Read Tell No Lies for Free Online Page B

than drink, Cris pushed the rim of the glass against both lips, steadying herself. “You’ve been investigating Jack Holley’s murder. Already, I mean?”
    “I caught the case, yeah,” Dooley said. “That’s why you got me.”
    “Any leads?” Cris pressed. “I mean, are you close to catching whoever did this?”
    “I can’t really discuss that,” Dooley said. “But no.”
    Daniel watched the inspector navigate the envelope into the second plastic bag. Then glanced over at Cristina, her face as close to blanched as her skin could manage. He said, “I’m sorry I didn’t…” He trailed off.
    “Look,” Dooley said, “it’s a break. Would’ve been better a week ago, but…” She glanced up, caught his crestfallen expression, put it together. “Come on. You’re supposed to know to check your box every day in case an inept murderer accidentally sticks a threat with a deadline in there?”
    Daniel’s mouth was bitter, the taste of regret. “So a man died because the mail wasn’t sorted properly.”
    “I consider myself an expert in guilt,” Dooley said, “so let me clear this up right now. You couldn’t have done anything. This is one of those little cosmic jokes the world plays on us now and again. A tiny tear in the fabric just to show how things really are. Which is? Out of our control. Thousands of people die every day because they caught the wrong green light or chose the wrong surgeon. You didn’t do this. A knife-wielding motherfucker did this. And you’ve got no more guilt in the matter than Jack Holley’s daughter for not inviting him to dinner that night or his neighbor for not knocking on his door at eleven fifty-nine to borrow a cup of sugar.”
    She sealed the second Ziploc and shook them both for emphasis. “Now CSI’s gonna take a look at these. In the meantime I’ll see what I can do about handwriting samples from the reprobates who cycle through your workplace. As you know, mental-health files are confidential, so we’ll have to get creative. And we’ll regulate the outgoing mail down there in case our suspect’s chicken scratch shows up on a letter to his Aunt Shandrika. My job is to answer the key question.”
    “Which is?” Daniel asked.
    “What did Jack Holley do ?” Dooley pointed at them. “Your job is to take care of each other and not think about this too much. Think you can manage that?”
    “One out of two, probably,” Daniel said.
    *   *   *
    They showed her out and got ready for bed, but twenty minutes later Daniel was still lying there, staring at the ceiling, the sheets clinging to him like vines, the dark room choked with toxic images. The mail room with its flickering light and creaky cubbyholes. That cramped handwriting sliding into view as he’d tugged the sheet free. Poor Jack Holley.
    Sweating, exasperated, Daniel threw back the sheets and sat up, rubbing his face. The walls held the faintest fragrance of a pumpkin candle they’d burned the night before, the comforting scent now cloying. He felt Cristina’s sleep-hot hand on his back.
    “You okay, mi vida ?”
    “You’re awake?”
    “Not really.”
    “Go to sleep.”
    He guided her back to the pillow, kissed her temple. After draining the cup of water on his nightstand, he padded down the stairs, clicking on the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. The heated tiles were warm underfoot, and the Sub-Zero gave off a comforting hum. The knives, magnetized to a metal strip and lined by descending size, were all accounted for. Across the room, the alarm pad glowed a reassuring green.
    Safe. It was safe here.
    He filled his cup from the filtered tap and started back for the stairs, passing the couch and the glass coffee table with the mound of dumped mail. His hand had just flipped the light switch when he froze. Dread mounted, constricting his throat. Something replayed in his mind, an afterimpression ghost-floating on his retinas. Real or imagined?
    Nailed to the floor. Fingertips still