Dead Man's Bones Read Online Free PDF

red placemats and napkins and a vase of autumn wildflowers and felt pleased with the way it looked.
    Blackie and McQuaid are both big guys, and when they’re in the same room, even as large a room as my kitchen, it feels a little crowded. Blackie is still a bachelor (although he and Sheila Dawson have been engaged for almost two years), and the closest he’s likely to come to a home-cooked meal is Lila Jennings’ meatloaf, at the Nueces Street Diner. So he sat down at the table with an enthusiastic grin and a thank-you for me.
    Blackie Blackwell is quintessentially a cop, as though all the copness in the world has become concentrated in this one man. He’s as square as they come—square shoulders, square jaw, square chin, military posture, sandy hair-cut in regulation style. You almost expect him to salute.
    But in spite of his by-the-book look, Blackie knows when to set the rules aside and act on his gut instinct. He comes from a family of lawmen—his father, Corky Blackwell, was Adams County sheriff before him, while his mother Reba ran the jail and the sheriff’s office. He’s smart and tough. He’s compassionate, too, when compassion is required. Even people who aren’t overly fond of cops (and there are plenty of those in the Hill Country) have to admit that Blackie Blackwell is one of the good guys.
    The men were already seated when Brian came barreling into the kitchen, Howard Cosell right behind him, and dove for his chair.
    “Hands,” I said, without turning around from the counter, where I was pouring iced tea. There was a silence. “And wiping them on your jeans isn’t good enough,” I added.
    The chair scraped against the floor. “How’d you know?” Brian asked.
    “Eyes in the back of my head,” I replied, and Blackie chuckled. I put the filled glasses on the table. “Vamoose, kid.”
    While Brian was washing and McQuaid and Blackie were helping themselves to curry, I fed Howard Cosell, who gave me one of his doleful “surely-there’s-more-to-life-than-this” looks when he saw the dry dog food in his dish.
    I hardened my heart. “That’s all you’re going to get, Howard, old boy,” I said firmly. “You heard the vet. You need to lose four pounds, before the next visit.”
    Bassets are almost too smart for their own good, and Howard is certainly no dummy. He inhaled his dry dog food with one scornful breath, then padded over to take up his station under the kitchen table, where McQuaid promptly dropped a chunk of curried chicken in front of him. Howard licked it up and thumped the floor gratefully with his tail, a performance that earned him another hunk of chicken as soon as McQuaid thought I wasn’t looking. At the rate we’re going, that four-pound loss isn’t likely to happen in Howard’s lifetime.
    I sat down, Brian joined us, and a few moments of silence followed as we all heaped our plates. We were digging in to our food when McQuaid said, “Have you ID’d your John Doe yet, Blackie?”
    Brian looked up quickly. “You’re talking about the dead body in the cave? My body?”
    “It can’t be your body that’s dead,” McQuaid deadpanned. “Your body looks very much alive to me.”
    “Do we need to talk about dead bodies while we’re eating this wonderful dinner I’ve cooked?” I inquired.
    “It’s not really a body, Mom,” Brian explained, with a touching concern for my sensibilities. “It’s just a bunch of dusty old bones.”
    “A distinction without a difference,” I said, but I could see I was backing a losing horse. Judging from their expressions, all three of the guys wanted to pursue the subject.
    “There was no wallet, so IDing Brian’s caveman won’t be a piece of cake,” Blackie said, with a half-apologetic glance in my direction. He ladled a generous spoonful of McQuaid’s chutney onto his curry. “I think we might’ve narrowed down the date of death, though.”
    “Oh, yeah?” McQuaid asked. He raised his eyebrow as Blackie took a second