And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

was gentle and good-hearted, often reminding Trace of the owner of an underpriced Italian restaurant who gave most of his profits to the local Opera League. They had first met while Trace was looking into a string of systematic thefts from the Araby Casino, where Chico worked, and they had spent long hours together arguing about the merits of tenors—Rosado liked Jussi Bjoerling while Trace held out for Caruso.
    He was honest and funny and happily married, hadn’t had a drink in seven years, and his only professional flaw was that he was just not much of a detective. But, then, who was? Trace thought generously. Most police-department detectives were minimally talented and they didn’t have Rosado’s saving grace of being charming.
    When the lieutenant came back into the office, he was holding an inch-thick sheaf of blue and pink papers, held together by a wide rubber band. He plopped it onto his desk, sat down, and sipped at his coffee.
    “You want to read this stuff or you want to talk to me?” he asked.
    “Let’s talk first,” Trace said. “Roberts gave me the bare bones. Time, body, blah-blah, safe unlocked, jewelry gone, what Spiro said. Tell me things I ought to know that’ll enrich my life.”
    “The countess must be good in bed,” Rosado said.
    “I wouldn’t know. I don’t score royalty,” Trace said.
    “You mutt, you’d mount a mongoose.”
    “Why do you say that about Felicia?” Trace asked.
    “’Cause she had like a million dollars’ worth of jewels. It came to her as gifts along the way, she said.”
    “Some people give women things. When they look like Felicia, bigger things.”
    “I guess so. Anyway, the murder night. Here’s some reports from cops on the scene. Let’s see. Luggage. Here’s the autopsy. Here’s—”
    “Wait a minute,” Trace said. “Go back to luggage.”
    “When this Spiro ran into the living room, he tripped over a bag. Jarvis’. He must have come to the house, set the bag down in the living room, and I guess surprised whoever was breaking into the safe and got clubbed.”
    “What was in the suitcase?” Trace asked.
    “Your police department never sleeps,” Rosado said. He flipped through the sheets and pulled out a blue one. “Not a suitcase—a little leather bag, like a gym bag,” he said. “A shaving kit, a bottle of aspirins, American Airlines magazine, that’s all.”
    “Okay. What about the autopsy?”
    “Here’s a picture,” Rosado said. He handed Trace an eight-by-ten color print.
    It was shot from a slight elevation and it showed Early Jarvis lying facedown on the stone patio between the house and the swimming pool. His arms were extended up over his head, his gloved hands almost reaching the small goldfish pond built into the patio. His head was turned to one side and Trace could see it had been bashed in pretty thoroughly. He was lying in a large puddle of blood and there were blood smears on a ceramic fish statue next to the goldfish pool.
    Rosado had found the autopsy report. “Doc Johnson did the autopsy,” he said. “She said it looked like Jarvis was slugged inside the house, because there was blood there, and then there was a trail leading outside to the patio. Somehow he must have gotten out there and, she says, he fell again, cracked his skull on that stupid ceramic fish, and then just lay there and bled to death. There were traces of skull matter on the ceramic thing. No indication of what else he might have been hit with. Maybe a big flashlight.”
    Trace shrugged. “Why crawl outside? When you come to, wouldn’t you just call the cops?”
    “I asked Doc Johnson that, too,” Rosado said. “She said you never can tell with head injuries because you don’t know exactly what got injured in the brain. She said she had a case once where a guy was standing at the bathroom sink and got shot in the head by his wife. Well, he picked himself up, and then lathered his face and shaved. And when he was done shaving, then he