Read Online The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller by Richard Brown - Free Book Online Page B

he’s dead,” Simmons replied.
    Isaac headed to the passenger door.
    “Do you know about James?”
    “Yes.”
    “Doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
    Isaac opened the passenger door and climbed
inside the cab. A fine gray ash covered the seat and floor of the
truck; the small stone statue lay in the middle of the ash like a
fallen angel. “No, it doesn't,” he finally answered. “You never
answered my question. What do we know about the truck driver?”
    “Not much. He’s divorced. Name is Dante
Hollinger.”
    “Dante, huh? Does he have a record?”
    “No, he’s clean. He had an ex-wife but she’s
dead.”
    “Maybe he killed her.”
    Simmons shrugged his shoulders.
    “Any connection between him and James
Ackerman?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Any witnesses?”
    “None so far, but this receipt from the
A-Plus Gas station was in the pocket of his jeans.”
    Simmons pulled the receipt out of his jacket
and handed it to Isaac.
    Isaac looked down at the receipt and then
down the road. “I’d say he picked up James at the gas station a few
minutes before the collision. Anything on the Escort?”
    “No. Still missing.”
    Isaac walked toward the rear of the truck. A How’s my driving? sticker was on the bumper with a telephone
number underneath. Isaac sneered when he read it. "Not very
good."
    “Maybe we should call the number,” Simmons
said.
    Isaac pulled on the heavy lock latched to
the trailer door. “You know what’s inside?”
    “Motor oil, I believe.”
    “Motor oil, huh. Oh well, how about we head
over to the gas station and have a chat with the clerk. It should
only take a minute.”
    They drove down the road to the A-Plus gas
station on the corner of Parker Avenue. The parking lot was empty
when they arrived, but Isaac could see the shadowy profile of
someone meandering around inside. Once inside, he scanned the
aisles of the store while Simmons stayed close to the door. There
was a black and white television set behind the counter with the
volume turned all the way up; the tiny speakers rattled and hissed
while small dots of snow splattered on the screen.
    “Hello,” Isaac called. “Anybody here?”
    A skinny middle-aged man stepped out of the
back office and walked behind the front counter. The clerk looked
as though he had not taken a shower in over a month, and by the
odor—a urinals perfume—he presented with such ease and
indifference, it was very likely true. A white button up shirt
covered his darkly tanned, reptile skin, while blotches of sweat
sunk into the underarms and a ring of old dirt and filth clung to
the collar.
    “What do you want?”
    Isaac stepped ahead of Simmons and put his
badge down on the checkout counter. “I’m Detective Winters. And
this is Detective Simmons.” Simmons nodded at the store clerk.
“What’s your name, sir?”
    The clerk licked his lips and pointed at the
tag on his shirt. “Eddie.”
    “All right Eddie—”
    “Can’t you read,” the clerk interrupted.
    Isaac stared at the clerk for a second then
turned and smiled at Simmons.
    “What do you want?”
    “How about you let me ask the
questions?”
    “What do you want?”
    “What I want is for you to shut your damn
mouth for a second so I can speak!”
    “I don’t have to listen to you.”
    “Hey man, just a few questions and then were
gone,” said Simmons. “We're not here to cause any trouble.”
    Eddie stood silent for a moment then snarled
at Simmons. “Whatever you say, Detective.”
    “Good,” said Isaac. “Now how about turning
down the volume on the boob tube so we can communicate like
civilized human beings?”
    Eddie walked over to the television and
yanked the cord from the wall.
    “Thank you. Now do you know a man named
Dante Hollinger?”
    The scruffy clerk offered no response.
    “Or James Ackerman?”
    “ Did you have a customer
come into the store an hour ago and buy a pack of Marlboro
cigarettes?” Simmons asked. “Long hair. Driving a blue