If Looks Could Kill Read Online Free PDF Page A

jazz. I fought the urge to
     retch, but he seemed unfazed. I watched as he made his way down the little corridor and stepped around toward the front of
     the couch. He lowered himself gingerly on one knee and examined the body for less than a minute.
    “She’s dead,” he said as he walked back down the corridor to me. “I’m pronouncing her dead”—he glanced at his watch—“at nine-thirty-two
     A.M.” At this point, that seemed like the oldest news in the world.
    “What’s next?” I asked. “The police have been notified, right?”
    “Yeah. I’ll open up the front for them. It shouldn’t be very long—not much going on today.”
    “There’s a hallway to the left that will get you to the front door and that opens to the area with the gate,” I said, handing
     him the key ring. “Can you tell how long she’s been dead?”
    “Well, there’s not much decomposition yet—the smell’s mostly from the vomit—so I’d say she probably died late last night.”
    “Any ideas on what killed her?”
    “That’s for the ME’s office to figure out.”
    Obviously feeling no urge to discuss things with me, he turned to reenter the apartment and I went back up the stairs and
     through the house. I glanced in both the kitchen and dining room for Cat, calling her name twice, but she had disappeared
     somewhere. Through one of the front windows I could see that not only had a handful of pedestrians congregated outside to
     investigate the scene, but there were also two uniformed cops, their car double-parked in front of the house, talking to the
     other ambulance crew. I opened the front door again and headed down the stoop. Before I’d even reached the sidewalk, a dark
     navy car pulled up in front of the house, and out stepped two guys who were obviously cops as well, but in regular clothes—probably
     detectives. With a DOA the patrol cops generally come first to scope out the situation, but if it’s a slow day or a hot case,
     the desk sergeant will have precinct detectives hightail it over simultaneously.
    The four cops had a short confab with the EMS guy, who was just emerging from below, and then the two plainclothes guys headed
     in my direction. The older of the two, a guy in his late forties, stepped forward to greet me. He was about five ten and very
     compact, like something freeze-dried, with sandy hair and skin that had crinkled around the eyes. In his too tight khaki suit,
     blue button-down shirt, and red club tie, he looked ready to sell me a mattress at Macy’s. When Cat met him she’d have to
     fight the urge to tell him that khaki suits are a no-no before Memorial Day.
    “I’m Detective Pete Farley from the Nineteenth Precinct,” he said.
    “Bailey Weggins. I’m a friend of Cat Jones, the woman who owns the house. I came by to help her. It’s her nanny who’s dead.”
    “Is she in there now?”
    “The nanny?”
    “I realize the nanny’s in there. Is the owner here?”
    “Yes, she’s inside,” I said, feeling like a moron. I half turned toward the steps, expecting him to follow me.
    “We’re gonna look at the body first,” he said. “Please tell Miss Jones that we’ll want to talk to her in a few minutes.”
    I hurried back into the house, where I encountered Cat gliding down the stairs again.
    “Cat, look,” I said, not concealing my annoyance. “You’ve got to stay put now. The police are here and they’re going to want
     to talk to you in a few minutes—after they’ve looked at the body.”
    “I called Jeff. He’s leaving right now. He should be here in just over two hours since there won’t be any traffic.”
    “Good. What about the aunt? Were you able to reach her?”
    “There’s no answer. Not even an answering machine.”
    “Well, you can try again a little later. I made some coffee. Why don’t I fix you a cup while we wait.”
    We went into the kitchen and Cat, looking stunned, sat on a stool at the black granite–covered island counter as I filled