Read Online Swift Justice by Laura DiSilverio - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura DiSilverio
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drink by the end of the day, and free ones tasted better than any other kind. “You’re on,” I yelled as the door swung shut.
“You got a fax a few minutes ago,” Gigi said.
Her voice sounded funny, and I looked up at her. She handed me a sheaf of papers. I glanced at them and understood her reaction.
“Is . . . is that girl dead?” Gigi asked, as I spread the photos Montgomery had faxed on my desk.
Even though the photos were head shots and there was no visible trauma to the face, the girl was clearly dead. Even in smudgy black and white her skin was too pale, her lips not much darker. I read Montgomery’s typically brief note:
Will let you know when ID confirmed.
“Yes,” I said sadly. “She’s dead.”
“Did you know her?” Gigi sank into the chair in front of my desk, stilling her trembling hands by clasping them on the plump knees revealed by a green and white striped skort.
“No. I was hired to find her.”
“We’ve got to find out who killed her!” Gigi said, righteous indignation flaring in her eyes.
“What makes you think someone killed her?” I asked in a damping tone, sliding the photos into my file marked LLOYD .
“You can just tell. She doesn’t seem peaceful,” Gigi said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s not at rest.”
“It doesn’t get much more restful than that.” I kept my tone detached, not wanting to admit the photos had affected me much the way they had Gigi. “Besides, even if she was murdered, it’s not my case. That’s the CSPD’s job. I was hired to find her.”
As I talked, my fingers flew over my keyboard and I brought up an e-mail from Aurora Newcastle. My finger hesitated on the mouse, but then I clicked on the attachment and stared at the photo of the beautiful young teen that filled the screen. Defensive brown eyes, a tight smile, cascades of mink-colored hair, and the flawless complexion Aurora had raved about. A full-color, living version of the girl in the morgue photos.
I swung the monitor so Gigi could see it. “Case closed.”
5
An hour and a Subway tuna sandwich later, I waited at Designer Touches for Melissa Lloyd to finish with a customer. A small storefront in Monument, Designer Touches had some furniture, work areas with computers where customers could construct their virtual dream room with help from an interior designer, fabric samples, and a large inventory of accessories ranging from lamps to clocks to pillows. I read the tag on one floor pillow. Who buys a dry-clean-only white silk pillow with tassels to put on the floor? Someone without kids or pets, I decided. Someone with a maid service.
I sat on a settee—a practical plaid Dacron—and thought about Gigi dashing to the bathroom to vomit when she saw Elizabeth Sprouse’s photo. I’d hovered outside the door, listening to the retching noises, feeling absolutely useless. Maybe she’d gotten food poisoning from the butterscotch cake.
“You okay?” I called when I heard the toilet flush.
Gigi emerged, dabbing at her lips with a piece of toilet paper. “My daughter’s only a couple of years younger than that girl,” she said. Without another word, she walked to herdesk and dug in her purse for a breath mint. Popping it in her mouth, she gave Bernie a pat on the head and walked out the door. I stared after her. Was she quitting or merely keeping her nail appointment? I knew which I was hoping for.
“You found her?”
Melissa Lloyd stood in front of me, a look of wary expectation on her face. A large barrette restrained her sandy hair at the nape of her neck, and her minimalist makeup did nothing to conceal the weariness in her face. A pale smudge that might have been spit-up stained the shoulder of her olive green suit jacket. I rose and shook her hand.
“Yes. It’s not good news, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere private we could talk?” I glanced around the showroom, my eyes catching on a pair of lamps shaped like flamingoes. No customers, but
“You got a fax a few minutes ago,” Gigi said.
Her voice sounded funny, and I looked up at her. She handed me a sheaf of papers. I glanced at them and understood her reaction.
“Is . . . is that girl dead?” Gigi asked, as I spread the photos Montgomery had faxed on my desk.
Even though the photos were head shots and there was no visible trauma to the face, the girl was clearly dead. Even in smudgy black and white her skin was too pale, her lips not much darker. I read Montgomery’s typically brief note:
Will let you know when ID confirmed.
“Yes,” I said sadly. “She’s dead.”
“Did you know her?” Gigi sank into the chair in front of my desk, stilling her trembling hands by clasping them on the plump knees revealed by a green and white striped skort.
“No. I was hired to find her.”
“We’ve got to find out who killed her!” Gigi said, righteous indignation flaring in her eyes.
“What makes you think someone killed her?” I asked in a damping tone, sliding the photos into my file marked LLOYD .
“You can just tell. She doesn’t seem peaceful,” Gigi said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s not at rest.”
“It doesn’t get much more restful than that.” I kept my tone detached, not wanting to admit the photos had affected me much the way they had Gigi. “Besides, even if she was murdered, it’s not my case. That’s the CSPD’s job. I was hired to find her.”
As I talked, my fingers flew over my keyboard and I brought up an e-mail from Aurora Newcastle. My finger hesitated on the mouse, but then I clicked on the attachment and stared at the photo of the beautiful young teen that filled the screen. Defensive brown eyes, a tight smile, cascades of mink-colored hair, and the flawless complexion Aurora had raved about. A full-color, living version of the girl in the morgue photos.
I swung the monitor so Gigi could see it. “Case closed.”
5
An hour and a Subway tuna sandwich later, I waited at Designer Touches for Melissa Lloyd to finish with a customer. A small storefront in Monument, Designer Touches had some furniture, work areas with computers where customers could construct their virtual dream room with help from an interior designer, fabric samples, and a large inventory of accessories ranging from lamps to clocks to pillows. I read the tag on one floor pillow. Who buys a dry-clean-only white silk pillow with tassels to put on the floor? Someone without kids or pets, I decided. Someone with a maid service.
I sat on a settee—a practical plaid Dacron—and thought about Gigi dashing to the bathroom to vomit when she saw Elizabeth Sprouse’s photo. I’d hovered outside the door, listening to the retching noises, feeling absolutely useless. Maybe she’d gotten food poisoning from the butterscotch cake.
“You okay?” I called when I heard the toilet flush.
Gigi emerged, dabbing at her lips with a piece of toilet paper. “My daughter’s only a couple of years younger than that girl,” she said. Without another word, she walked to herdesk and dug in her purse for a breath mint. Popping it in her mouth, she gave Bernie a pat on the head and walked out the door. I stared after her. Was she quitting or merely keeping her nail appointment? I knew which I was hoping for.
“You found her?”
Melissa Lloyd stood in front of me, a look of wary expectation on her face. A large barrette restrained her sandy hair at the nape of her neck, and her minimalist makeup did nothing to conceal the weariness in her face. A pale smudge that might have been spit-up stained the shoulder of her olive green suit jacket. I rose and shook her hand.
“Yes. It’s not good news, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere private we could talk?” I glanced around the showroom, my eyes catching on a pair of lamps shaped like flamingoes. No customers, but
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