Read Online You Don't Know Jack by Adrianne Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrianne Lee
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version, no doubt, considering Lars Larson penned best-selling fiction crammed full of action, adventure, and sex. But even if the minister had been reading from one of those novels, I wouldn't have noticed.
More questions kept cropping up — like why was Lars at the nightclub when he knew I was starting my investigation that night? Checking up on me? Making sure I honored our contract? The rat. He would do that. But why had he been killed? Was he the latest victim of the BBK? Or not? What I knew about serial killers was that they usually stalked their victims, familiarized themselves with their targets' routine. Lars' routine was to write at night. His being at the club was not routine.
So was his murder random? Wrong place, wrong time? Or premeditated? Planned, arranged?
The questions made my head ache. Stone wouldn't share anything about the case. What he'd said was: "keep your snout out of my investigation." But I couldn't. I'd tossed Apollo to the wolves. The cops were digging through his life. His apartment. His past and present.
Stone hadn't arrested him... yet. Yet. That damned yet kept pinging around my brain like a pellet fired into a tin box, zinging and vibrating and threatening, making my headache pound, making me desperate to recall something I'd heard or seen that seemed inconsequential at the time and that now my subconscious niggled was important. What?
I couldn't remember, and trying aggravated the pain arcing my skull as though a vice grip kept clamping tighter and tighter. So was playing "what if?" as though Lars' murder was a new book plot that I couldn't let go of. I felt like groaning, but I had to hide my headache, or Madam Zee would be reading the lumps on my noggin with Mrs. Schultz bull-horning the results.
Apollo broke my thoughts. "Do you think Lars' killer is here?"
I tensed. Researching my mysteries I'd learned that killers often attend a victim's funeral as some sicko ritualistic closure, but I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts to think of that today. I looked side to side, eying with suspicion the faces of mourners. No one stood out. No one looked as guilty as I felt. "If he is, he forgot his ID tag."
And just as the words were out of my mouth that same eerie feeling I'd had at Club Jaded Edge of something insidiously evil nearby seemed to touch my neck. Goose bumps rose across my arms and legs leaving my skin chilled.
"Joseph, Mary, and Hey-Sues, girlfriend, you're as white as the lilies on you-know-who's casket."
Before I could respond, the minister called for another prayer. I prayed it was the end of the service. Okay, so that was callous. Inappropriate. I was going to Hell for sure, but maybe God and Lars would forgive me if I solved his murder. Apollo's forgiveness was another matter, but recalling that a killer often took perverse pleasure in attending his victim's burial rites had given me an idea.
The collective "amen" coincided with my dragging Apollo to his feet. "Come on. We have work to do."
"Aren't we going to the grave-side service?"
"No. We're going straight to the celebration of life party."
"But... that's not until after the burial."
Okay, I had to tell him something that didn't sound like I'd lost my ability to tell time, or that I was totally deranged, or that made him think I was hiding something from him. I hustled him outside into the cloud-riddled day. Noon. The temperature hovered in the fifties with a biting wind. I said, "We can't sit by while the cops focus on the wrong person for this murder."
Apollo went ashen. "Far as I can tell, girlfriend, they're only looking at me, and hand to God, I did not kill Lars. Or anyone else. I am not the Black Boutonniere Killer."
"Duh." Like I needed convincing. Apollo hated violence. He'd grown up with it. He couldn't. Wouldn't. "We need a suspect list of our own. But first tell me why you said Lars was killed with a gun. Did the police tell you that?"
"No. But all the speculation was making me sick. I wanted
More questions kept cropping up — like why was Lars at the nightclub when he knew I was starting my investigation that night? Checking up on me? Making sure I honored our contract? The rat. He would do that. But why had he been killed? Was he the latest victim of the BBK? Or not? What I knew about serial killers was that they usually stalked their victims, familiarized themselves with their targets' routine. Lars' routine was to write at night. His being at the club was not routine.
So was his murder random? Wrong place, wrong time? Or premeditated? Planned, arranged?
The questions made my head ache. Stone wouldn't share anything about the case. What he'd said was: "keep your snout out of my investigation." But I couldn't. I'd tossed Apollo to the wolves. The cops were digging through his life. His apartment. His past and present.
Stone hadn't arrested him... yet. Yet. That damned yet kept pinging around my brain like a pellet fired into a tin box, zinging and vibrating and threatening, making my headache pound, making me desperate to recall something I'd heard or seen that seemed inconsequential at the time and that now my subconscious niggled was important. What?
I couldn't remember, and trying aggravated the pain arcing my skull as though a vice grip kept clamping tighter and tighter. So was playing "what if?" as though Lars' murder was a new book plot that I couldn't let go of. I felt like groaning, but I had to hide my headache, or Madam Zee would be reading the lumps on my noggin with Mrs. Schultz bull-horning the results.
Apollo broke my thoughts. "Do you think Lars' killer is here?"
I tensed. Researching my mysteries I'd learned that killers often attend a victim's funeral as some sicko ritualistic closure, but I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts to think of that today. I looked side to side, eying with suspicion the faces of mourners. No one stood out. No one looked as guilty as I felt. "If he is, he forgot his ID tag."
And just as the words were out of my mouth that same eerie feeling I'd had at Club Jaded Edge of something insidiously evil nearby seemed to touch my neck. Goose bumps rose across my arms and legs leaving my skin chilled.
"Joseph, Mary, and Hey-Sues, girlfriend, you're as white as the lilies on you-know-who's casket."
Before I could respond, the minister called for another prayer. I prayed it was the end of the service. Okay, so that was callous. Inappropriate. I was going to Hell for sure, but maybe God and Lars would forgive me if I solved his murder. Apollo's forgiveness was another matter, but recalling that a killer often took perverse pleasure in attending his victim's burial rites had given me an idea.
The collective "amen" coincided with my dragging Apollo to his feet. "Come on. We have work to do."
"Aren't we going to the grave-side service?"
"No. We're going straight to the celebration of life party."
"But... that's not until after the burial."
Okay, I had to tell him something that didn't sound like I'd lost my ability to tell time, or that I was totally deranged, or that made him think I was hiding something from him. I hustled him outside into the cloud-riddled day. Noon. The temperature hovered in the fifties with a biting wind. I said, "We can't sit by while the cops focus on the wrong person for this murder."
Apollo went ashen. "Far as I can tell, girlfriend, they're only looking at me, and hand to God, I did not kill Lars. Or anyone else. I am not the Black Boutonniere Killer."
"Duh." Like I needed convincing. Apollo hated violence. He'd grown up with it. He couldn't. Wouldn't. "We need a suspect list of our own. But first tell me why you said Lars was killed with a gun. Did the police tell you that?"
"No. But all the speculation was making me sick. I wanted
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