Idyll Threats Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘no comment.’”
    â€œWhat if it's a he?” someone called. Wiseass.
    â€œBy all means, offer him some soap. And then tell him ‘no comment.’” They laughed. A bunch of straight guys never tempted by another man. Or were they? One cop, Klein, laughed harder, his eyes checking his colleagues. Bingo.
    Our detectives, Wright and Finnegan, sat farthest from the coffeepot but closest to our only interview room. Visually, they made quite a pair: Wright, tall, thin, and black, and Finnegan, short, schlubby, and ashen white. My first month here, I thought of them as Wright and White. Finnegan's desk was covered with chewed pens, takeout containers, and files that belonged in cabinets. It was dominated by a plaque that read “A clean desk is the sign of a full dumpster.” Wright's desk was tidy. Near his phone sat a photo of his wife and kids. It needed dusting.
    I cleared my throat. They looked up. “Any news?” I asked.
    â€œSome, sir.” Finnegan, from Boston, had an accent that could strip paint. “I drove to Charlie Fisher's house in Coventry. He was drinking coffee with his wife.” I imagined the scene. Old Mr. and Mrs. Fisher drinking from mugs that said “Decaf is the Devil's Blend.” “Charlie said he'd made his rounds at nine thirty p.m., a half hour earlier than usual. He needed to drive his wife home from a church function.”
    â€œHe see anything?”
    â€œSaid the course was fine. Walked the whole thing. Always does. They've told him he can use a cart, but he prefers to walk. Says it's more effective even if it's not efficient.” Good old Charlie, walking the course. Not likely he'd miss a body. “Poor bastard.” Finnegan scratched his chest. “He asked if he'd come at his usual time, if it would've made a difference.”
    â€œSo you don't think he did it?” I said.
    â€œHe's sixty-plus years old. She could've outrun him easy.”
    â€œShe couldn't outrun a bullet.”
    â€œHe owns a shotgun. Used for hunting. I checked it out. Smelled dusty.”
    â€œOkay. The timing matches what her parents said. Sometime after nine p.m. she leaves the house and ends up dead around midnight. Let's find out how. I want Billy to help.”
    â€œYou want Hoops?” He didn't say more. Billy was young and raw. And he'd trampled the crime scene.
    â€œHe's an Idyll native. He knew the victim.” I held up my hand. “I know. You think that's a problem. If it is, we'll cut him. But for now, keep him in the loop.” Billy's youth was an asset. He'd do as I said and keep me informed. No questions asked.
    Wright said the techs had retrieved three bullets from the scene. “Handgun.” He scanned his notepad. “Three people in the area heard loud noises. Two said around midnight and the third said sometime after eleven thirty p.m.”
    â€œDid they call it in?” I asked.
    He held up a finger. “One did. A Mrs. Riley. Dix checked it out. He made a loop around the block. Nothing. Since he'd only got the one report and he saw nothing, he thought—”
    â€œIt was a car backfiring?” I'd seen tourists in New York make the opposite mistake. Hit the deck when an old taxi drove by. Always good for a laugh.
    â€œYup.” Wright put his notepad in his inner pocket. Unlike Finnegan, his clothes fit. Because, unlike Finnegan, he still had a wife. “I'm going to look in on our boy, Anthony Fergus.” He leaned forward on his chair. Ready for action.
    â€œThe wife beater?” I asked. Anthony was heroin skinny, in need of a dentist and anger-management classes. Wright had hauled him in two months ago. His wife had dropped all charges two hours after his arrest. Showed up with tears in her black-and-blue eyes and apologies on her lips. It had steamed Wright but good. He'd broken the coffeepot. Dunsmore had complained, but I'd told her to let him alone. I knew what it was like to