Read Online The Graving Dock by Gabriel Cohen - Free Book Online Page A

drive was closed to cars, that didn’t mean that it saw no traffic. First the detectives passed a blond jogger in a trim sweatsuit, her tight ponytail tossing in a circle above her head. A hundred yards on they zipped by an inexperienced Rollerblader lurching forward, arms thrust out, and then a pack of bicyclists in sleek pro gear, their goggles and aerodynamic helmets making them look like a swarm of space aliens. These signs of activity were good for the case: Though the shootings had happened in the park’s interior woodlands, the perp would have had to cross the loop to get there, and maybe some of these weekday athletes had seen him do it.
    Their earnest progress around the park made Jack think of the extra few pounds at his own waist. He lived only a mile or two away—maybe he could take up a little jogging during his time off. It would be good to get out into nature a little, watch the seasons change. He resolved to stop by a sporting goods store and pick up some appropriate running clothes.
    His partner swiveled as they passed a jogger in a Spandex outfit. “Jesus, did you see that guy’s tights? Come on, people: Leave a little to the imagination.” Vargas didn’t say much, but when she did, she prided herself on talking like one of the guys.
    Jack decided to buy some old-fashioned baggy sweatpants.
    They were getting close now, as they swooped past some of the park’s genteel landmarks: an Adirondack-style gazebo on the lake, a turn-of-the-century covered pavilion…Soon they came upon the Boathouse, an elegant white building with huge arched windows and a red-tiled roof. It faced onto a serene little lagoon, an offshoot of the lake, separated from it by a graceful stone bridge. A Chinese bride in yards of white taffeta sat by the shore as a photographer snapped pictures. Jack wondered how the woman kept from shivering in her sleeveless dress, but evidently it was worth the discomfort. Chinese wedding parties loved this spot: With the bridge in the background, the sparkling water, the willow trees, it made an ideal calendar-style image for the wedding album.
    Jack stared at the lagoon. Ever since the fiasco at the inn upstate he had been agonizing about a spot for his next proposal. Why not here? He could suggest a little stroll with Michelle, lead her up onto the bridge…Thank God the inn had finally found the ring, miraculously unmangled, inside the garbage disposal (or so they claimed).
    “I think this is the turnoff,” Vargas said.
    Jack veered onto the Center Drive, which led into the heart of the park. As they left the loop road behind, the cheery tone changed. The woods became quiet, nearly devoid of people, and various lonely paths led off into the underbrush. A subtle air of menace crept in, as if they were entering a fairy-tale forest.
    A hundred yards ahead, a group of NYPD vehicles was clustered like a bunch of big flashing beetles. Jack parked far away, so he wouldn’t risk getting blocked in. The sound of his closing door seemed to echo in the woods. Ahead he heard an occasional crackle of radios, but the area was otherwise still, the quiet broken only by the scuffing of his shoes on the asphalt, an unseen dog barking in the distance, a squirrel skittering through the dead leaves. He breathed deep: The air held a mulchy, piney smell.
    Beyond the vehicles, to the right, some yellow Crime Scene tape stretched across the turnoff for a secluded path. Jack and Vargas badged the uniform standing guard, and got the familiar nod of respect. Ladies and gentlemen, the cavalry has arrived.
    THERE WAS A PHOTOGRAPHER at work here, too, but his subject was the dark opposite of the happy view near the Boathouse.
    The crime scene was about two hundred yards up the path, which twisted and turned so that it lost all sightlines with the road and then descended into a quiet hollow between two ridges. A wire fence ran along the left side, and a steep hillside rose along the other: It made a perfect spot for a