Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) Read Online Free PDF

blue, red, white and yellow flowers.
    “I garden, read, watch HBO, take long walks and snoop on my neighbors,” she said. “Used to be a bank manager. I don’t sleep very much, which gives me a lot of time at the front window reading, watching old movies and seeing what’s going on.”
    “What went on last night?” asked Mac.
    “Morning. Around two. Vorhees girl’s boyfriend pulls up in his pickup truck, parks down the block in front of the Packers’, driver gets out and walks back to the Vorhees house. Goes in back.”
    “The pickup truck?” asked Defenzo, working on his Diet Coke.
    “Blue,” the woman said. “Dent on the right side.”
    “The man?” asked Mac.
    “Sort of tall. White. Dark hair. One of those swaggerers, you know? Can’t be sure if it was the boyfriend, too dark, but it definitely looked like him and he was driving his truck.”
    “Boyfriend come here often?” asked Mac.
    “I probably shouldn’t say,” Maya answered with a sigh, “but what the hell. He’d drop the girl off in the afternoon, after school.”
    “Last night?” asked Mac.
    Maya Anderson nodded somberly.
    “Maybe some noise a few minutes after the boyfriend goes in through the back,” she said. “Hard to tell. My eyesight’s good, but my hearing leaves something to be desired. Besides, that old house has thick walls and windows. To tell the truth, I think I dozed off for a few minutes. Then I heard a car door open, got my glasses on and saw the boyfriend’s pickup go riding off.”
    “Which way?” asked Mac.
    “That way,” she said, pointing, “toward Queens Boulevard.” Queens Boulevard fed directly into the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan.
    “Why didn’t you call the police?” asked Defenzo, finishing his drink. Maya rose, took the can and dropped it into a covered receptacle marked R ECYCLE .
    “Over the last four years I’ve called the police fourteen times,” she said. “Family fights, televisions turned too loud, dogs walking without leashes and pooping without anyone picking it up, Parker Niles from the next block drunk and throwing rocks at the streetlights, things like that. They don’t take me seriously anymore.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” said Mac, standing.
    “They’re all dead, aren’t they?” she asked.
    “We haven’t found the boy yet,” said Mac.
    “I hope the boy got away,” she said.
    “We’re going to find out,” said Mac.
    Instead of heading for his car, Mac crossed the street with Defenzo at his side, paused in front of the Vorhees house and looked around at the trees. For the next fifteen minutes, Mac inspected every tree on the Vorhees property and every one two houses down on either side of it.
    Finally, he stopped, looked up and down the street.
    “What?” Defenzo finally said, unable to hold it in any longer.
    “No match,” said Mac, deep in thought.
    “For what?” asked Defenzo.
    Instead of answering, Mac headed for his car, behind which the paramedic truck was parked. He paused for an instant as the paramedics brought out the first body.
     
    Kyle Shelton drove.
    To the world afraid of tomorrow and grieving over yesterday, he was Kyle Shelton, who knew how to put on clean jeans and a pressed long-sleeved shirt to hide his tattoos.
    He knew the value of good teeth, had his own straightened, cleaned and whitened regularly and a nine-to-five haircut.
    Even though he held a college degree, he now held down a job on the shipping dock of a super-sized hardware store in Manhattan, caused no trouble, smiled when the others laughed. A year of combat infantry in Iraq had changed him. Death, violent death, was now a part of his everyday experience.
    He had earned his degree in philosophy at City University of New York. Kyle had been lucky enough to find a young professor with a Ph.D. from Brown to mentor him. The degree was validation, a sheet of paper he could show but never would. If he had ambition before, he had lost it in Iraq. He already knew more of