Grave Intent Read Online Free PDF Page B

know him,” Vanessa explained. “He wasn’t a patient. It was evening; the office was closed. Dr. Valburg had just left, and I was tidying up the waiting room. When I went to lock up the door, the doctor was still standing out in the parking lot. He was arguing with a man.”
    “Could you hear what it was about?”
    “No. They finished arguing. The man screamed, ‘Quit bothering me!’ and took off down a side street. Dr. Valburg got into his car and drove off.”
    “How long ago was this?”
    “Four weeks.”
    “You know the man?”
    “That was the first time I saw him. And I haven’t seen him since.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “About five foot eleven. Slender. Short dark hair.”
    “A fellow doctor?”
    Vanessa shook her head. “I know most of Dr. Valburg’s colleagues. Plus, he was too seedy-looking to be a doctor.”
    “Too seedy-looking?”
    “He was wearing worn-out jeans and a leather jacket. His nose was crooked, and he had a scar running above his eyebrows.”
    “You can remember that so clearly?”
    “My passion is portrait painting. I can size up a person’s looks quickly, and I have an eye for small details.”
    “Would you be able to sit down with a police sketch artist? Using your skills, we’re sure to get a good picture of the man.”
    Vanessa nodded. “As good as any photo.”
    Jan Tommen smiled at that. He had his first suspect.

Chapter Three
    Jan jolted awake screaming. His heart was racing, and he was panting as if he’d run a marathon. It took a moment for him to recognize his surroundings. The light from the hallway shone faintly on his bedroom—the large wardrobe, the bed, and the dresser. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. With every breath, his beating heart slowed, his panting calmed, and his hands relaxed. Sometimes when this happened, in an effort to forget the nightmare, he’d try to recall the latest soccer scores or even take a cold shower—but when the nightmare was this intense, not even that shock to his system made a difference.
    Jan’s weapon lay next to the bed on the nightstand, not securely stored like it should be at home, flouting regulations. The gun was dark and heavy. A constant reminder of the day he had shot his girlfriend dead.
    A hundred times he had entertained the thought of throwing the thing out the window, but he was terrified of what the person who found it might do with it. As a cop, he was supposed to carry his duty weapon on him when it wasn’t locked up for safekeeping. Always. No exceptions.
    He used to like to practice at the shooting range, but today he felt sick just looking at the gun. So he took the pistol off the night table, yanked out the magazine, and removed each cartridge. Carrying his weapon without ammo was a severe breach of regulations as well, but as long as the pistol was in his holster, no one would know. Besides, he couldn’t imagine shooting anyone again, even if life depended on it.
    He tucked the cartridges inside the drawer. Then he lay back down, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep a little now. He had so much to do before they all gathered at Chandu’s that evening.
    He left the light on in the hallway, just in case the nightmare returned.

    It was a weird feeling for Jan, being back in Chandu’s apartment. He had hidden out here for several weeks when he was wanted for murder. It had been his safe harbor, and he had felt at home immediately.
    Nothing had changed since he’d moved out. He recognized the sharp aroma of incense that greeted him as he walked in the front door. The leather couch—Jan’s ad hoc bed—shone as if polished. The flat-screen was set to the sports channel.
    Chandu was toiling away in the kitchen. He opened the oven, and a whiff of Alsatian tart wafted through the room, a wave of pure delight. Jan closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma of the thin, pizza-like delicacy. His friend’s culinary talents never ceased to surprise