Read Online The Sixth Idea by P. J. Tracy - Free Book Online

friend is being attacked in his house, please send help . . .
    Are you at the location, sir?
    No, I was talking to him on the phone and he went to answer the door, and started screaming. Please, is help on the way?
    I have emergency vehicles en route to that address right now.
    Thank God.
    â€œThat’s it,” Gino said, muting his computer. “He hung up after that.”
    Magozzi scraped at a piece of stubble on his jaw that his early morning shave had missed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. So Spencer was on the phone with his buddy, heard him getting attacked, and then the guy’s house blows to kingdom come. And then Spencer ends up dead a couple hours later. What the hell?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I said to myself. These guys were connected, two friends who end up murdered on the same night? They had to be into something that made them targets, right? But the thing is, they were both dull as dirt—nice, older guys who worked average jobs until they retired.”
    â€œLuntz, too?”
    â€œYeah. He worked for an iron foundry up north most of his life, then came down here to finish out his golden years. I talked to the arson investigator in charge of Luntz’s case. Guy named Cory. They’ve been working the scene hard because they figured foul play from the get-go. The home invasion angle was the icing on the cake. The place was so hot, they’re just getting in there now. They’ll let us know if they pull anything besides charcoal out of the debris.”
    Magozzi reached for his phone when it started skittering on his desk. “Detective Magozzi here.”
    There was a hanging silence, then a tentative female voice. “Detective . . . my name is Lydia Ascher. The manager at the Chatham Hotel gave me your number. This is in regard to Chuck Spencer.”
    Magozzi gave Gino a thumbs-up and put the phone on speaker. “Are you a friend of Mr. Spencer’s, ma’am?”
    â€œNot really. We met on a plane yesterday and agreed to have lunch today, here at his hotel, but the manager told me to call you.”
    â€œAre you at the Chatham now, Ms. Ascher?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMy partner and I would like to talk to you. We can be there in ten minutes.”
    Magozzi heard her let out a shaky sigh. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
    Gino pushed himself up out of his chair and grabbed his coat. “I got it. A geriatric love triangle. She killed ’em both. Now she’s just toying with us.”

FOURTEEN

    L ydia Ascher was definitely not geriatric, not by a long shot. She was blond and blue and younger than they were by at least a few years, and well put together—really well put together—by some God who knew men were jerks but still passed out a brass ring every now and then just to make a bad day better.
    Magozzi knew the type. Every man did. She was the head cheerleader in high school who would never give you a second look, but still, you went to every game just to watch her breasts move under her letter sweater when she raised up her pom-poms, making your heart go soft and other body parts do the opposite.
    After the requisite introductions, she said, “The murder here last night. It was Chuck, wasn’t it?”
    There was no way to sugarcoat a murder, so Magozzi just nodded solemnly. Besides, she’d already put two and two together. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ascher.”
    She took the news like any other person who was stunned by the sudden, violent death of an acquaintance—there was genuine sorrow and shock, but not the same variety as when it was personal. She was quiet for a long time, then looked down at her lap where her hands were curled in little balls. “Do you know what happened?”
    â€œIt’s early in the investigation. Anything we told you would be speculation at this point.”
    â€œYes, of course.” She shook her head. “This is so sad.