Fortunes of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

Miata, though she said that, like Cheryl, she was a Mustang girl herself. She didn’t think twice when I suggested we ride together, and there was no reason to point out that after seeing her sister’s car, she might be in no shape to drive herself home. Miranda didn’t even ask where the car was. She had yet to grow out of the childish expectation that she would be taken care of by the grown-ups in charge.
    I had to think about where I was going, the twists and turns of the neighborhood were new, but once I was on Tates Creek Pike, I was back in familiar territory. I headed east toward downtown and that magical place where the road changed its name to Euclid. Lexington, like many cities, often succumbs to the schizophrenic habit of changing street names from one side of an intersection to another.
    Miranda peeled the cuticles on the fingers of her left hand and stared quietly out the window. Having her in the car felt like taking a nervous dog for a drive.
    I’d left Paul Brady’s check covering a twenty-five hundred dollar retainer by the kitchen sink. Real money strikes a note of reverence when you see as little of it as I do. Clients like Paul Brady don’t come along often enough. I wondered if I would have agreed to take Miranda to see her sister’s car without that check. I decided I would have no matter what. I also decided Joel would be furious if he knew. I’d have to make sure he never did. The thought gave me a pang, as if I had put some distance between us.
    The rain started up again, and I veered around deep puddles, cursing the SUVs that sprayed mud on my windshield. I muttered quietly so Miranda wouldn’t hear. Joel says I am an aggressive driver, but I think he’s just not used to the passenger’s seat.
    Traffic moved like slow agony on Main Street. The stoplights were flashing yellow. In a perfect world this would mean that each intersection would be treated as a four-way stop, but actually meant every man for himself. A drop of water splashed Miranda’s left shoulder, and I noticed that the duct tape I had used to repair the tear in the roof was sagging with condensation.
    I reached around the back of my seat for the semiclean navy blue towel I had stashed, and passed it to Miranda. I pointed to the roof and the drips. She shrugged and wadded the towel in a ball, holding it like a pressure bandage against her stomach. She’d run out of conversation.
    The corner of Broadway had turned into a lake, and water fanned both sides of the Miata, coating the plastic slit that serves as the back window with mud. Traffic was thinning, and the stoplights ahead were functional as downtown Lexington petered out into storage units, discount gas stations, strip malls, and vacant buildings. Traffic picked up again once we headed east on Leestown Road. We were almost there.
    Miranda’s sister Cheryl drove a vintage ’64 Mustang, navy blue with rust spots. It was out of sight and out of reach behind a chain-link fence topped with three separate strands of barbed wire. I pulled the Miata across a gravel drive, getting as far to the right as possible.
    â€œIs it too muddy over there for you to get out, Miranda? I can pull up some more if you want.”
    â€œThis is fine,” she said, without looking.
    I let it go. She had boots, and the mud was near impossible to miss. “Stay put for a minute.”
    She didn’t answer or look my way, and I gave her a second look, wondering if this was such a good idea.
    But we were parked, and I could see the uniform out of the corner of my eye, and I was going to have to get out and talk to him no matter what. The rain fell steadily, and I grabbed a ball cap from behind my seat, and left Miranda alone in the car. I’m not sure she noticed me leave.
    â€œHey, Chris McFee, how you been?” I was in luck. I knew this guy.
    McFee wore a plastic cover over his hat, and a poncho over his uniform. He stood in front of