Kill Me Tomorrow Read Online Free PDF Page B

tan-colored car with an official-looking seal painted on the door. In a half-circle over the seal I could just make out the words, “Sunrise Villas Security Guards.”
    The tan car pulled away as I got into my Cad and lit a cigarette, smoked half of it before Brizante and Lucrezia came out of the building and walked to the car. Following Lucrezia’s directions I drove down Palos Verde to a street called Willow Lane. Brizante, sitting in back, didn’t say anything until I turned left off Willow into Mimosa Lane, where he and his wife lived.
    Then he said, “So. You’re a detective, Mr. Scott. And my crazy daughter thinks you can help me, that’s it?”
    â€œI’m a detective, all right,” I said. “But I can’t help you if you don’t want help, Mr. Brizante. For all I know, maybe you don’t need any help.”
    â€œWell …” he said. And that was all.
    Mimosa Lane was appropriately named. All up and down the street feathery-leaved mimosa trees were planted, alive with delicate lavender-pink blooms. Three of them brightened the lawn before an attractive white house trimmed in green, where Lucrezia told me to park.
    At the door we were met by a short, plump woman with a kindly face and bright brown eyes. Lucrezia introduced the lady as her mother, and Mrs. Brizante rubbed her hands vigorously on an apron around her waist before shaking hands with me.
    â€œExcuse the flour, all over,” she said, smiling up at me. “I make ravioli. Come in, come in. Come in the kitchen while I finish.”
    She kissed her husband on the cheek, bending his moustache, then bustled off. Lucrezia smiled at me, took my hand and led me into the house, through the living room cluttered with heavy, dark wooden furniture, a couple of cloth-covered hassocks, some kind of sewing or knitting basket. Three bright paintings and half a dozen framed photographs were on the walls and the mantel above a gas-log fireplace.
    We went down a short hallway and into the bright, airy kitchen where Mrs. Brizante was pounding gobs of dough with great energy.
    After a minute or two, Brizante appeared in the doorway and wiggled a finger at me. I walked over to him and he said, “I think Lu did right. I’ll tell you, anyway, see what you think. Come with me into the den, Mr. Scott?”
    I nodded, followed him back down the hallway to a room at its end, and inside.

CHAPTER THREE
    The den was clearly a man’s room, small, without frills. There was a green carpet, green couch on my left, a low rough-wood table before it. In one corner was a small bar and two stools, in the opposite corner a battered pine desk with a phone on it and a swivel chair behind it.
    Soon after we entered the den it was “Tony”—from Antonio—and “Shell.” Tony struck me as a solid, down-to-earth type of man, strong and maybe more than a little stubborn, level-headed enough. Hardly the kind of “Papa Brizante” I’d been picturing when talking with Lucrezia.
    So by the time he said, “OK, I’ll tell you what the trouble is, Shell,” I was paying attention. He went on, “A friend of mine, Gilberto Reyes, is missing. Been missing three days. I think Gil is dead. Maybe killed—murdered.” He stopped and stared at me from the stern eyes.
    â€œJust because a man’s missing for a few days doesn’t mean he’s dead, Tony. Have you checked the hospitals, police—”
    â€œAnna, that’s Gil’s wife, has. Checked all over, hospitals, morgue, police, even the amateur police we got here at the Villas—Security Guards they call themselves. And I’ve stayed in touch with Anna. Called her just a few minutes ago.”
    â€œIf you think this Gil Reyes is dead, maybe murdered, you must have a pretty good reason.”
    â€œWell, seems to me I do. But … maybe it’ll look different to you. See, if anything has happened to