Murder One Read Online Free PDF Page A

had become more infrequent what with school and sports commitments; friends and girls were also beginning to take precedence. Though Jake had spent the entire month of August with him, Sloane knew the boy had been bored at times and would have preferred to be in the Bay Area with his friends. They spoke regularly on the phone, and Sloane had learned the art of texting. He had beencontemplating a condominium downtown, closer to work, but had resisted for fear work would again consume his life.
    She handed him his glass, then retrieved hers from the counter. “Okay, let’s try this again.” She held the glass by the stem. “To old adversaries.”
    “And new friends,” he added.
    She clinked his glass, took a sip, and pivoted back to the stove, pulling out pots and pans.
    “What’s on the menu?” he asked.
    “Putanesca.”
    “Let me guess, you’re a gourmet chef, too.”
    “Actually, I can’t boil water. But I can follow directions as well as anyone. I found a recipe in a magazine and wanted to give it a try. Now I have the chance.”
    “Why do I suddenly feel like one of those lab rats?”
    She swatted him with a towel.
    “What can I do to help?”
    “You know your way around a kitchen?”
    “I’m a quick study, and since the chef needs a hand . . .”
    She pretended to beat on the pans like drums. “Ba-dum-dum.”
    For the next half hour, they worked in close quarters, sipping red wine, reading the recipe, and debating—as only two lawyers could—what the directions actually meant. Reid instructed Sloane on the proper way to chop tomatoes, olives and garlic cloves, then the parsley and basil. She added oil to anchovies and capers in a cast-iron skillet and allowed it to simmer before adding the vegetables. The room filled with a sweet fragrance and the smell reminded Sloane that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
    The meal did not disappoint. “My compliments to the chef,” he said.
    Reid stood. “Okay, grab the wine and follow me.”
    He hadn’t drunk much in the past thirteen months, not wanting to start down the path of drinking alone at home. He could feel the wine. He grabbed the bottle and his glass and followed her into the living room but she started up the stairs. Sloane had not been with a woman since Tina and had mentally prepared himself only for lunch.
    At the top of the second flight of stairs, they came to a locked metal door. Reid keyed a code on a pad mounted on the wall, pushed down on the handle, and put a shoulder to the door, pushing it open and stepping out onto a roof. Sloane caught the door, which, like the gate, was spring-loaded to close automatically and of significant weight.
    A wood plank walkway led to a deck with patio furniture and planter boxes filled with bamboo, tall grass, and miniature maples. The planters provided some privacy from the windows of the homes across the street, the lighting subtle. Music filtered from hidden speakers. He was surprised that it was country.
    Sloane set the bottle on a table and joined Reid at a black metal-tube railing atop the parapet walls. She gestured to an even more impressive and unobstructed view of downtown, the lights shining in the fading summer sky. “Now, this is a view.”
    “It’s certainly better than nice,” he said. “And so are you. Thank you for dinner.”
    She gave a slight curtsy. “You’re welcome.”
    Reid rested her forearms on the railing, her drink in hand. “Sometimes I come up here to escape from all the turmoil, you know?”
    “I used to love to go home and listen to the sound of the waves,” he said.
    “You live on the water?”
    “Three Tree Point. It’s a tiny beach community near Burien—our own little oasis. Since my wife’s death . . .” He caught himself.
    She put a hand on his forearm. “It’s okay, David. I know you loved her. Since her death what?”
    “I don’t much like being home anymore. I find myself making excuses to work late, take on added responsibility.”
    She