Read Online The Many Deaths of Joe Buckley by Assorted Baen authors, Barflies - Free Book Online

plus-or-minus, of course, so there was overlap.” He shook his head.
    “So then we look at this guy, Joe Buckley; twenty-two years old, perfect health, dating a few girls—who all knew each other and didn’t seem to be particularly worried about it—on the rise in one of the movie studios’ development groups, goes to a big bash, comes home, found dead the next day without a mark on him.” The accompanying photo showed a brown-haired young man lying peacefully on his back, just a slight unnatural paleness indicating that there was anything wrong. “There was evidence that he might have had some company that night, but nothing conclusive. The tox screen came back with a big fat zip—along with the rest of the ME’s workup. He said, ‘The only problem with this guy is that he ought to be walking around alive and he’s dead.’ So it was listed as death due to natural causes, some kind of heart condition.”
    * * *
    Right now, I wanted to do some work that didn’t threaten me with Pyrrhic victories. I opened my notes on Kevin Ferrin’s problem cases, which posed a challenge I could feel better about than the ambivalent hell I had just gone through.
    I had—in a way—managed to find a common thread among all the victims, but I didn’t know if it was a significant common thread. In his original narration of the problem, Kevin had mentioned that both the Roquettes and Buckley had recently attended a party. A quick investigation turned up the fact that all of the victims had attended a big bash within a few days of their deaths. Of course, given the higher-society nature of the neighborhood, parties were probably common. And after reviewing the guest lists, we hadn’t found any guests in common with the majority of the victims.
    * * *
    “You’re really playing with fire, Wood.” Clement whispered.
    Thinking of how the endgame of this whole mess might play out, I agreed. Timing was going to be absolutely everything . . . and I had to make sure that all three sides involved—mine, the prosecutor’s, and the police—knew the right info, at the right time, to act on it, or else the whole thing would blow up in my face—and I’d be the first casualty. I had the proof in hand, though, courtesy of poor, dead Joe Buckley and a very thorough scene investigator who’d bagged a single hair that was out of place. Now if I could just get through these next few days . . .

Boundary
    ERIC FLINT AND RYK E. SPOOR
    “Dear God, I’m going to die,” muttered Joe Buckley, as the SUV bounced from one rutted pothole to another.
    “Oh, come on, Joe, I don’t drive that badly.”
    The silence caused Helen Sutter to glance over at Joe. His face was pale under its tan, contrasting all the more with his dark hair. His habitually cheerful expression was currently replaced by that of a man who has discovered he has a terminal illness and just two weeks to live. “. . . Do I?”
    “Eyes on road! On the road !!! UNGH!”
    The “ungh” was from the SUV’s particularly hard, bottoming-out-the-shocks landing following yet another acrobatic leap across the roadbed, in an attempt to leave the rough dirt track and strike out across the rocky terrain nearby.
    Helen gave a restrained curse and hauled on the steering wheel. The SUV responded, skidding slightly, but heading back into the center of the dirt track leading to the Secord ranch. Holding the line with one hand, Helen brushed her blond hair out of her eyes; as usual it was escaping the ponytail it was supposedly tied into. Despite the fact that it was early in the season and only eleven in the morning, Helen could feel a thin film of sweat on her forehead.
    Well, that’s the life of a paleontologist , she thought ruefully. Pay all your grant money for the chance to break rocks, instead of getting sentenced to hard labor and doing it for free.
    “What’s wrong with my driving?”
    “Nothing, nothing.” Joe paused. “If you’re in the Baja 500.”
    “Oh, all right, I’ll