Read Online The Silver Anniversary Murder by Lee Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: Lee Harris
Ads: Link
had been delivered. Then I sat down to think.
They had killed Peter Mitchell, too. It took a minute or so before I realized I had thought “they” not “he.” There must be two of them, a man and a woman. The second, more distant voice on the phone had been a man’s. Perhaps the phone call to me had, as Joe suggested, been some kind of setup.
I looked at my watch. I really did want to swim. It was hot out today and I had my membership card. I didn’t need to pick up Eddie for a couple of hours and I hadn’t been in the pool since the end of last summer. Suddenly, I could almost taste the water, sparkling blue where the afternoon sun hit it.
I pulled on one of last year’s suits, looked at myself with slight misgivings in the bathroom mirror, grabbed a cover-up and a towel, and drove off. The parking lot was only half full and I was able to park in relative shade. A new high school face greeted me at the entrance and OK’d my card.
A number of people from the area where we lived, from the church, and from the school waved and said hello as I passed. I stopped only briefly, the shimmering water as inviting as I had ever seen it. I picked a lounge, left my towel, bag, and sandals, and made my way to the water. It was quite cool, but this was early in the season. I went in by degrees, finally dipping my body up to my shoulders. And then I was off.
I am not a strong swimmer but I am an enthusiastic one. I had one of the reserved lap lanes to myself, and I glided back and forth, regaining my dormant skills. Finally, I let my mind travel back to thoughts of the Mitchells.
The essential question was still unanswered: What had the Mitchells done to enrage the man and woman, according to my logic, who had hunted them down and killed them? Maybe the Mitchells had bilked them out of money. Maybe the Mitchells were con artists who had gone too far with a mark.
I came to the end of the lane once again and decided I’d had enough for a first dip in the pool. As I usually did, I lay on my lounge under a huge shade tree and let myself dry. I had a book with me, but I was too consumed with the Mitchell homicides to concentrate on reading. One thing I knew for sure: This was not a crime of the moment. This crime had been planned for years and executed accordingly. What puzzled me was how I fit into it. The woman had known my full name and who I was in the community. I believed I had been talking to a killer, not a victim. She must have known that by alerting me I would stir the pot, so why did she call me that day in May?
“They’re all interesting questions,” Jack said in the evening. “And I can’t answer them any more than you can. But I agree this wasn’t a crime of opportunity. These people were marked for death, hunted for the kill. By the way, we don’t yet know that the dead man is the husband of Holly Mitchell.”
“True, but it’s a good bet.”
“Joe promised to fax me the sketches as soon as they’re drawn. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow.”
“I hope the artist has enough to work with.”
“They have special guys that do that sort of thing. Remember when you got someone to make a head sculpture for you a few years ago and then he changed the age?”
I did remember. It had been fascinating to see. “OK. I’ll just wait for the sketch. I want to show it to Gladys.”
“I’m sure the cops’ll show it to the building manager and the neighbors. Someone there’ll ID him.”
“What I need is someone from the past, one person who can place that couple in a city where they were known before they started running. It’s as though they built a concrete wall around themselves and someone has to crack it open. If we could get those sketches on TV, maybe someone would come forward.”
“You’re not getting it on national TV,” my husband the realist said. “And if they come from the Midwest or the West, no one in New York City is likely to have known them.”
I found out the next day that
They had killed Peter Mitchell, too. It took a minute or so before I realized I had thought “they” not “he.” There must be two of them, a man and a woman. The second, more distant voice on the phone had been a man’s. Perhaps the phone call to me had, as Joe suggested, been some kind of setup.
I looked at my watch. I really did want to swim. It was hot out today and I had my membership card. I didn’t need to pick up Eddie for a couple of hours and I hadn’t been in the pool since the end of last summer. Suddenly, I could almost taste the water, sparkling blue where the afternoon sun hit it.
I pulled on one of last year’s suits, looked at myself with slight misgivings in the bathroom mirror, grabbed a cover-up and a towel, and drove off. The parking lot was only half full and I was able to park in relative shade. A new high school face greeted me at the entrance and OK’d my card.
A number of people from the area where we lived, from the church, and from the school waved and said hello as I passed. I stopped only briefly, the shimmering water as inviting as I had ever seen it. I picked a lounge, left my towel, bag, and sandals, and made my way to the water. It was quite cool, but this was early in the season. I went in by degrees, finally dipping my body up to my shoulders. And then I was off.
I am not a strong swimmer but I am an enthusiastic one. I had one of the reserved lap lanes to myself, and I glided back and forth, regaining my dormant skills. Finally, I let my mind travel back to thoughts of the Mitchells.
The essential question was still unanswered: What had the Mitchells done to enrage the man and woman, according to my logic, who had hunted them down and killed them? Maybe the Mitchells had bilked them out of money. Maybe the Mitchells were con artists who had gone too far with a mark.
I came to the end of the lane once again and decided I’d had enough for a first dip in the pool. As I usually did, I lay on my lounge under a huge shade tree and let myself dry. I had a book with me, but I was too consumed with the Mitchell homicides to concentrate on reading. One thing I knew for sure: This was not a crime of the moment. This crime had been planned for years and executed accordingly. What puzzled me was how I fit into it. The woman had known my full name and who I was in the community. I believed I had been talking to a killer, not a victim. She must have known that by alerting me I would stir the pot, so why did she call me that day in May?
“They’re all interesting questions,” Jack said in the evening. “And I can’t answer them any more than you can. But I agree this wasn’t a crime of opportunity. These people were marked for death, hunted for the kill. By the way, we don’t yet know that the dead man is the husband of Holly Mitchell.”
“True, but it’s a good bet.”
“Joe promised to fax me the sketches as soon as they’re drawn. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow.”
“I hope the artist has enough to work with.”
“They have special guys that do that sort of thing. Remember when you got someone to make a head sculpture for you a few years ago and then he changed the age?”
I did remember. It had been fascinating to see. “OK. I’ll just wait for the sketch. I want to show it to Gladys.”
“I’m sure the cops’ll show it to the building manager and the neighbors. Someone there’ll ID him.”
“What I need is someone from the past, one person who can place that couple in a city where they were known before they started running. It’s as though they built a concrete wall around themselves and someone has to crack it open. If we could get those sketches on TV, maybe someone would come forward.”
“You’re not getting it on national TV,” my husband the realist said. “And if they come from the Midwest or the West, no one in New York City is likely to have known them.”
I found out the next day that
Similar Books
