Read Online The Evidence Room: A Mystery by Cameron Harvey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cameron Harvey
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differently.
His cell phone buzzed and shifted in his pocket. All these years, and it still gave him peace, knowing that someone was looking for him. It was the being needed that counted, even if it was only dead people who needed him. He answered the call, just as the whine of a distant siren rose above the noise of the water. The police were on their way.
CHAPTER TEN
Josh’s new place of work, a sprawling old wooden warehouse perched on the scorched riverbank, had all the traditional markings of a haunted house.
This far out of town, the bayou was no more than a thin chocolate strand that yawned into a swamp choked with black gum trees and buttonbush shrubs, and the vegetation seemed to be strangling the building itself. Surrounding trees covered the roof in long, gray plaits of Spanish moss, and woolgrass rose in thick clumps around the base of the splintering structure.
The only sign of life was an eggplant-colored Corvair parked at a dramatic angle in the weeds. This had to be his new boss’s car.
Something shifted in the tall grass, and Josh reached for his gun without thinking. Of course, there was nothing in his waistband. He was a member of the Rubber Gun Squad now. Administrative leave in the evidence room. It’s not permanent, Captain Rush had said, avoiding Josh’s gaze, pretending this job wasn’t the last stop on the loony-tune express to nowhere. Use your time there to think.
As if he didn’t think too much already.
“Hello?” Josh shouted in the general direction of the front door and was answered only by the whine of a swarm of insects. The relentless Florida humidity smothered him from all sides. What were the chances this place had air-conditioning?
Josh edged his way around the back of the building to the crumbling remains of a porch, complete with an ancient double-paned white door. Next to the buzzer was a plaque that read EVIDENCE ROOM, COOPER COUNTY. PLEASE RING FOR ASSISTANCE .
Josh pressed the buzzer twice. Above him, the leaden sky growled and snapped, a finger of lightning reaching down to touch the bayou. Josh turned the knob and went inside.
“Hello?” Josh was beginning to feel like this whole exercise was a joke. Boone and Donovan were probably crouched in the bushes outside, howling at Josh as he circled the building and then let himself in the back door.
The walls of the massive indoor space were painted in bright pastels like a kindergarten classroom. Rows of metal shelves twenty feet high stretched across the massive warehouse interior, boxes bursting from every shelf. From deep inside the warehouse, Josh could hear the faint lilt of music.
He followed the sound down the first row of metal shelving, a creaky ceiling fan sending a plume of hot air down on him. Cardboard boxes, wrinkled with age, slouched on each of the shelves, marked with a case number and a curling piece of colored tape. The boxes gave way to rows of skateboards and then bicycles suspended upside down, their streamers brushing against Josh’s shoulder. All of them evidence; all of them had once belonged to someone who had been the victim of a crime.
The music was louder now, and Josh stepped out of the row into a clearing where a pudgy man with salt-and-pepper curls swayed to the strains of a Dylan song that Josh half recognized.
“Christ on a bike!” the man shouted.
“Sorry,” Josh said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The older man chuckled. “Not at all! You just gave me a scare. Thought it was those ghosts again.” He extended a sweaty hand in Josh’s direction. “Mike Sambarello. But everyone calls me Samba. And you must be Detective Hudson!”
“Josh. Pleased to meet you.”
“So what do you think, Josh? Is this a cool place or what?”
There was something about this man, with his outward pointing feet, that reminded Josh of a clown, and he could not suppress a grin. “Sure. I like the music.”
Samba grinned. “Hey, you gotta do something to lighten the mood around
His cell phone buzzed and shifted in his pocket. All these years, and it still gave him peace, knowing that someone was looking for him. It was the being needed that counted, even if it was only dead people who needed him. He answered the call, just as the whine of a distant siren rose above the noise of the water. The police were on their way.
CHAPTER TEN
Josh’s new place of work, a sprawling old wooden warehouse perched on the scorched riverbank, had all the traditional markings of a haunted house.
This far out of town, the bayou was no more than a thin chocolate strand that yawned into a swamp choked with black gum trees and buttonbush shrubs, and the vegetation seemed to be strangling the building itself. Surrounding trees covered the roof in long, gray plaits of Spanish moss, and woolgrass rose in thick clumps around the base of the splintering structure.
The only sign of life was an eggplant-colored Corvair parked at a dramatic angle in the weeds. This had to be his new boss’s car.
Something shifted in the tall grass, and Josh reached for his gun without thinking. Of course, there was nothing in his waistband. He was a member of the Rubber Gun Squad now. Administrative leave in the evidence room. It’s not permanent, Captain Rush had said, avoiding Josh’s gaze, pretending this job wasn’t the last stop on the loony-tune express to nowhere. Use your time there to think.
As if he didn’t think too much already.
“Hello?” Josh shouted in the general direction of the front door and was answered only by the whine of a swarm of insects. The relentless Florida humidity smothered him from all sides. What were the chances this place had air-conditioning?
Josh edged his way around the back of the building to the crumbling remains of a porch, complete with an ancient double-paned white door. Next to the buzzer was a plaque that read EVIDENCE ROOM, COOPER COUNTY. PLEASE RING FOR ASSISTANCE .
Josh pressed the buzzer twice. Above him, the leaden sky growled and snapped, a finger of lightning reaching down to touch the bayou. Josh turned the knob and went inside.
“Hello?” Josh was beginning to feel like this whole exercise was a joke. Boone and Donovan were probably crouched in the bushes outside, howling at Josh as he circled the building and then let himself in the back door.
The walls of the massive indoor space were painted in bright pastels like a kindergarten classroom. Rows of metal shelves twenty feet high stretched across the massive warehouse interior, boxes bursting from every shelf. From deep inside the warehouse, Josh could hear the faint lilt of music.
He followed the sound down the first row of metal shelving, a creaky ceiling fan sending a plume of hot air down on him. Cardboard boxes, wrinkled with age, slouched on each of the shelves, marked with a case number and a curling piece of colored tape. The boxes gave way to rows of skateboards and then bicycles suspended upside down, their streamers brushing against Josh’s shoulder. All of them evidence; all of them had once belonged to someone who had been the victim of a crime.
The music was louder now, and Josh stepped out of the row into a clearing where a pudgy man with salt-and-pepper curls swayed to the strains of a Dylan song that Josh half recognized.
“Christ on a bike!” the man shouted.
“Sorry,” Josh said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The older man chuckled. “Not at all! You just gave me a scare. Thought it was those ghosts again.” He extended a sweaty hand in Josh’s direction. “Mike Sambarello. But everyone calls me Samba. And you must be Detective Hudson!”
“Josh. Pleased to meet you.”
“So what do you think, Josh? Is this a cool place or what?”
There was something about this man, with his outward pointing feet, that reminded Josh of a clown, and he could not suppress a grin. “Sure. I like the music.”
Samba grinned. “Hey, you gotta do something to lighten the mood around
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