Read Online Shallow Graves by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online Page A

happened?”
    “Permits? What about them?” Pellam was squinting. No, it wasn’t JP written on the phone booth wall. It was JD . Below that, in marker: Tigers, they’re number one!!! One thing about the country: teenagers were literate. In Manhattan he’d seen a similar sign. Debbo and Ki there the best!
    “They’re not issuing permits. The mayor, or somebody. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
    Pellam felt the shock. He burned with a wave of sudden fever. A week’s work, wasted.
    Marty’s death, wasted.
    “I didn’t hear. Did they say why?”
    Lefkowitz said, “They found some shit on him. I don’t know, pot or something. You guys . . .”
    “Alan, Marty wasn’t smoking when he died. I don’t know what happened but it wasn’t that. I found his stash. It hadn’t been opened.”
    “Whatever. . . . You know I don’t have any choice.”
    “It wasn’t Marty’s fault.” Pellam focused outside the glass and found he was staring directly into the window of Dutchess County Realty. The awning was down and the lights inside were on. There was nobody in the office.
    “Well, I’m sorry, John. But you understand.”
    “Sure.” Then it occurred to Pellam that there were two conversations going at once. He said, “Actually, no, Alan, I don’t understand. What’re you talking about?”
    “I’ve got to let you go.”
    “Alan, what are you saying?”
    “I’m saying you’re fired, John.”
    “What?” Just like that?
    “I thought that little incident a few years ago would have taught you a lesson.”
    In a low voice Pellam said, “What the hell do you mean by that?”
    “I’m back at square one, thanks to you and Marty.”
    “I’m telling you Marty was murdered. It was a setup.”
    Lefkowitz seemed distracted. “Get the wagon to the New York office. We’ll have your check waiting for you.”
    “Just—”
    Lefkowitz said, “Sorry, John. I got no room for mistakes with this project.”
    He hung up.
    “—like that?”
    THE FIRST THING Meg Torrens did when she woke up: she put her two-carat diamond ring on her index finger then lay back in bed for fifteen minutes and tried to think about nothing.
    It was a form of meditation she’d read about somewhere. It cleared your mind, made you healthier, relaxed you, made you more creative. It didn’t always work, but even if not, the discipline required—workingwith your brain like an unruly puppy—seemed helpful. Marginally helpful. Mademoiselle helpful. Better Homes and Gardens helpful.
    Beside her, Keith stirred slightly. His breathing was slow.
    She glanced at him, closed her eyes.
    Thinking about nothing.
    A bird trilled in the distance, a truck shifted gears on the grade of Lampton Road.
    Nothing, nothing, nothing.
    An instant before the alarm rang, she sensed it in her mind. An electronic Bzzzzt. Meg opened her eyes and just as the Seiko went off, reached over to tap the off button. She patted Keith on his solid shoulders. He was ten years older than Meg and had some serious businessman fat on him. But she didn’t mind that. His legs and butt were thin; you could get away with a lot of belly if everything else stayed in line. He had a broad, handsome face, the face of an actor who played kindly merchants and railroad owners. His hair was dense and unruly and he forced it into shape with spray and split it with a ruler-straight part. Meg regularly talked him out of dye; she thought salt-and-pepper was sexy.
    Keith reached up and squeezed her hand, muttering something. She moved closer to him, smelling the warm body sleep scent puff out from under the bellows of the sheet and comforter.
    The tip-off was his wristwatch.
    Keith groggily pulled the Rolex off his wrist and dropped it heavily on the bedside table. When he took off the watch she knew what was coming.
    His hands began to wander.
    “Honey. . . .” she said, something of a protest. But let herself be pulled over to him.
    They kissed. She pulled off the violet Victoria’s Secret teddy