Hire a Hangman Read Online Free PDF

glowing ember of anger. “Are you saying that Jason could have done it, killed Brice?”
    “I’m just looking for information, for opinions. I gather it’s your opinion that your husband couldn’t have done it.”
    “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, that’s definitely my opinion. Definitely, yes.”
    1:20 AM
    In silence, Hastings watched the doors of the coroner’s van close. With their measurements checked and their evidence bagged and tagged and their pictures taken, the lab technicians were switching off their lights and taking down their yellow tapes. In an hour the night would reclaim the murder scene. In the morning, bright and early, the householders responsible for this section of sidewalk would be out with hose and broom, washing down the blood.
    Standing beside Hastings, Canelli noted the time in the log as Hastings glanced across the street. Was Carla Pfiefer still watching from her darkened living room? How would she sleep tonight? Had she been in love with Brice Hanchett? Or had they been using each other? If Hanchett was an egotist, what did that make Carla Pfiefer?
    And what had Carla Pfiefer made of her husband except a cuckold?
    He waited for Canelli to make his log entries. “So what’s it look like?”
    “Well,” Canelli answered, “it turns out that he had his wallet and his money—about a hundred dollars—and a ring and a fancy wristwatch. So it doesn’t look like robbery. Except if the bad guy got spooked, the old story. But from what Taylor says, and what the pizza guy says, the whole thing was pretty—you know—deliberate. The victim—his name was Brice Hanchett, and he lived on Jackson Street, in Pacific Heights—he was just walking calmly, not expecting a thing. It seems like the assailant was waiting for him, standing behind that tree”—Canelli pointed—“in the shadows. So that was it. Three shots. Hanchett went right down, apparently. So then the assailant, very cool, stood over him for a few seconds, then walked off. The M.E. says Hanchett probably died right where he fell, by the look of the wounds. Two shots hit him, it looks like, large caliber, in the chest. So the third shot went wild, probably. We got two shell casings, by the way. Two out of three, not bad.” As he said it, Canelli looked hopefully at Hastings, for approval.
    Hastings nodded. “Great. That’s great. By the way—” He pointed to the tan Jaguar, parked a short distance up the hill. “That’s his car, that tan Jag. Did you hold on to the keys?”
    “Yessir. I figured they wouldn’t take prints.”
    “Okay—good. Well—” Hands in his pockets, Hastings surveyed the scene. “Well, let’s wrap it up. Or rather—” Hastings smiled, yawned, took his hands out of his pockets, stretched his arms overhead. “Or rather, let’s you wrap it up. After the towtruck comes, unblock the street. Then …”He hesitated. At one-thirty in the morning, was he presuming too much on Canelli’s amiable good nature? No. Canelli was the officer in charge at the scene. It was a trial run for command, for promotion. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Then you’ll have to find his family, break the news.”
    “Right.” Canelli nodded. Then, tentatively, he gestured toward Carla Pfiefer’s flat. “What about the lady? Carla Pfiefer? What d’you think, Lieutenant? Should I mention her to the guy’s family, or what? I mean, if his wife asks where he was—where he’d been, before he got killed …” Letting the question linger, Canelli furrowed his brow. His brown eyes were anxious. “I mean, if you were me …” Once more, his question trailed off.
    “If I were you,” Hastings said, “I’d discharge my duty to notify the next of kin. If they’re in shape to answer questions, I’d find out what they know. But I wouldn’t volunteer anything. And I wouldn’t answer any questions—not any hard questions, anyhow. I’d just do it by the book—get through it. And then I’d get out. That’s