Kinsey and Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

entrance
     to the courtyard now and then. I could see that two uniformed policemen had arrived
     and once I spotted the prospective tenants checking out the laundry room. The crime
     scene investigators must have been delayed because for thirty minutes, everybody just
     stood around. One officer took a report and the second secured the area with tape,
     posting signs that said CRIME SCENE—NO ADMITTANCE . Althea, meanwhile, was entirely too quiet for my taste.
    “Aren’t you curious about all this?” I asked, finally.
    She shook her head solemnly. “Because we didn’t come here before, when I played.”
    “What’d you do?”
    “Just nothing.”
    “That sounds boring,” I said. “Wonder why you did that.”
    “Just because,” she said.
    “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, right?” I said in jest. I looked down
     at that earnest little face, the fat cheeks, the glasses, the huge gray eyes. This
     was no laughing matter to the child and I knew I shouldn’t make light.
    “Gerald’s dead,” she remarked.
    “Looks that way,” I said, wishing I knew what the hell was going on.
    I thought about the man shot to death in her room, the empty apartment two doors away.
     Emily must have stumbled onto the murder scene before the body could be moved. But
     why kill him there? And why move him somewhere else? And why weren’t there any traces
     of him in Althea’s bed? I thought about the detergent on the rug with the letters
     spelling . . . What? It was all so perplexing. The answer seemed to tease, the solution
     hovering just out of sight. I stood still for a moment, questions stirring at the
     back of my brain.
    “Let’s go see if we can use Pat’s phone,” I said to Althea. She trotted beside me
     obediently. We walked back toward the courtyard, past the laundry room.
    “Hang on,” I said. I popped my head in the door. Sure enough, there was a machine
     on the wall, dispensing small detergent boxes like the one on Caroline’s floor. Well,
     at least I was pretty sure where
that
came from.
    We approached the fountain, where Pat and Emily still sat, waiting for a homicide
     detective to arrive, along with the medical examiner, photographers, and assorted
     crime scene specialists.
    “Can I use your phone?” I said casually to Pat. She nodded.
    What I was suddenly curious about was the telephone number I’d seen penciled on the
     wall by both Emily’s phone and Pat’s. Why both places? Aside from their living in
     the same building, what did those two have in common? I wondered if the answer to
     this whole puzzle was hidden somewhere in that seven-digit code.
    I went into Pat’s apartment, crossing to the phone. I checked the number and then
     dialed. The line rang twice and then someone picked up. A singsong voice said, “At
     the sound of the tone, General Telephone time will be twelve o’clock, exactly.” I
     burst out laughing and Althea looked at me.
    “What’s so funny?” she said.
    “Skip it. I just made a fool of myself,” I said.
    As I started toward the door, I caught sight of Pat’s photographs and experienced
     one of those remarkable mental earthquakes that jolt all the pieces into place. Maybe
     the right question here wasn’t
why
but
who
. “Althea, was Gerald a
golf
pro?”
    She nodded.
    “Hey, kiddo,” I said, “we just cracked this case.”
    Althea looked more worried than thrilled.
    By the time we reached the courtyard, Lieutenant Dolan had arrived and was consulting
     with the uniformed police officers while David, Emily, and Pat looked on. He seemed
     startled to see me, but not necessarily displeased. Dolan is assistant division commander
     for Crimes Against Persons, handling the homicide detail for the STPD . He’s in his fifties, a baggy-faced man with a keen intellect. While he finds himself
     annoyed with me much of the time, he knows I respect him and he knows I won’t tread
     on his turf. Having spent two years as a cop myself, I know