fists
clenched.
My second impression was different. There
were two of us in the room, all right, but one of us was dead.
***
He was suspended from the ceiling fan and
looked like one of those circus performers on the high rings,
spinning dizzying circles. The body swung at a forty-five-degree
angle from the ceiling, circling above me in endless, hypnotic
motion. The legs were straight out, the arms flung back from the
centrifugal force. In the moonlight, the shadow danced crazily
across the floor and up the wall.
A jumble of emotions. On South Beach, I had
the strange sensation that something was wrong. Blinky was usually
late, but he always shows. Tonight he had been afraid of something,
someone. What, who?
I felt my heart beating and beating hard. I
tried to calm myself down and think. What to do first? Cut him
down, call the police, take care of Kip? They don’t train you for
this stuff, not in three-a-day practices in August, and not in
night law school in September.
Now my mind was tearing along at a speed I
couldn’t control. Flashes of overlapping thoughts and unanswered
questions kept jolting me with each spin of the body. Who killed
Blinky Baroso and why, and had the killer been looking for me? I
said a silent prayer of thanks that Kip was unhurt.
I duck-walked out from under the body and
got to the wall, reaching for the light switch. Overhead, three
spots flashed on. I squinted through the glare and saw how he was
fastened to the motor housing of the fan. What looked like a bolt
of colorful silk cloth was digging into his neck and tied to
something, a wire coat hanger maybe, that was attached to the
fan.
In the brightness, I could see his eyes were
bulging open, and his tongue, black and swollen, stuck out the side
of his mouth. And I could see something else, too.
It wasn’t Blinky Baroso.
Chapter 6
My Alibi
I called Charlie Riggs
first, getting a recording that informed me he had gone fishing,
telling all his friends, “ Vive
valeque.” I should have figured he was
still in the Keys. Granny never complained when I headed north
early, leaving Charlie behind to keep her company. I think it was
Father Andrew Greeley, with the aid of the Gallup Poll, who
determined that couples in their sixties have the best sex.
Something to look forward to.
Granny answered on the second ring, and I
pictured her rolling over in bed and handing the phone to my old
friend. Charlie said he’d get here in an hour-fifteen if his old
Chew pickup didn’t throw a rod.
Next, I called Miami Homicide where I am
known, but not necessarily liked. A woman with a faint Cuban accent
took down the information, calmly checking the address three times,
and politely asking me not to leave the premises. From her tone,
she might have been taking an order for a pizza with anchovies, but
that’s the way cops act, particularly in a city where homicides are
as plentiful as mosquitoes. Next I called Abe Socolow at home,
figuring if I hadn’t, the cops would have, and Abe’s the kind of
guy who remembers the small stuff.
At first, I tried not to touch anything,
having been educated by television that I might foul up the crime
scene with my fingerprints. Once every hundred years or so, a crime
will be solved by finding an unknown assailant’s fingerprints at
the scene. Usually, fingerprints merely corroborate what everyone
already knows: Three witnesses in the liquor store identify the
gunman, and a fingerprint specialist confirms his prints are on the
gun dropped at the scene.
Then, I remembered Kip was still in the car.
I didn’t want him to see the body a second time, so I hit the
switch for the fan, went into the kitchen, hauled out a high
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