Read Online The Suspect - L R Wright by L. R. Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. R. Wright
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gazed into her I eyes.
"Every week, Isabella, you clean my venetian blinds with
vinegar," he said. "Nobody asked you to do that. It's not
part of your job to do that. And I appreciate it. It's very nice to
have clean venetian blinds. Only, Isabella, my office smells like a
pickle jar. And when you add the smell from these flowers—they
combine in the air, and the result is nauseating."
He removed his hands from her desk and stood up.
"I never thought of that,” said Isabella. "The
question is, do you want clean blinds or nice fragrant flowers that
bring a whiff of summer into this joint?" She frowned,
pondering. Isabella Harbud was a tall, lumpy woman married to a
chiropractor. She had long thick hair, once brown, now becoming
unapologetically gray, and she wore it down, which Alberg thought
inappropriate in a woman of late middle age. Her front teeth
protruded, and she didn't care much about the way she dressed. She
was usually cold, even in summer, and had a selection of thick
sweaters which she grabbed from her closet without any apparent
consideration as to what she planned to wear underneath. Today the
sweater was turquoise, and partly obscured a red and black striped
dress. She had the most beautiful eyes Alberg had ever seen: gold,
flecked with brown; they were what he imagined a tiger's eyes must
look like.
"You want clean blinds," said Isabella, decisively.
"Right,” said Alberg, with gratitude.
"I'll bring you in one that doesn't have a smell.”
"I don't have any room in my office for any plant. No room.”
"Sure you do,” said Isabella comfortingly, going back to
her typing.
"When you go home," Alberg yelled as he went down the
hall, "make sure you cover up that damn cage."
Sokolowski appeared from somewhere and followed him into his
office. Alberg swung his feet back up onto the desk and linked his
hands behind his head. "What've we got, Sergeant? Fill me in.
Bring me up to date.” He tossed him the file. "Let's go over
the whole damn thing, one more time." Sokolowski settled himself
in the black chair and opened the file. His big thighs strained the
fabric of his dark blue uniform trousers, his legs were stolidly
apart, feet planted heavy on the floor. "Victim died between
eleven A.M. and two P.M. on Tuesday, june fifth, from a blow to the
head. Death was probably instantaneous. The coroner says the weapon
was a metal object, rounded, with some kind of rim. Very little
spattering. Probably some blood got on the perpetrator's clothes, but
not much. No forced entry into the house." He droned on,
shifting his feet a little. "Nothing missing as far as anybody
can tell."
"l know all this,” said Alberg, staring at the ceiling.
"Several neighbors saw the fish guy's truck, four of them saw
the fish guy." Sokolowski looked up.'"You want their names
and addresses?” Alberg shook his head, slowly. "Vehicle
described as an old VW van, couldn't pinpoint the year, just old,
painted silver, paint flaking off, orange paint underneath, they
think, but they aren't sure; van's got a big rainbow painted on each
side and some birds; rainbow's all colors, birds are blue. No sign of
the vehicle yet. I got on to the mainland, just in case it got by the
ferry types, which wouldn't be hard in my experience."
"Sid, Sid," Alberg chided, still staring at the ceiling.
"The fish seller," the sergeant went on, "he's a
guy about thirty-eight, forty, got a beard, wore a pair of jeans and
a light shirt and smelled like fish, which isn't surprising.
Soft-spoken kind of guy, say the citizens. One of them bought a
salmon from him, why not." Sokolowski shrugged. "He's not a
licensed peddler, so what else is new. " He looked up at Alberg,
exasperated. "The woods are full of them. Guys selling salmon,
crab, oysters, fruits, vegetables, you name it, not a license between
them."
"I know all this too," said Alberg. He sighed and sat
up. "Go on, Sid."
"The fish seller's our best lead. We're combing the bush for
him. Checked the town
"Every week, Isabella, you clean my venetian blinds with
vinegar," he said. "Nobody asked you to do that. It's not
part of your job to do that. And I appreciate it. It's very nice to
have clean venetian blinds. Only, Isabella, my office smells like a
pickle jar. And when you add the smell from these flowers—they
combine in the air, and the result is nauseating."
He removed his hands from her desk and stood up.
"I never thought of that,” said Isabella. "The
question is, do you want clean blinds or nice fragrant flowers that
bring a whiff of summer into this joint?" She frowned,
pondering. Isabella Harbud was a tall, lumpy woman married to a
chiropractor. She had long thick hair, once brown, now becoming
unapologetically gray, and she wore it down, which Alberg thought
inappropriate in a woman of late middle age. Her front teeth
protruded, and she didn't care much about the way she dressed. She
was usually cold, even in summer, and had a selection of thick
sweaters which she grabbed from her closet without any apparent
consideration as to what she planned to wear underneath. Today the
sweater was turquoise, and partly obscured a red and black striped
dress. She had the most beautiful eyes Alberg had ever seen: gold,
flecked with brown; they were what he imagined a tiger's eyes must
look like.
"You want clean blinds," said Isabella, decisively.
"Right,” said Alberg, with gratitude.
"I'll bring you in one that doesn't have a smell.”
"I don't have any room in my office for any plant. No room.”
"Sure you do,” said Isabella comfortingly, going back to
her typing.
"When you go home," Alberg yelled as he went down the
hall, "make sure you cover up that damn cage."
Sokolowski appeared from somewhere and followed him into his
office. Alberg swung his feet back up onto the desk and linked his
hands behind his head. "What've we got, Sergeant? Fill me in.
Bring me up to date.” He tossed him the file. "Let's go over
the whole damn thing, one more time." Sokolowski settled himself
in the black chair and opened the file. His big thighs strained the
fabric of his dark blue uniform trousers, his legs were stolidly
apart, feet planted heavy on the floor. "Victim died between
eleven A.M. and two P.M. on Tuesday, june fifth, from a blow to the
head. Death was probably instantaneous. The coroner says the weapon
was a metal object, rounded, with some kind of rim. Very little
spattering. Probably some blood got on the perpetrator's clothes, but
not much. No forced entry into the house." He droned on,
shifting his feet a little. "Nothing missing as far as anybody
can tell."
"l know all this,” said Alberg, staring at the ceiling.
"Several neighbors saw the fish guy's truck, four of them saw
the fish guy." Sokolowski looked up.'"You want their names
and addresses?” Alberg shook his head, slowly. "Vehicle
described as an old VW van, couldn't pinpoint the year, just old,
painted silver, paint flaking off, orange paint underneath, they
think, but they aren't sure; van's got a big rainbow painted on each
side and some birds; rainbow's all colors, birds are blue. No sign of
the vehicle yet. I got on to the mainland, just in case it got by the
ferry types, which wouldn't be hard in my experience."
"Sid, Sid," Alberg chided, still staring at the ceiling.
"The fish seller," the sergeant went on, "he's a
guy about thirty-eight, forty, got a beard, wore a pair of jeans and
a light shirt and smelled like fish, which isn't surprising.
Soft-spoken kind of guy, say the citizens. One of them bought a
salmon from him, why not." Sokolowski shrugged. "He's not a
licensed peddler, so what else is new. " He looked up at Alberg,
exasperated. "The woods are full of them. Guys selling salmon,
crab, oysters, fruits, vegetables, you name it, not a license between
them."
"I know all this too," said Alberg. He sighed and sat
up. "Go on, Sid."
"The fish seller's our best lead. We're combing the bush for
him. Checked the town
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