Read Dead Run for Free Online

Exposure to heat sped up the decomposition process, playing havoc with the measures they used to determine TOD: rigor mortis, lividity and body temperature.
    Let the ME work the formula, she thought, glancing toward Bernhardt’s housekeeper, hovering in the doorway to the house. The woman looked a hairsbreadth from falling apart, her dark eyes wide, cheeks ashen. She stared at her former boss, her mouth moving as she worked a rosary clutched in her hands.
    Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
    The prayer ran through Carla’s head, a dim but still potent memory from her childhood. How long had it been since she had uttered those words? she wondered. How long since she had gone to mass? Since she had partaken in Holy Communion or confessed her sins?
    Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…
    Jesus, where would she start? To be forgiven, would she have to recant all her sins or only the ones she could recall?
    â€œI can go now, please?”
    Carla blinked, refocusing on the housekeeper. She experienced a surge of pity for the woman. She had reported for work this morning only to find her boss’s crushed, fly-covered body. Not the most of pleasant good mornings. To top it off, she was now out of a job.
    â€œGo on in, but hang around a while. I expect I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
    Obviously relieved, the woman nodded and disappeared inside. Carla watched her go, then tipped her face to the balcony above. She found Val there, staring down at her. “You called, Lieutenant?”
    â€œIf you’re finished down there, I could use a fresh pair of eyes.”
    â€œComing up.” She straightened. “By the way, got an empty bottle of ’ludes down here.”
    Her superior nodded. “Looks like he washed them down with Dom. Made his landing a bit softer. Leave it for the crime-scene guys. They’re on their way.”
    Carla left Bernhardt without a backward glance. She crossed the patio, entering the house through the same door the housekeeper had used. It led to a large, beautifully outfitted garden room.
    She moved her gaze over the room. White wicker furniture, French Quarter tile floors and an abundance of tropical plants. Lots of throw pillows in a fresh-looking floral print. White plantation shutters and a gently whirring ceiling fan. Very south Florida, she thought. Very Key West.
    After six years on the island, Carla could recognize the style while comatose. Casual. Breezy. Easy-living, island style. It permeated everything on this floating three-by-four-mile chunk of land at the southernmost tip of the continental United States. Clothes. Food. Music. The lazy way people moved and spoke. Their laid-back attitudes and unhurried lifestyles.
    She had been enamored with it at first. Key West had seemed a paradise accessible without passport. A world away from her hard-driving, industrial girlhood hometown of Pittsburg, Pennsylvania.
    The garden room metamorphosed into another, more formal living space. That led to a cavernousthree-story foyer. Marble floors. Chandelier. A wide, central staircase.
    Carla climbed the staircase. The upstairs hallway was wide, carpeted in a pile so thick her toes would get lost in it—if she took off her shoes and socks.
    She had a big picture of that. “Oh, hey, Val. I just wanted to experience what real wealth feels like against the bottoms of my feet.”
    Val appeared in a doorway at the end of the hall. “In here.”
    The bedroom was pure opulence. Huge four-poster bed carved out of some light, no doubt rare, wood. Satin and velvet drapes in a gold color. Tassels as big as a linebacker’s fist. Mirrors, gold framed, ornate. Carla’s lips lifted. Positioned, cleverly, to both the left, right and head of the bed.
    Larry Bernhardt had lived like royalty. And, apparently, he enjoyed watching the fun his money could buy.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” Val asked.
    Carla glanced at her boss. He