Eleven Little Piggies Read Online Free PDF Page A

and began counting overtime hours. There was a woefully small balance left in the Rutherford PD emergency account. I used the rest of the trip to prepare a plea for help from the Mayor’s slush fund, ‘. . . the third murder in six months, Your Honor . . .’ If that didn’t work, Rutherford investigators might be the next ones to discover that crime doesn’t pay.

THREE
    B y the time Ray Bailey got around to calling me, I didn’t much want to talk to him any more. I had enjoyed two rum punches, a large plate of brats and beans washed down with a couple of beers, and an hour of playing ‘Whose ball is this?’ with Ben. My son and I were both about ready for bed.
    At nearly eight months, Ben was a round and happy babbler, guzzler, and waver of undifferentiated hellos and goodbyes. While this limited agenda had never seemed interesting when I observed it in other people’s children, in Ben’s chubby hands I found it intellectually complex and amusing. Besides the endless ball game we’d been playing all week, this month we were into ‘This Little Piggy’ big-time. Every night, watching Ben discover his hands and feet and learn to follow the ball with his eyes, I turned into a certifiable idiot who thought crawling on the floor making excited noises over ten pink toes and a small rubber ball was the best possible use of an evening.
    I suppose I should admit that watching him learn new tricks wasn’t all I enjoyed about playing with Ben. There was also the fact that at first sight of me, reliably, morning and evening, he wiggled ecstatically, crowed like a happy chicken, and grinned as if I’d brought him the best present he could possibly imagine just by showing up. I’ve never been anybody’s hero before, and it’s a little embarrassing how much I like it. In fact, when Ben looks at me that way I feel just about ready to strap on the cape and leap tall buildings.
    Trudy handed the phone down to me and picked up the baby, saying, ‘Ray sounds as if he needs to be burped. Maybe you better take this in the other room.’ We were in the big open kitchen/family room where we spend most of our time. The dining room is for rare family gatherings like the Thanksgiving feast coming up, and the so-called living room keeps getting more and more like a home office. I turned on a light and took Ray’s call in there.
    â€˜Well, the first thing to tell you,’ he said, ‘is that Andy found the victims’ transportation. Five-year-old pickup parked on the two-track on the other side of this grove of trees. Keys in the ignition.’
    â€˜Registration?’
    â€˜In the glove box. Says the owner is Owen Kester; all the same information as his license.’
    â€˜Can you tell if he drove himself or—’
    â€˜I didn’t see anything obvious, like blood. BCA crews were gone, so we just impounded the vehicle and had it wrapped and towed to the police lot. BCA’s arranging the tow to Saint Paul.’
    â€˜OK. We should get good information from that baby.’
    â€˜Yeah. We were doing all right till about an hour after we found the pickup.’ He sounded morose. ‘But just when Rosie and Clint got back from the Kesters’ farm wanting to tell me all about it, I got a phone call from the brother.’ A windy sigh. ‘Ethan, his name is.’
    â€˜Ethan’s the attorney that Arlo mentioned?’
    â€˜Is he ever. Of the firm of Kester and Robbins, as he reminded me several times.’
    â€˜Lawyer Kester is somewhat assertive?’
    â€˜You might say that. Or you might just say he’s a pompous asshole with a paranoid streak. Unfortunately I think he may have almost as much clout as he’s threatening me with.’
    â€˜Let’s make him prove it before we get worried. What does he say he can do to you?’
    Cops take endless abuse all day long because they have to deal with