Read Mystery for Free Online Page A

strangulation or stab wounds or blunt-force trauma, death due to exsanguination as a consequence of gunshot wounds. Autopsy’s in the queue but swabs from all intact orifices bear no semen, blood, or signs of trauma. As to the state of her mouth, the damage is too great to rule anything out. But Jernigan’s not feeling a sexual attack. She did think it weird that two guys shot her at the same time in the same relatively small target area. Said that felt like a firing-squad execution. And that got me wondering: Some enraged boyfriend wants to blast her away and take back his watch, why share the fun? I can see bringing muscle along for security, but when the time came to pull the trigger, why not go solo?”
    “Could be cowardice,” I said. “Or lack of experience. Someone unaccustomed to firearms might want reassurance.”
    “Ready aim fire,” he said. “Or it could be some kind of sick game. Okay, let’s get those faces out there, maybe someone’ll come up with an I.D. By the way, I checked out those designers—Lerange, Scuzzi. Both are high-end but kind of obscure. And not carried in any local outlets. A few stores in New York stock individual pieces but none of them could help much. That and Princess’s Brit accent says I shouldn’t give up on a foreign visitor but the Homeland Hoohahs haven’t called back yet. So as of now, I’m majoring in art appreciation. Let’s see about this Otis guy.”
    Ten minutes later he left a message. Detective I Alexander Shimoff had a day off but could meet Robin anytime until nine p.m. at his home in the Pico-Robertson district.
    I’d missed his call because I’d been talking to someone else.

 
    retchen Stengel answered her phone after one ring. “I’m me, who are you?”
    Her voice was low, hoarse. The tail-end of each word faded.
    “This is Dr. Delaware returning your call.”
    “Doc,” she said. “Been a while, huh?”
    “What can I—”
    “You do remember me.”
    “I do.”
    “Been told I’m hard to forget,” she said.
    I waited.
    “All those years ago, huh, Doc?” Coughing. “Not exactly good times.”
    “No one likes visits from the police.”
    “The unspoken message: especially a pimp.”
    I said, “My messages tend to be spoken. What can I do for you, Gretchen?”
    She barked laughter, slid into a coughing fit, caught her breath with a sharp intake of air. “Now that we’re BFFs, may I call you Doctor?” Giggling.
    I didn’t answer.
    She said, “I can see you sitting there, with that stony shrink look.”
    “Pure granite.”
    “What—oh, ha, funny. Okay, sorry for being a wiseass. It’s just that I get that way when I’m dying.”
    She coughed some more. “I don’t mean like some fucking comic bombing. Dying literally. As in the cells will soon go sleepy-bye.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Trust me, I’m sorrier than you. Springing it on you was a little naughty of me, huh? But there’s no easy way. Like when cops go tell families someone’s been murdered. Your gay buddy must love that, no?”
    I didn’t answer.
    She said, “I’ve been watching a lot of cop shows. Seeing it from the other side’s perspective has been educational.” Sigh. Throat clear. “Anyway, I’m on the way out. Kaput.”
    “Would you like to come in to talk about it?”
    “Not a chance,” she said. “There’s nothing to say. I lived what they call a high-risk life. Cleaned-and-sobered-up for seven years but kept dating Tommy Tobacco. My lungs never stopped bitching at me to quit, I didn’t, so they got pissed and cultivated a nice little bumper crop of tumors. I went through one course of chemo, asked the oncologist if there was a purpose to any of it and he was such a pussy, hemmed and hawed, that I got my answer. So I said, screw that noise, time to exit gracefully.”
    There’s nothing to say .
    She gasped. “Feels like I just ran the marathon. Not that I ever did that. Did anything healthy.” Laughter. “You’re a good shrink, I feel better