Closer Than Blood Read Online Free PDF

blues arrived and secured the scene, but it had been loud and one of the cops shut it off.
    Kaminski fixed his eyes on the victim. He wore a blue and gold robe. It was a flimsy, silky fabric that he wouldn’t be caught dead in.
    Which, of course, Alex Connelly had just been.
    He had slippers on his feet. Nothing else.
    â€œWhat does the vic do for a living?”
    â€œWorks for an investment firm downtown. About middle on the high-up scale, if you ask me. You know, makes enough dough for a lease on this place, but not enough to buy it.”
    â€œLexus, actually a his and hers, in the garage, er, carriage house,” one of the cops said, correcting himself. “Not a Porsche.”
    â€œAlmost feel sorry for him,” Kaminski said. “You know, not being able to get a Porsche.”
    It took three men to move the body to the split-open bag. In doing so, the robe slipped to reveal the victim’s chest. A tattoo of an eagle with artillery and olive branches in its talons soared over his right pec, which, given his age, was well defined.
    â€œNice ink,” Kaminski said. “Looks like navy.”
    While the techs and cops worked together to process the scene for evidence, Kaminski took a tour of the house. It was late by then, but the place seemed as if it had been ready for a Realtor’s open house. Nothing was out of place. The kitchen, small by the standards of what modern people wanted, was nicely redone to include the niceties that big-bucked folks wanted. A Sub-Zero refrigerator was clad in white cabinetry to match the rest of the kitchen. A Viking range was another giveaway that the place had been redone. Nothing was out of place on the plane of soapstone that served as the counter.
    Upstairs, Kaminski entered the master bedroom. A Rice bed that in someone else’s house would have been ridiculously oversize commanded the large room. The bed had been turned down. All perfect.
    The dead guy was in a silky robe and slippers.
    Where were his clothes?
    The bathroom was also show-ready. He went inside and a flash of red caught his eye. On a hook on the back of the door, a woman’s teddy.
    Nice , he thought.
    As he moved the door, the fabric fluttered, like a red flag.
    He opened the shower door and caught a whiff of cleaner. The marble surface was slick, dripping wet.
    Cal appeared in the doorway.
    â€œEverything diagrammed, photographed. ME is taking the body now. Some blood in the hallway, fair amount of spatter on the wall behind the couch. We’re dusting everything. Place is pretty clean. Must have a maid.”
    â€œAll right. I’m going to the hospital to see Mrs. Connelly.”
    â€œTechs are there now.”
    â€œGunshot residue?”
    â€œHands have been swabbed.”
    Kaminski nodded. “Prelim?”
    â€œClean.”
    The two started down the stairs as the body was being carried out, bagged and tagged, on a gurney. A breeze from Commencement Bay filled the air with marine smells, a welcome reprieve from the odor of blood and gunfire.
    â€œShe talk?”
    â€œNot on the way to St. Joe’s. Didn’t say a word. Told the neighbor that a guy broke in, shot her and her old man. Nobody’s seen anything to approximate a break-in.”
    â€œSecurity system?”
    Cal watched the ambulance doors as they closed on Alex Connelly.
    â€œLooks like it was turned off,” he said.
    The sirens started and about ten onlookers started to head back to their homes.
    â€œShow over,” Kaminski said. “At least for now. I’m going to the hospital.”

    Most who inhabit such a fine street as North Junett would consider the most dominating piece of artwork that hung in the Connelly living room as something incongruent with the home’s stature or the place in society that its inhabitants surely held. It was a bourgeois depiction of a stone cottage in the midst of a snowstorm. The artist, Thomas Kinkade, was known for a popular,