Read Online Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley - Free Book Online Page A

nodded and said something like, “Yes, I will talk to this friend of yours.”
    I crumbled the smoked salmon into the sauté, and then I remembered the secret ingredient—lemon zest. Luckily, there was a lonely lemon in the fridge, so after adding some chopped lemon peel, lemon juice, salt, and pepper, I let the whole thing simmer while the pasta cooked.
    We went back over everyone Philip had talked to about Sherman Watlamet one more time, but nothing else of interest surfaced. By this time, the pasta was ready. I drained it, put it back in the pot, and dumped in the sauce. “Got any parmesan cheese?” Philip found a small hunk, which I grated and added to the pot. All that remained was tasting my masterpiece and announcing that dinner was ready.
    Philip opened a cheap cab and poured two glasses. We both ate hungrily and silently for several minutes. He said, “This is great, man. I didn’t know you could cook like this.”
    â€œI didn’t either. I got tired of eating crap food, so I’ve been dabbling in the kitchen. Sometimes a recipe just comes back to me. I guess I’d paid more attention to my wife’s cooking than I realized. I exhaled a breath. “She was a great cook. To her, food was the glue that held our family together. Of course, it really wasn’t. She was the glue.” I felt a surge of emotion and caught myself. “Anyway, I’m getting better at cooking, I think.”
    â€œFor sure,” Philip said as he piled on a second helping.
    Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Philip changed the subject. “What’s the deal with this sketch you helped make? Will it be in the papers?”
    â€œUh, it’ll circulate through the law enforcement systems for sure. I don’t know about the papers.”
    â€œHmm. So, what’re you going do to protect yourself from this guy?”
    I shrugged. “Any suggestions?”
    â€œI think you have to assume the shooter knows who you are. So, don’t make yourself a target. Stay away from the windows at your place, keep the blinds drawn, that sort of thing.”
    I nodded and frowned. The thought of having to skulk around at my own place was disquieting.
    â€œYou have a weapon at home?”
    â€œNope.”
    My friend shot me an incredulous look. “Why not?”
    I shrugged. “Never felt compelled to own one. In my last job I became familiar with what a bullet can do to a human body. Too familiar.”
    He cranked his brows down and shook his head. “That’s the whole idea, Cal. I’ve got a .357 Magnum I can loan you.”
    â€œThanks, but I’ll pass.” I knew I probably should take the gun, but at the time the threat to me personally still seemed pretty abstract.
    After we finished eating, I asked to use Philip’s computer to see what I could learn from the numbers I’d taken off Watlamet’s phone. I reminded Philip that Grooms was probably going to contact him, and when she did, he wasn’t to mention I had the numbers. Cops get pissy about people messing around in their crime scenes, I told him.
    I pulled up the reverse phone number directory and punched in the first of the three outgoing numbers I’d jotted down. It corresponded to a Methodist Church in Shaniko, the nearest meaningful town from Watlamet’s ranch. The second number was the residence of a minister named Aldus Hinkley in Shaniko, and the third was the Rose City Senior Living Center in Portland.
    Looking on over my shoulder, Philip said, “What do you make of that?”
    â€œNot much.” I checked the dates of the calls again. “But it’s interesting that Watlamet seemed anxious to talk to the reverend at a church in Shaniko after you talked to him about me. Maybe I’ll drop by there tomorrow on my way home and see what I can find out.”
    â€œWouldn’t hurt. It’s not too far out of your way.”
    I tried the numbers of the two