Read Nightshades (Nameless Detective) for Free Online Page B

in his life. Including flammable materials around his house.” Another shrug. “Accidents happen,” she said.
    “So do murders,” I said.
    I left her and managed to run the gauntlet of hair dryers and fat women without disgracing myself. Along with the receptionist, Miss Adley, there were only two customers waiting out front now. I went straight on out, minding my own business, and just as I was shutting the door behind me I heard Miss Adley say in a stage whisper, “Cops. They’re all assholes.”
    Penny’s for Beauty was quite a place. And what made it so special was the beautiful people who worked there.

    The address I had for the Northern Development offices turned out to be a stone-and-brick commercial building on Yuba and California streets, not far from the mall. The directory in the lobby sent me up to the second floor, where I found a pebbled-glass door with some fancy gilt lettering on it that said:
    NORTHERN DEVELOPMENT CORPORATION
    “GROWTH + EXPANSION = PROSPERITY”
    Munroe Randall, President
    M.J. Treacle,
Vice President
    F.L. O’Daniel,
Vice President
    Very impressive. And what was on the other side of the door was impressive, too—a nice front for a company wobbling on the edge of Chapter Eleven. The anteroom was about twenty feet square, paneled in blond wood and outfitted with chrome-pipe furniture covered in some kind of black-and-white cloth. Behind a desk directly opposite was a slender woman in her thirties; but she wasn’t sitting down, she was standing up near one of two unmarked doors in a pose that suggested she’d been eavesdropping on what was going on behind it. Which was an argument between two men, apparently, because both voices were raised and had an angry buzz to them, like disturbed bees. What they were saying to each other wasn’t quite distinguishable.
    The woman turned away from the door, but not as if it mattered much to her that I’d caught her with her ears flapping. She had tawny hair cut short, brown eyes, the kind of nose that is called patrician, a nice body encased in a green shift, and a secretarial air of cool efficiency. One of those little metal-and-wood nameplates on her desk identified her as Shirley Irwin.
    She said, “Yes, may I help you?”
    “I’m here to see Mr. O’Daniel.”
    “Have you an appointment?”
    “More or less. He’s expecting me.”
    “Your name, please?”
    I told her my name. She recognized it, but it didn’t impress her much; I didn’t impress her much either. The only thing about me that interested her seemed to be my mustache. At least, that was what her gaze kept fastening on.
    “Mr. O’Daniel is in conference at the moment,” she said. “Will you wait?”
    “Some conference,” I said, smiling.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “All that shouting.” I realized I was stroking the mustache and quit that; but Miss Irwin kept right on staring at it. The voices in the other room seemed to be getting louder and angrier.
    “Will you wait, sir?”
    “Sure. But would you mind letting Mr. O’Daniel know I’m here?”
    “Mr. O’Daniel asked that he not be disturbed.”
    “I see. It makes me look like Groucho Marx, right?”
    “What?”
    “The mustache. Groucho Marx.”
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You keep staring at it. It’s not that bad, is it?”
    “I couldn’t care less about your facial hair,” she said in a voice you could have used to chill beer.
    I caught myself starting to stroke it again—and one of the men behind the door said distinctly, “I don’t have to take that kind of crap from you! By God, I don’t!”
    I looked at the door; so did Miss Irwin. I could feel the skin across my neck pull tight.
    The other man yelled, “Get away from me! Goddamn you, get away—!”
    “I’ll fix you once and for all, you son of a bitch!”
    There was a sharp thudding sound: and there were thrashing noises, and the second man let out a half-strangled cry.
    “Help!