Read Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies for Free Online

radios squawking underneath their wet ponchos.
    Demonstrating the traditional omniscience of bartenders, Bennie told Nick one of the guests had suffered a fit, died in his bathroom; word was, he hit his head big-time awful.
    “Say, you mighta knowed him. One a dem whatchmacallem, like you.” Bennie spoke with the mellifluous New Orleans accent of the Irish Channel and other working-class enclaves of the Big easy: quasi-Brooklynese stirred by a swizzle stick of French, Spanish, Italian, and Caribbean, with a dollop of Southern drawl like so much cane syrup to slow things down. “Wit dis lineage society bunch.”
    Nick stood up quickly and reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you, Bennie?”
    “Nutin’, man. On de house. Come back and see us.”
    “Bless your ancestors, my friend.”

CHAPTER 3
    “T hat’s it?” Detective Dave Bartly asked skeptically, when Nick had finished his explanation of the events leading him to the crime scene.
    “Yeah, that’s it. More or less.” Nick had also volunteered his whereabouts for the afternoon: he’d worked at his office, alone, where he took two verifiable calls from clients; then he’d been at the downtown public library from roughly 5:15 to 6:15. This was his Friday to teach adult reading class.
    It had taken the better part of an hour to give his account.
    “Look,” Nick said, not appreciating Bartly’s veiled tone, “I’ve been more than cooperative!”
    “We just want the truth.”
    “So what do you think that was, chopped liver?” Nick snapped. “Why are you picking on me? Talk to the heckler. Now there’s a real suspect, if I ever saw one.”
    Bartly pinched the bridge of his nose, as if struggling with a difficult essay question on a test. Then, once again, he jingled the change in his pocket.
The meditation routine again.
This guy’s definitely done acid before, and enjoyed it, cop or no cop, Nickthought; that mesmerized dissociation with the moment was a dead giveaway of past trips into other realms of consciousness.
    Nick was beginning, if not to like him, at least to respect his tenacity and weirdness.
    “Mr. Herald, there’s no need to lose your temper. I assure you, we’re talking to many other people. This is nothing personal.”
    “Well, it sure feels like it,” Nick said, somewhat mollified.
    “We don’t know who or what’s important just yet. For example, do you know why Ms. Vair was up here? She found the body and called the front desk.”
    “You’d better ask her that.”
    “Okay.” The detective jotted a few words down. “From what I gather, Dr. Bluemantle had a few enemies. Would that be a fair statement?”
    You don’t have enough pages in that notebook, buddy.
Nick simply shrugged an ambiguous reply.
    Bartly pressed on. “You say he was wearing some kind of a ring when you last saw the victim alive? With a crest or a logo or something on it?”
    Nick handed him the seminar program booklet, on which the Society’s insignia was prominently displayed.
    “Keep it,” Nick said.
    “Thanks a lot. I imagine that ring was valuable. Quite a few precious stones and gold, it looks like. Maybe we have a robbery here that turned violent.”
    “People get killed in New Orleans for a lot less,” Nick said, by way of unfair indictment of NOPD for failing to read the minds of criminals before they struck.
    “There’s one other thing: a room service guy reported seeing a woman in the hall about the time Dr. Bluemantle met his Maker.”
    “Jillian, right?” Nick couldn’t help thinking of that bizarre meeting between Bluemantle, with a list of grievances, and God.
    “Description doesn’t match her,” Bartly replied. “White female, short brown hair, thirties probably, nice looking, large breasts… . Not my words,” he hastened to add. “This is a horny young waiter giving us the details. We’re checking the women signed up for the seminar, but I understand they’re all a lot older than our mystery