Dust to Dust Read Online Free PDF Page A

one for the scrapbook.”
    His tone was almost snide. He’d been at it too long, had grown numb to the sight of dead people to the point where they were no longer people to him—they were bodies. All cops got that way or they got off the street before they could lose their minds. Death simply couldn’t affect them in a personal way every time they encountered it. Kovac knew he was surely no exception. But this time would be different. It already was.
    Liska gave the cop the flat look all detectives mastered early on in their career. “Where’s the body?”
    “Bedroom. Upstairs.”
    “Who found him?”
    “A ‘friend,’” the uniform said, again with the snide tone, making the quotation marks with his fingers. “He’s in the kitchen, crying.”
    Kovac looked at the name tag, leaning in, crowding him. “Burgess?”
    “Yeah,” he said, visibly resisting the urge to step back.
    Liska scribbled his name and badge number in her notebook.
    “You were first on the scene?” Kovac said.
    “Yeah.”
    “You used that mouth to talk to the guy found the body?”
    Burgess frowned, suspicious. “Yeah . . .”
    Kovac took another small step into the cop’s space. “Burgess, are you always such a fucking asshole or is today special?”
    The cop colored, his features growing taut.
    “Keep the mouth in check,” Kovac ordered. “The vic was a cop, and so’s his old man. Show some respect.”
    Burgess pressed his lips together and took a step back, eyes cold. “Yes, sir.”
    “I don’t want anyone coming in here unless they’ve got a badge or they’re from the ME. Got that?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And I want a log of every name, badge number, and the time they walk in the door and walk back out. Can you manage that?”
    “Yes. Sir.”
    “Ooh, he didn’t like that,” Liska whispered gleefully as they left Burgess at the door and headed toward the back of the house.
    “Yeah? Fuck him.” Kovac glanced down at her. “Andy Fallon was queer?”
    “Gay,” she corrected. “How would I know? I don’t hang out with IA rats. What do you take me for?”
    “You really want to know?” Kovac asked, then, “He worked IA? No wonder Mike said the kid was dead to him.”
    The kitchen was hunter green with pristine white woodwork and had everything in its place. It was the kitchen of someone who knew how to do more than run the microwave—commercial range, pots hanging from the iron rack above a granite-topped island loaded with big-ass knives in a wood block.
    On the far side of the room, at a round table nestled into a bay window, sat the “friend,” head in hands. A good-looking guy in a dark suit. Red hair, stylishly cut. A rectangular face full of sharp angles and freckles. The freckles stood out against skin washed ashen by stress and by the cold gray light spilling in the windows. He barely glanced up as they walked into the room.
    Liska flashed her ID and introduced them. “We understand you found the body, Mr.—”
    “Pierce,” he said hoarsely, and sniffed. “Steve Pierce. Yes. I         . . .         found him.”
    “We know this is terribly upsetting for you, Mr. Pierce, but we’ll need to talk to you when we finish. Do you understand?”
    “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand any of this. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
    “We’re sorry for your loss,” Liska said automatically.
    “He wouldn’t do this,” he mumbled, staring at the tabletop. “He wouldn’t do this. It’s just not possible.”
    Kovac said nothing. A sense of dread built in his chest as they climbed the stairs.
    “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Tinks,” he muttered, pulling on latex gloves. “Or maybe I’m having a heart attack. That’d be my luck. I finally quit smoking and I have a heart attack.”
    “Well, don’t die at the scene,” Liska said. “The paperwork would be a big pain in the ass.”
    “You’re full of sympathy.”
    “Better than what