Read Online Manhattan Is My Beat by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online

break.”
    He looked around helplessly. “I don’t have my Day-timer here.”
    He’d
call
her and he had a Daytimer. This was scary. Richard was rapidly losing his appeal.
    “Never mind,” she said cheerfully.
    “Okay, how about tomorrow?” he asked. “I know I’m not doing anything tomorrow.”
    Not too eager now—watch it. “I guess.”
    “Where do you want to go?” he asked.
    “You can come here. I’ll cook.”
    “I thought you didn’t cook.”
    She said, “I don’t cook
well
. But I do cook. We’ll save the Four Seasons for a special occasion.” She looked at her wrist. She wore two watches. They’d both stopped working. “What time do you have?”
    “Eight.”
    “Shit, I have to go,” Rune said, slipping off her T-shirt.
    She could sense Richard watching her thin body, eyes sweeping up and down. She turned to him, wearing only her Bugs Bunny panties. “So, what are you staring at?” Put her hands on her hips.
    And got him to blush.
    Yes! Score one for me.
    “Glad you don’t shop at Frederick’s of Hollywood,” he said.
    A good recovery. This boy had potential.
    As she dressed, Richard asked, “What’s the hurry? I didn’t think your store opened until noon.”
    “Oh, I’m not going to work,” she said. “I’m going to the police.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    “Miss Rune,” Detective Manelli said, “we
are
investigating the case.”
    She looked at his organized desk. Here—not standing in front of a corpse—he seemed like an insurance agent. The close-together eyes weren’t so noticeable; they moved quickly, surveying her, and she decided he might be smarter than she’d thought. His first name was Virgil. She looked at the nameplate twice to make sure she’d read it right.
    She nodded at the file open on his desk, the one he’d been reading. “But that’s not his case. Mr. Kelly’s, I mean.”
    He took a breath, let it out. “No, it’s not.”
    “Which one is his?” she asked stridently. “How far down is it?” She gestured at the stack of folders.
    The captain—the one she’d met in Mr. Kelly’s apartment—breezed in. He glanced down with a splinter of recognition but didn’t say anything to her.
    “They want to hear today,” he told Manelli. “About the tourist killing.”
    “They’ll hear today,” Manelli said wearily.
    “You got anything?”
    “No.”
    “The mayor. You know. The
Post
. The
Daily News
.”
    “I know.”
    The captain looked at Rune once again. He left the office.
    “We’re doing everything according to procedures,” Manelli told her.
    “Who’s the tourist?”
    “Somebody from Iowa. Knifed in Times Square. Don’t start with me on that.”
    She said, “Just let me get this straight: You’re no closer to finding Mr. Kelly’s killer than you were yesterday.”
    On Manelli’s desk, opening up like a mutant flower, was a piece of deli tissue around a mass of corn muffin. He broke off a chunk and ate it. “How ‘bout you give us a day or two to make the collar?”
    “The …?”
    “To arrest the killer.”
    “I just want to know what happened.”
    “In New York City, we’ve got to deal with almost fifteen hundred homicides a year.”
    “How many people are working on Mr. Kelly’s case?”
    “Me mostly. But there’re other detectives checking things out. Look, Ms. Rune …”
    “Just Rune.”
    “What exactly is your interest?”
    “He was a nice man.”
    “The decedent?”
    “What a gross word that is. Mr.
Kelly
was a nice man. I liked him. He didn’t deserve to get killed.”
    The detective reached for his coffee, drank some, put it down. “Let me tell you the way it works.”
    “I know how it works. I’ve seen enough movies.”
    “Then you have no idea how it works. Homicide—”
    “Why do you have to use such big fancy words? Decedent, homicide. A
man
was
murdered
. Maybe if you said he was
murdered
, you’d work harder to find who did it.”
    “Miss, murder is only one kind of homicide. Mr. Kelly could have