Killer Look Read Online Free PDF Page B

what’s left of my brain.”
    â€œOn what?” I asked, leaning in toward him.
    â€œA suicide in the south.”
    Mike’s command was Manhattan North Homicide, which picked up all the murder cases north of Fifty-Ninth Street, to the tip of Manhattan bordered by the Harlem River. The Manhattan South Squad covered the southern half of the island. Both were elite units made up of skilled detectives—mostly men, even at this point in time—who combined classic investigative talents with evolving forensic techniques.
    I sat back. The NYPD was required to respond to suicide scenes. They were, after all, unnatural deaths.
    â€œWhy you?” I asked. I wanted Mike to come home with me. He hadn’t yet said that he would, so the last thing I needed was a case to take him away.
    â€œIt’s a helium inhalation suicide,” he said. “Hotshot businessman in his hotel room.”
    â€œThey’re growing in the ‘right to die’ movement, aren’t they?” Mercer said.
    â€œYeah. We’ve had two of them in the north this year, and one was mine. The south lieutenant called Peterson to see if we had any pointers for the scene investigation.”
    â€œYou’re going too fast for me, guys,” I said. “What’s growing? What’s the manner of death?”
    â€œExit bag over the head, Coop,” Mike said. “Asphyxiation bygas.”

FOUR
    Mike drove me home after dinner. He stopped the car in the porte cochere that ran in front of my building like a driveway.
    Vinny and Oscar were the doormen on duty. Vinny was at the passenger’s side door as soon as he saw Mike pull in. He opened it for me and waited while I turned back to Mike.
    â€œComing up?” I swallowed hard—pride too—as I asked the question.
    â€œI’ve got an early morning. You try to get some real sleep,” he said, flashing his trademark grin to reassure me that things between us were okay. “Tomorrow night, for sure. After all, you’ll be blonder by then.”
    I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t give up on me yet, okay? I’m coming back, I promise.”
    Vinny walked me inside, where Oscar had already pushed the button for the twentieth floor. There were security cameras in the elevators, and I knew they would be watching me all the way up.
    I turned my key in the lock and pushed open the door. I’d leftthe lights on when I went out for dinner, preferring to come home to familiar things that I could see.
    It was only nine thirty. I poured a sensible amount of Dewar’s and took it into the bathroom with me to sip while I soaked in a hot whirlpool tub.
    I climbed into bed with a stack of magazines, ignored the doctor’s advice about taking Ativan with my liquor, and started flipping through pages till sometime close to three A.M ., when the drugs overcame my insomnia and I fell soundly asleep.
    When I woke up it was almost eleven A.M . Mike had left me three voicemails, among others from friends. He had started his day witnessing the autopsy of a young mother caught in the crosshairs of a gang shooting in Washington Heights. From the morgue, he had stopped at the boutique hotel where the suicide had occurred, and the final call was his attempt to express his concern for me.
    I slipped into my robe and walked to the front door to pick up the newspapers.
    The
Post
was on top of the others. Its entire front page was devoted to the man who had chosen a stark hotel room in which to end his life. The photograph was a headshot of a face familiar to fashionistas and socialites, as well as to entrepreneurs who had followed—and tried to emulate—his rags-to-riches story.
    Wolf Savage, the seventy-two-year-old clothing designer who had built an empire that rivaled those of Ralph Lauren and Oscar de la Renta, had carted two helium canisters to his hotel room, undressed himself, laid down on the bed, and put a plastic