Read Online The Front by Patricia Cornwell - Free Book Online

hasn’t gotten that far, and if he says as much, the commissioner will give him stick about it. Killien avoids answering the question by asking a different one. “This wasn’t thoroughly investigated by the Met at the time?” He moves paperwork around on his desk. “I don’t see anything. . . .”
    â€œWe weren’t contacted, apparently. There didn’t seem to be a British interest, apparently. The victim’s boyfriend was American, was the main suspect, and even if there was the slightest suspicion she may have been the work of the Boston Strangler, there wouldn’t have been a reason to involve us.”
    â€œThe Boston Strangler?”
    â€œThe district attorney’s theory.”
    Killien spreads out photographs taken at the hospital, where she was examined by a forensic nurse. He imagines the cops seeing Lamont like this. How can they look at their powerful DA ever again and not imagine what’s in these pictures? How does she cope?
    â€œOf course I’ll do whatever you wish,” he says. “But why the sudden urgency?”
    â€œWe’ll discuss it over a drink,” the commissioner says. “I have an event at the Dorchester, so meet me there five sharp.”
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    Meanwhile, in Watertown, Filippello Park is deserted.
    Nothing but empty picnic tables beneath shade trees, vacant playing fields, and cold barbecues. Win figures the playground Raggedy Ann referred to in the card she left with Farouk is probably the tot lot, so he waits on a bench near sliding boards and a splash pool. No sign of anybody until eight minutes past ten, when he hears a car on the bike path. There are only two types of people outrageous enough to drive on bike paths: cops or idiots who should be arrested. He gets up as a dark blue Taurus parks, and Stump rolls down her window.
    â€œUnderstand you’re supposed to meet someone.” She looks furious, as if she hates him.
    â€œYou chase her off ?” he says, none too friendly himself.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be here.”
    â€œBelieve it’s a public park. And what the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œYour meeting’s been canceled. Thought I’d drop by to let you know in person. Was considerate about it, even after what you did.”
    â€œWhat I did? And who the hell told you—”
    â€œ You show up uninvited at the mobile lab,” Stump interrupts. “Spend an hour with me, pretending to be a nice guy, even helpful. Call later and ask me on a date, and all the while you’re burning me!”
    â€œBurning you?”
    â€œShut up and get in. I recognized your car wreck over there. You can get it later. Don’t think you have to worry about anybody stealing it.”
    They creep along the bike path, her dark glasses fixed straight ahead, her dress casual bordering on sloppy, but deliberate. Khaki shirt, untucked, baggy, to hide the pistol on her hip or at the small of her back. Her jeans are loose-fitting, a faded soft denim, frayed in spots, and long, probably to conceal an ankle holster. Most likely her left ankle. Could be on her right ankle, he has no idea. Is ignorant about prosthetics, and he follows the contours of her thighs, wondering what she does to keep the right one as muscular as the left, imagines she must manage leg extensions, maybe on a specially designed machine, or she might wrap weights below the knee and do extensions that way. If it were him, no way he’d let his thigh completely atrophy just because some other part of him was missing.
    She suddenly stops the car, yanks up a lever under her seat to shove it back as far as it will go, and props her right foot up on the dash.
    â€œThere,” she snaps at him. “Get an eyeful. I’m sick of your not-so-subtle voyeurism.”
    â€œGreat hiking boots,” he says. “LOWAs with Vibram out-soles, shock-absorbing, amazing stabilization. If it wasn’t for the brim of