Read Online The Sign of the Book by John Dunning - Free Book Online

turned and walked ahead of me into the house, putting on lights as he went. The hall stretched straight on back through the house, past another hall that led, I assumed, to the bedrooms. Off to the right was a large room of some kind; to the left, another big room where the tragedy had happened. The death room, as the press would probably call it.
    McNamara went left and turned on the lights. I came to the door and stood there for a moment looking at the carnage. The carpet had been a light tan—probably lighter than it now seemed, I thought: now the center of it was dominated by an ugly black bloodstain. How many death scenes had I seen like this in my years as a Denver cop? I didn’t know what it would tell me this time; maybe nothing, but a cop always had to look, and in that moment I was a cop again. McNamara had gone across the room, stepping gingerly around the blood to stand near an old-style rinky-tink piano. Behind the piano was a pair of French doors, which were curtained with some flimsy lace stuff. I didn’t move. McNamara watched me as if he’d seen me work in some past life and knew what to expect. My eyes roved around the room and finally came back to where the old man was.
    â€œUgly, isn’t it?” he said.
    â€œIt always is, Parley.”
    â€œWhat’re you lookin’ for?”
    â€œNo idea,” I said. “Maybe I’m just hoping the room will speak to me.”
    â€œYou cops are funny birds.”
    â€œYeah. Some of us are a riot.”
    Eventually I came into the room, taking care not to touch anything. Yes, it had been three weeks. The sheriff had gone over it and he had had technicians out from the CBI, but to me it was a new scene. I could now see for myself what Parley had just told me: that this house, this cabin, had been built in pieces, with God knew how many add-ons over time, and this main room had probably been here for the full sixty years. There was nothing new-looking anywhere in sight. Straight across the room was a rustic rock fireplace. To the left of that, a glassed-in porch that in good weather would overlook the mountain range. But now darkness had spread beyond the glass, and with the lights on it seemed even darker, as if night had been upon us for hours.
    â€œSo what’s it tell you?” Parley asked.
    â€œNothing yet.” I shrugged: I really didn’t expect much. “It’s cold.”
    My eyes roved back to the left. There, near the fireplace, was a couch and a small circle of chairs with a coffee table in the center. Two floor lamps were placed behind the chairs, making it a cozy little reading circle when the fire was lit. In fact, a small stack of books was on the table and instinctively I moved across the room to see what they were. I looked down at The Quality of Courage, a recent book with Mickey Mantle’s byline.
    â€œWas Marshall a baseball fan?”
    He shrugged. “I really didn’t know him that well.”
    I bent over and touched the book by the edge. “Can I borrow your gloves for a minute?”
    â€œYou think they’ll fit you?”
    â€œYou got big hands, Parley. They’ll be good enough.”
    I pulled the right glove on. It was snug, not quite tight.
    â€œWhat’s the deal?” Parley said. “Sheriff said they were finished in here.”
    â€œMaybe, but I don’t see any residue on these books.”
    â€œYou mean fingerprint dust?”
    I nodded. “Just call it an old cop’s habit. I don’t like to touch things where somebody’s been killed.”
    I picked off the Mantle book, holding it by the corners, and laid it flat on the table beside the others. Under it was a novel, The Ballad of Cat Ballou, and under that a thing called How to Be a Bandleader, by Paul Whiteman. Under that was The Speeches of Adlai Stevenson, and at the bottom was a cheap tattered paperback, Gabby Hayes’ Treasure Chest of Tall Tales.
    McNamara seemed to