Fourth Victim Read Online Free PDF

bitter pills washed down with inevitable disappointment.
    “Thanks for the brew, Joe. I heard you were married.”
    “Living with someone.” He didn’t feel like explaining about the break-up.
    “To look at you, it don’t seem she makes you happy.”
    Joe’s cell vibrated in his front pocket. He made a phone of his pinky and thumb and excused himself. He walked to the back exit, pulling the cell out of his pocket.
    “Yeah.”
    “I need you to get over here.” It was Healy. “Where’s here?” “In Mastic.”
    “What the fuck are you doing in—” “Just get over here!” “Where are you exactly?”
    Healy gave the location. Joe knew the spot from when he used to drive the route for Frank.
    “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. So you wanna give me a hint?” “There’s been another murder.”
    Serpe clicked the phone shut and headed back through Lugo’s to his car parked out front. Kathleen was waiting for him just inside the back door. She didn’t bother with chit chat, threading herself through his arms and kissing him hard on the mouth. He knew that no matter how he responded, he was bound to give her, if not what she wanted, then what she expected. He pulled back.
    “There are guys in here that’ve given their left nuts to fuck me.”
    “You’ll have to show me your collection sometime,” he said, and pushed past her.
    Poor and white, Mastic was the kind of place where people who fell through the cracks landed; the kind of place where cars on cinder blocks were considered lawn sculpture and pit bulls lap dogs. But no place on Long Island is ever completely safe from the real estate speculators, not even Mastic. Yet it would be quite a while before the speculators worked their way over to the area of Mastic where Bob Healy was pacing a rut in the ruined asphalt. Then when he spotted Serpe’s car, he motioned madly for his partner to pull quickly over to the side of the road. Joe tucked his car half into the tall reeds just behind Healy’s car.
    “What’s up?” Joe asked, stepping out of the car.
    “Look over there,” Healy said, pointing at the small fleet of Suffolk County Police vehicles parked along the south bank of Poospatuck Creek. Just across the way, on the north bank, was the Poospatuck Indian Reservation. The Shinnecock were the Long Island tribe everyone knew about. The Poospatuck were a tiny, impoverished tribe confined to fifty ugly acres of double-wide trailers along the Forge River. The major activities on the rez were selling tax free cigarettes and crime. “You see the oil truck out there?”
    “Yeah. Green and white Ford L8000 … looks like an Epsilon Energy truck. What would an Epsilon truck be doing way the fuck out here? They’re strictly a North Shore outfit and don’t deliver this far east. I don’t see an ambulance or the ME’s wagon. I thought you said there was another homicide.”
    “Trust me, partner, there was another homicide,” Healy said.
    “I don’t know. Maybe one of their drivers got lost or something.”
    “Follow me.”
    About five feet past the front end of his car, Healy turned into the tall reeds. Serpe trailed a few yards behind.
    “I can smell the oil from here,” Joe said
    When Healy was sure Serpe had caught up, he popped on his flashlight and aimed it at the ground near Serpe’s feet.
    “Holy shit!” Joe jumped back at the sight of Albie Jimenez’s body laying face-up and still half covered by the blue plastic tarp. “See what I mean about that other murder?” “It’d be hard not to. How’d you find him?”
    “Dumb luck. I followed the cops here, but I wanted to stay far enough back so they wouldn’t notice me. When I came to take a leak, I nearly fell over the poor bastard.”
    Serpe got down on his hands and knees, grabbing the flashlight out of his partner’s hand. “I don’t know him, but he’s wearing their uniform and he smells like home heating oil. Alberto,” Joe read the name stitched into the green Epsilon