Read Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 for Free Online Page B

sizing up the crowd. I read the evaluation in them: Late sixties, big city, money, sure of herself, handle with care .
    â€œLieutenant Urschel?” I held out my hand. “Henrietta Collins.”
    There was a barely perceptible pause before the homicide detective thrust out a tanned, muscular hand. “Ma’am.” His grip was cold, firm, fleeting. Shaking hands with a woman wasn’t his style. “Appreciate your coming.” His voice reminded me of President Clinton’s. Did Urschel, too, have allergies? Or had he smoked too many cigarettes for too many years? “I met you last year. At Don’s wedding.”
    Don Brown is also a lieutenant in the Derry Hills P.D. He is a friend of mine. We’d first become acquainted shortly after I came to Thorndyke and a young woman was murdered in the apartment house where I was staying.
    I’d enjoyed Don’s wedding very much. But Urschel’s memory of the event was better than mine. I didn’t remember him. Perhaps I don’t scan crowds with the same intensity.
    â€œYes. Of course. How is Don?”
    Urschel’s sandy eyebrows rose a fraction. “Okay. I guess. He’s on paternity leave.” He tried to say it matter-of-factly. He didn’t quite bring it off. Between forty-something and thirty-something, there is more than a gap in time. “Okay.” His eyes flicked toward my right hand and the wedding bandI still wore. “Mrs. Collins. You know Maggie Win slow. Right?”
    â€œYes, Lieutenant.”
    â€œThen if you’ll come this way—”
    Just around the curve, an ambulance waited, lights blinking. Police tape on stakes fluttered around a twenty-foot square of the blacktopped road.
    A woman’s body lay in a crumpled heap in the center of this marked-off area. Her magenta suit was sodden from the heavy mist of the night, and the short skirt was hiked up almost to her hips. Her face was pressed against the asphalt. A jade silk scarf poked out from beneath hair that had once been sleek and glossy, and now lay dank and damp on skin no longer living. The scarf cut deeply into her neck. A black leather shoulder bag rested about a foot from the corpse.
    A technician within the cordoned-off area looked toward us. She brushed back a strand of strawberry-blond hair with the back of a latex-gloved hand and said quietly, “I’m finished, Lieutenant. They can take her now.”
    â€œNot yet.”
    The tech shot him a cool glance, but said nothing. She got up a little stiffly, moved to unlimber her muscles, then reached down for a blue vinyl bag.
    A lanky photographer crouched a couple of feet away. “Just a few more shots, Lieutenant,” he called, not looking our way.
    When the photographer rose, Urschel jerked his head at me. “Mrs. Collins, she checks out with the photo on her driver’s license. But for the record—”
    I didn’t want to see her face.
    But Urschel hadn’t invited me here for my benefit. At his nod, the technician eased the rigid body over, gently swiped the dank hair away from the face.
    It was as ugly as I had known it would be.
    And it was Maggie.
    My hands clenched. “Yes.” I had trouble breathing. “It is Maggie Winslow.”
    Maggie Winslow, arrogant, confident, and good. Very, very good at reporting. Maybe not so good in judging the impact of her questions.
    But I was the one who’d demanded that she do more than rehash old crimes for the entertainment of readers. I’d insisted I’d accept the work only if she turned up new information. I’d even been pleased when I saw her brazen, bold ad in The Clarion Wednesday morning. Way to go, Maggie, I’d thought.
    Pleased.
    Dammit. Oh, dammit, what had I done?
    â€œSorry, ma’am.” But Urschel’s tone was perfunctory, and there was no pause before the next question. “You were her professor?”
    I stared at Maggie’s body, bunched