Deadly Messengers Read Online Free PDF

his jacket from the back of his chair.
    “As ready as I’ll ever be on no-hours sleep. Did you see one of the vics was celebrating his birthday? Some birthday present, right?”
    O’Grady shook his head.
    Trip sighed at the comment. His mouth sagged as he ran his hand over his sleek, shiny head, adorned with nothing but moisturizer.
    “The guy had to be psychotic, or schizophrenic, or something with crazy in the subtitle. If we don’t find out which, we’re not getting the weekend off. Like the Sarge said, Average Joe needs a reason for these things to feel safe at night . I need the reason cause I got plans for the weekend. And they don’t involve work.”
    O’Grady actually didn’t mind if he worked weekends. What else would he do? Outside of the job, he had little to occupy his time. No wife, few friends. What was left of his family were all out on the coast.
    Trip continued to muse aloud on the case and why Benson would go crazy in that particular restaurant. O’Grady’s partner talked a great deal, most of the time speaking out loud what seemed was every idea that floated through his mind. The fact O’Grady only responded every now and then didn’t seem to faze Trip.
    O’Grady preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. After what happened to his brother, he’d learned zipping it was a safer way to live. The less people knew about you, the better. After three years as partners, Trip knew only as much as O’Grady cared to reveal. His partner seemed content with that. More opportunity for Trip to talk, O’Grady figured.
    As they exited the building, they passed the arriving day shift staff. O’Grady threw out a few hellos and nodded to others. Mostly he kept his head down to avoid engagement. Trip smiled and greeted everyone who passed them.
    Already O’Grady’s thoughts were focused on Toby Benson. Something didn’t sit right. Something itched in that place in his mind where the bullshit net was positioned; a mild flaring he just couldn’t settle.
    CSI had done their preliminary sweep of Benson’s apartment. They discovered nothing. Hard to believe. Nothing, no evidence, was wrong. Unexpected . When someone commits a crime, even less savage than this, there are always indicators in his or her life pointing to issues that spun out of control. Big red, flashing signs blinking: “This person is dynamite just waiting for a match.”
    So far, this Benson seemed like just an average guy. Had a girlfriend; several smiling pictures of her and him dotted his apartment, CSI had informed. Had a stable job at a bank—a check of the website LinkedIn told them he’d been employed there five years. He’d lived in Danbridge all his life. Plenty of friends. From Facebook they’d gleaned his interactions and attitudes appeared normal.
    Yet on a cool early-winter Sunday evening, he left his home prepared with a weapon, drove into the city, targeted a restaurant—for what reason, they were yet to ascertain—and had a swing-the-axe party.
    As much as O’Grady wanted this to be a suicide-by-cop show, his itch told him it might turn out to be something quite different. He didn’t know what, and he didn’t know why. That bothered him.
    O’Grady climbed into the front passenger seat next to Trip, who had launched into a dissection of a recent baseball game where his home team—according to him—was robbed by the umpire. Things like this mass killing didn’t seem to invade his head. He treated the job like a job .
    Not O’Grady. He needed to solve the crimes. In doing so it temporarily filled something missing in him, which no amount of women—whom he soon forgot—or phone calls home could satisfy. The emotional impact of the scene last night had left him drained. He looked ahead to when he could clock off, hit the sack, and get some dearly needed shut-eye. Hopefully, today would end better than it started.
    But this damn itch in his gut still bothered him. Maybe sleep might reveal the answer. He hoped the