Deadly Intersections Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ann Roberts
Adams, a retired cop who hated her current boss almost as much as she did.
She rubbed her eyes and stared at the spreadsheets she’d set on the bar. The numbers seemed to blur together, and she blinked several times to clear her head. All of the entries began with 6815, four numbers she was sure were part of an address, the address of a mole in the police department—a person who’d had her informant decapitated and stuffed in a trunk. She’d combed the list of owners many times looking for a clue, but so far none of the individual names or corporations stood out. It might help if you weren’t drinking in a bar .
She drained her second scotch and motioned to Vicky.
Vicky poured another round, her eyebrow raised. “This is a little early for you, Molly.”
“Who are you? My AA sponsor?”
Vicky shook her head and walked away. It was their latest running joke. Vicky was the only person allowed to comment on her drinking. Not even Ari said anything. She understood it was a taboo topic, but Molly imagined if she knew that she was frequenting Hideaway nearly every day, she would vehemently object. She’d also be crushed if she learned that her increased drinking coincided with their recent declaration of love and commitment.
She gulped her drink and stared into the empty glass. She loved Ari. She knew that. But she couldn’t understand how a woman with the body of a goddess would want a woman built like a linebacker. She lived in fear that Ari would someday ask herself the same question. Yet after eight months Ari remained.
Her cell phone chirped, and she frowned when she saw that it was Andre. Why would he be calling on Sunday ?
“What’s up?”
“We’re working, Mol. It’s a big case and Ruskin’s asking for us. Says Sol Gardener called us in.” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable.
David Ruskin was their boss, and the only reason he would ever request her would be because he was directed to do so by the chief of police.
“What’s the case?”
“Ten-year-old girl shot at Washington School.”
Molly was confused. “What about the Edgington murder?”
“Coroner ruled it a suicide, and now we’ve got this case. I’m on my way to the crime scene. Get your ass down here!”
Washington School stood like an old watchman over South Phoenix. Built in 1917, the school was a throwback to the east coast design, a single rectangular building with two stories. Rows of parallel windows wrapped around the entire structure and a set of steep concrete stairs led up to the enormous front doors.
Molly and Andre stared at the façade. The majesty it possessed in past decades had vanished. Every window pane was riddled with holes from rocks or bullets. The thousands of tan bricks lining the exterior were faded from the unforgiving Arizona sun.
A dozen crime techs and officers scoured the grounds as they walked across the dusty remnants of the schoolyard, patches of hardy Bermuda grass still visible and kept alive by the intermittent rains.
Andre’s gaze swept the property. “When did they close this place?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. A long time ago. And now it just sits here.”
They stopped in front of the swing set, the crime scene tape loosely draped around the poles in haphazard fashion. A tarp rested over the body, and Andre squatted, lifting up a corner while she turned away. She hated looking at dead kids. She stared at the swing, wondering if the little girl had been terrified or if she’d known her killer and death was just an unexpected moment free of fear. She sucked in her breath as a wave of nausea passed through her. She closed her eyes, wishing she was back at Hideaway.
“Tell me what we know.”
“Victim is Maria Perez. She was found in front of the swings. There’s a dirt scrape here that suggests she was trying to stop the swing—”
“Because she was going to run away,” she added.
He nodded. “Maybe. It’s hard to know. Shot at
She rubbed her eyes and stared at the spreadsheets she’d set on the bar. The numbers seemed to blur together, and she blinked several times to clear her head. All of the entries began with 6815, four numbers she was sure were part of an address, the address of a mole in the police department—a person who’d had her informant decapitated and stuffed in a trunk. She’d combed the list of owners many times looking for a clue, but so far none of the individual names or corporations stood out. It might help if you weren’t drinking in a bar .
She drained her second scotch and motioned to Vicky.
Vicky poured another round, her eyebrow raised. “This is a little early for you, Molly.”
“Who are you? My AA sponsor?”
Vicky shook her head and walked away. It was their latest running joke. Vicky was the only person allowed to comment on her drinking. Not even Ari said anything. She understood it was a taboo topic, but Molly imagined if she knew that she was frequenting Hideaway nearly every day, she would vehemently object. She’d also be crushed if she learned that her increased drinking coincided with their recent declaration of love and commitment.
She gulped her drink and stared into the empty glass. She loved Ari. She knew that. But she couldn’t understand how a woman with the body of a goddess would want a woman built like a linebacker. She lived in fear that Ari would someday ask herself the same question. Yet after eight months Ari remained.
Her cell phone chirped, and she frowned when she saw that it was Andre. Why would he be calling on Sunday ?
“What’s up?”
“We’re working, Mol. It’s a big case and Ruskin’s asking for us. Says Sol Gardener called us in.” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable.
David Ruskin was their boss, and the only reason he would ever request her would be because he was directed to do so by the chief of police.
“What’s the case?”
“Ten-year-old girl shot at Washington School.”
Molly was confused. “What about the Edgington murder?”
“Coroner ruled it a suicide, and now we’ve got this case. I’m on my way to the crime scene. Get your ass down here!”
Washington School stood like an old watchman over South Phoenix. Built in 1917, the school was a throwback to the east coast design, a single rectangular building with two stories. Rows of parallel windows wrapped around the entire structure and a set of steep concrete stairs led up to the enormous front doors.
Molly and Andre stared at the façade. The majesty it possessed in past decades had vanished. Every window pane was riddled with holes from rocks or bullets. The thousands of tan bricks lining the exterior were faded from the unforgiving Arizona sun.
A dozen crime techs and officers scoured the grounds as they walked across the dusty remnants of the schoolyard, patches of hardy Bermuda grass still visible and kept alive by the intermittent rains.
Andre’s gaze swept the property. “When did they close this place?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. A long time ago. And now it just sits here.”
They stopped in front of the swing set, the crime scene tape loosely draped around the poles in haphazard fashion. A tarp rested over the body, and Andre squatted, lifting up a corner while she turned away. She hated looking at dead kids. She stared at the swing, wondering if the little girl had been terrified or if she’d known her killer and death was just an unexpected moment free of fear. She sucked in her breath as a wave of nausea passed through her. She closed her eyes, wishing she was back at Hideaway.
“Tell me what we know.”
“Victim is Maria Perez. She was found in front of the swings. There’s a dirt scrape here that suggests she was trying to stop the swing—”
“Because she was going to run away,” she added.
He nodded. “Maybe. It’s hard to know. Shot at