A Kiss to Kill Read Online Free PDF Page B

black hair, prob’ly Italian,” Jonesy pronounced in a definitive statement.
    “Or Hispanic, or Middle Eastern, or Indian . . .” Sarah mumbled. Or heck, any number of other nationalities or combination thereof. This was America, land of the melting pot. But Detective Jones was nearing retirement, and tended to dwell in a past when “ethnic” still meant Irish, Italian, or Jewish.
    Lieutenant Harding flicked Sarah a dismissive glance. She was not close to retirement—for reasons of age anyhow, having recently tipped the scales at forty-five—but she had a good ten years on the rookie lieutenant. And that made him nervous. Like he knew she should be the one with the lieutenant’s shield. Which she should. Everyone knew it. And she would have had it, too, if not for that unfortunate incident . . .
    But she wasn’t going there.
    Harding turned back to Jonesy. “Any ID?”
    Nope,” he said. “Nothing. No effects of any kind. Just the clothes on her back.”
    Harding again glanced over the grody rim of the Dumpster, this time peering down at the assistant medical examiner, who’d donned a blue disposable jumpsuit and booties to keep his designer duds and elegant leather shoes clean as he went Dumpster-diving. To his credit, the man hadn’t uttered a peep of protest when he’d climbed in.
    “COD?” Harding asked him.
    “Nothing obvious,” the A.M.E., Dr. John Stroud said, looking up from the muck with youthful blue eyes. Gawd. He couldn’t be more than twelve. How was it everyone on the planet was suddenly younger than she was? “No blood. No wounds,” he reported. “No outward signs of internal trauma.”
    Sarah forced her mind back on track. Okay, that was interesting. When a body was dumped like this, cause of death was usually pretty obvious. Gunshot. Knife wound. Beating. Rape.
    “What about TOD?” the LT asked.
    She averted her gaze back to the alley as Dr. Stroud pulled his temp instrument out of the vic’s liver, read it, and mentally calculated. “Recently. About two to four hours ago, I’d say preliminarily.”
    Sarah twisted her wrist to look at her watch. 10:06 p.m. Which put TOD sometime between six and eight o’clock that evening.
    The LT grunted. “When can you get me the autopsy report?”
    “We’re a bit backed up,” Stroud said. “Tomorrow afternoon’s the earliest I can manage.”
    Harding turned to Sarah and, arranging his rotund face in pleasant insincerity, said, “McPhee, I’d like you to attend.”
    Nausea stroked through her stomach. It was a dare, she knew that. No. More like a nasty, condescending barb in the guise of a routine assignment. She shoved back the impulse to tell him no. Everyone around them was surreptitiously watching her. They could all go screw themselves.
    “Sure,” she told him. “Meanwhile,” she added, keeping her voice even, “you should probably have CSI collect that.” She jabbed a finger at the grimy brick building behind the Dumpster. Specifically at the rotting sill of a broken window where the very corner of a small black cell phone stuck out, blending into the dirt and mottled shadows so well it was nearly invisible. Unless you were actually looking.
    The CSIs all turned as one, scanning from the ground up to the lone window that no one had inspected yet. She knew someone would have gotten around to it eventually—the geek squad was nothing if not thorough, and the scene had not been released yet, after all—but it was gratifying to show them all she was still a damn good detective, despite recent evidence to the contrary.
    The LT marched over and squinted at the cell phone, mouth thinning in irritation. He jetted a breath through his nose and barked at the closest tech to do his goddamn job, then spun and marched away again, right out of the alley.
    Okay, then . Sarah dug into her jacket pocket for her own notebook, and focused her attention on the clutch of seedy-looking individuals gathered on the other side of the yellow