His Partner's Wife Read Online Free PDF

the result of a bar shootout. Neither
victim nor shooter, both tattooed, black-leather-garbed motorcyclists, had been
locals.
    "Busy days," John said laconically.
    "Well." She was already closing her bag.
"Cause of death looks obvious from here, although you never know. We might
be surprised when we get him on the table."
    "Weapon?"
    "Something darned heavy. Probably smooth and
rounded." She pursed her lips. "A metal pipe, maybe. There are a few
flakes caught in his hair that might be rust."
    "Time of death?"
    "I'm guessing morning." She groaned and pressed a
hand to her lower back as she straightened from her crouch over the body.
"Say, ten, eleven o'clock."
    Both men had both taken involuntary steps forward when she
began to heave herself to her feet. Now they exchanged a glance.
    "That's consistent with what the home owner says."
    "Which is?"
    Geoff told her about the cat that had napped on the fabric.
"And the old couple down the street, the neighborhood snoops, would have
been grocery shopping about then."
    "I wonder," John said thoughtfully, "whether
the Porters go grocery shopping every morning. Or the same morning every
week."
    Geoff made a note. "Easy to ask."
    Dr. Koltes left after conferring with the uniforms who had
been delegated to bag the body. "I can do the autopsy tonight," she
said, promising. "You'll have my report tomorrow."
    Gazing with distaste at the corpse, John said, "Time to
have a look."
    He checked back pockets—no wallet. Ditto for the pockets of
the crumpled linen jacket. The jacket interested him. Men in Port Dare leaned
more to denim or heavy flannel, maybe a dark suit if you worked in a bank or
law office. This looked … hell, like Miami Vice.
    He called for the paramedics, who put a collar on the neck
to protect the bashed skull for Dr. Koltes's benefit, and then rolled the body
onto a gurney. Faceup, a man who could have been mid-thirties to forty tops
stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Longish brown hair, brown eyes, a stubble of
beard—this guy had stumbled out of TV land, John thought again. On a wrist that
had been under the body was an obviously expensive watch, the kind that
probably told you the time in Paris, the altitude and your heart rate.
    Sinking back on his heels, John contemplated the face.
    "Damn it, Baxter, he looks familiar."
    His partner nodded. "I was thinking the same."
    "If we know him, he's probably not a realtor or the
manager of the Rite Aid pharmacy."
    Geoff gestured toward the watch. "Drugs?"
    "Could be."
    They stood back and let the photographer get full frontal
pictures as well as close-ups of the face.
    "I want those as soon as possible," John said, and
was answered with brisk nods.
    "Fingerprints?" he asked.
    "The victim's," he was told. "Half a dozen
others. Mrs. Reed's, presumably. We'll need to get hers tomorrow."
    Feeling uncomfortable admitting it for reasons he didn't
like to examine, John said, "Mine will be here, too. I used that bathroom
just last week when I was treating the back deck."
    To his relief, nobody gave sly or knowing glances. Nobody
made an off-color joke about widows—one that would have been deeply regretted.
    It helped when Baxter said, "Hell, mine'll be here,
too. Natalie had Linda and me to dinner Friday night."
    He and Baxter took their time studying the den once the body
was carted out. It was a room that could have used Natalie's lighter touch.
John guessed that she stayed out of it.
    Stuart had smoked cigars, or at least liked to have one
clenched between his teeth curling noxious smoke into the air. The smell, faded
with time, nonetheless still lingered in here. Walls were papered in a
masculine navy-and-tan-striped paper. Bookshelves held Stuart's favorite
bedtime reading: Ken Follett, John Le Carre and the ilk.
    A monster, the desk was one of those huge oak ones that had
probably graced the office of a CEO in the 1920s. The finish was yellowing, the
top covered with a blotter. In its own way, the computer that sat atop it