Read Online The Psalmist by James Lilliefors - Free Book Online Page B

he said.
    Ship went first, with his distinctive, somewhat clunky walk, as if his shoes were an inch too long, wiping his hands again on his red lumberjack coat.
    Fisch was in the office, seated in front of twin monitors, perfectly postured in a black T-­shirt and dark pressed jeans. He turned and his nose immediately wrinkled; the fast food aroma evidently still clung to the two of them.
    â€œSorry,” Hunter said, looking self-­consciously at her hands. Shipman, she saw, had hidden his behind his back.
    Fischer was a tall, elegant-­looking man, half Cuban, half African-­American, originally from Miami. He ate no processed food and kept vitamins, fruit, and protein bars on his desk. He was an anomaly among cops, certainly among homicide investigators. But he was also one of the most disciplined and diligent detectives Hunter had ever worked with. She liked him a great deal even though he seemed unknowable in some ways. Ship had told her more than once that Fischer was gay, but she sensed he was just speculating.
    â€œWhat’ve you got?” Hunter asked.
    â€œPickup. Matches ID.”
    Fischer called up the digital file on his screen and tapped some keys, Hunter watching how the sinewy muscles in his arms worked.
    â€œLow res,” he said. “Texaco, Highway 50. 8:37 A.M., Tuesday.”
    About an hour after Pastor Bowers found the body.
    Hunter and Shipman watched the brief sequence, keeping a respectable distance . A silver double-­cab Dodge Ram pickup stopping beside a gas pump. The driver’s door opening. A tall man in an overcoat and baseball cap getting out, reaching for the gas nozzle. Seeming to duck his head away, as if to avoid standing in range of the camera.
    â€œMay be something, maybe not,” Fischer said. They all watched again. This time Hunter noticed the top of the license tag.
    â€œCan you freeze that? Is it Delaware?”
    â€œAlready have. Blown it up several ways. Last number’s cut off. It’s Delaware.”
    â€œWhat did our witness say?”
    â€œMr. Charles? Thinks so, can’t be sure.”
    â€œWe ought to release it, then,” Hunter said. “Did you e-­mail it to me?”
    â€œYou have it.”
    â€œGood. Good work.”
    Hunter and Shipman walked back to her office next door. They ate their lunches together, mostly in silence, Hunter at her desk, Shipman at her worktable. Ship ate fast, as if racing to finish first, talking inconsequentially about the case. Hunter savored her food, particularly the fries.
    â€œYou know, you shouldn’t eat so fast,” she said.
    â€œUh-­huh.”
    â€œSeriously.”
    â€œYeah. You’re probably right.” Which came out as “Pwafly wut.”
    He ate the rest the same way, though; there was no slowing Ship down once he got going. After he returned to his office, Hunter ran the gas pump sequence again on her own computer screen, this time in slow motion as she poked at the rest of her salad. There was something familiar about how this man carried himself. He reminded her of an actor, someone well known. But she couldn’t quite place who. She ran it again.
    Hunter caught a whiff of Polo cologne then and looked up.
    S TATE’S A TTORNEY W ENDELL Stamps was in her doorway, looking on with his wide, expressionless face. Dressed, as always, in a tailored suit, this one navy with pinstripes.
    â€œWhat’ve you got?”
    â€œOriental salad,” Hunter said. “Want a fry?”
    He flattened his lips as if she were asking him to play dolls.
    â€œWhat’ve you got on the case? Anything?”
    â€œNot much.” Hunter nodded at the screen. “Image of a pickup that matches description of a vehicle seen parked outside the church yesterday, about an hour before the pastor showed up.”
    She wiped the grease off her hands and turned the monitor screen, showing him the digital footage. The state’s attorney temporarily parked