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

while.”
    Truthfully, I had no idea how long he’d been dead. It did seem to me that for a stabbing, there had been relatively little blood. Nothing had leaked out of the crate. That I’d seen, anyway. My stomach gave a queasy shudder. As frozen pizza toppings go, murder is the least appetizing.
    “Will they let you back in the house?” Emmaline asked.
    “Once they finish processing the crime scene.”
    “How long does that take?”
    I shook my head. From our vantage point between the two houses we watched as the satellite dish people arrived—late as usual—and were turned away. They were just disappearing from view when the furniture delivery people arrived and were also declined entrance.
    “Oh dear,” Emmaline said. “Don’t you think you should talk to them? Set up another delivery time?”
    “Probably.” But I made no move. Sometimes you have to consider that maybe the cosmos is trying to tell you something.
    “Is it possible the crate wasn’t one of yours?”
    “No. It had my name on it. And I remember seeing them packing my china.”
    “I wonder where your china is.”
    “Good question.” That china had traveled all the way from Switzerland, and though it was not something I would have chosen for myself, it was mine and I wanted it back, down to the very last saucer.
    Eventually Emmaline’s feet began to hurt and she excused herself with an invitation to drop by anytime, unless I ended up being arrested.
    I thanked her and continued to hover at the side of the house, watching uneasily as the coroner’s van arrived and was loaded up and sent on its merry way.
    Inspector Jones came outside again and located me lurking in the hydrangeas.
    “Hey there, Christopher.”
    “Oh, there you are,” I said.
    “The good news is the ME is sure that the vic was killed offsite. The bad news is we’re not going to finish processing the crime scene tonight. But you should be back home by—at the latest—end of day tomorrow.”
    He gazed at me expectantly. I realized that because of my connection to J.X., I had been bumped from coach to first class, and they had even thrown in complimentary champagne. All this speed and sensitivity in a preliminary homicide investigation was not business as normal. Heaven and earth was being moved to return me to safe haven as soon as reasonably possible.
    “That’s…I don’t know what to say. Thank you. All of you. I appreciate it.”
    Jones winked. “Nothing’s too good for J.X. Man, we had some times together.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “Did he tell you about that time we chased that dumbass junkie up to Coit Tower?”
    No. J.X. had not told me about that time. Or about almost any other time when he’d been on the force. Possibly because we were always too busy with my latest drama.
    I said, “I think he’s always using that stuff in his books.”
    “You know it,” Jones laughed. “You know it.”
     
     
    Reporters crowded the sidewalk when I finally flung open the front gate and departed 321 Chestnut Lane. Maybe it was a slow day for news in The City. Fortunately they didn’t seem to know who I was, beyond the unlucky homeowner, and I ignored the clicking cameras and questions thrown my way. I tossed my laptop and leather carryall in the back seat, jumped in my car, and sped away to the Fairmont hotel.
    The Fairmont is a San Francisco icon. It’s on Nob Hill, no less, and the cheapest room is $549. A night. Worth every penny, in my opinion. It was just what my shattered nerves needed. I checked in, had a G&T in the Laurel Court bar while I booked myself an in-room massage. Then I had another G&T before I trudged up to my room in time to take a hot shower before the masseuse arrived.
    My room was on the seventh floor and it was lovely. Quiet and comfortable with a pillow-top bed, a marble bath, flat screen TV and Keurig coffee maker. What more could a lost and lonely wayfarer require? A minibar? It had that too. The décor was in soothing tones of platinum