Read The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 for Free Online

thing he’d say.
    I must have looked dismayed because Jones laughed. “I don’t think that’s what happened. Like you say, that would be a pretty dumb plan, and I can’t see J.X. saddling himself with a dummy.”
    “Thanks.” It wasn’t exactly delivered as a compliment, but I was willing to take what I could get. In this case, a Not Guilty verdict.
    “You seem to attract trouble, I gotta say.”
    I threw him a glum look.
    “Is there anything else you can think of that might be of help?”
    I moved my head in negation. “How did he die? Do you know yet? Is it possible he climbed into the crate himself and maybe smothered?”
    Yeah, right. Dumped out a serving set for twenty, jumped into a trash bag, and climbed into the crate? Oh, and nailed down the lid from inside? It was a silly suggestion, but Jones didn’t retract his previous “you’re no dummy” comment.
    “We don’t have the coroner’s verdict yet, obviously, but it looks to me like someone stabbed him in the heart.” He punched himself lightly in the solar plexus, which is why I guess police departments hire medical examiners instead of relying on officers for the science stuff. Jones studied me. “I’ve got to go back inside. Do you have some place to stay tonight?”
    “I’ll get a hotel room.”
    He said that sounded like a good idea, and disappeared through the French doors. I stared up at the sunny sky. Such a pretty day. Birds singing, flowers blooming. Sun shining. A good day to be alive and not dead in a crate in a stranger’s basement. I pulled my phone out. After I’d called the police, I had phoned J.X. But he hadn’t picked up. I tried him again.
    And once more the call went to message.
    Maybe he was busy. Maybe he wasn’t taking my phone calls. I did an internal taste test as I considered that possibility. The flavor was bitter.
    Anyway, this was not news I wanted to leave in a message. I disconnected and began to search for a place to spend the night. Was it insensitive to splurge on a really nice hotel? I began to surf hotel sites.
    The Suites at Fisherman’s Wharf sounded pretty good: dining area, living room, and a kitchenette offering a 2-burner stovetop and dishwasher. 42-inch flat-screen cable TV and free Wi-Fi, and decorated with floral patterns and beige accents. Maybe I could just move in there and J.X. could come and visit on weekends.
    I sighed and changed my search criteria to “very nice hotel.” I felt in urgent need of some very nice right about then. Vaguely, I was aware of the crime scene folks continuing to mill through the house. Lots of vehicles and plenty of personnel in attendance when someone dies a violent death. No privacy or dignity for the dead. Or the living.
    “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!” called a familiar voice.
    I looked around, but saw no one. I rose and finally pinpointed the yoo-hooing to the other side of a four-foot-tall hedge that divided our property from Emmaline Bloodworth’s. I could see her coolie hat floating just over the edge like a flying saucer looking for a safe place to land.
    “Christopher? Hellooo?”
    I walked up a couple of small terraces and leaned across the perfectly clean-shaven expanse of twigs and leaves. Emmaline’s bright blue eyes blinked up at me.
    “What’s happened? I was afraid you’d had some kind of accident.”
    “Not me. Not this time.” I explained as succinctly as possible what had happened.
    “Good heavens. Are you all right?” She seemed genuinely concerned, which was nice. And there’s no better security system than nosey neighbors.
    “Yes. Fine.” That probably sounded heartless, but if I told her it wasn’t my first murder, she would need some kind of explanation, and I really didn’t have the energy. I said off-handedly, “It’s just the shock of it.”
    “I should think so. Murder ,” she breathed. “Do they—?”
    “It didn’t happen here,” I tried to reassure her. “He must have been dead when he arr—a